#bald head would be worth it

[gutsby]

Trigger Tease

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.

You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.

It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.

All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.

After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.

72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.

The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you now.”

Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.

At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.

Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.

“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.

“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.

Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—

Thump, thump, thump.

Three knocks in quick succession.

You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.

Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Need you downstairs. Now.”

It was Sam.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.

“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:

“Yeah. Legal’s here.”

‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.

Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.

Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.

“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.

You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.

He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.

In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.

“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.

Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.

“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.

You shot him a look.

“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”

Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.

Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.

You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.

Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.

Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.

Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.

“Baby—”

“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”

You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.

You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.

“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”

You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.

“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.

You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.

You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.

Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.

Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.

You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.

A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.

“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,

“C’mere.”

You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.

Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.

“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.

But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.

You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.

The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.

“BUCKY!”

Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.

“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.

You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.

You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.

“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.

He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”

“Give you a baby right now?”

“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.

One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,

“Barnes.”

He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.

Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.

Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.

“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.

The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.

Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.

The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.

You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.

“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”

Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.

For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.

You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.

“Momma.”

“Now is not the time.”

Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.

You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.

No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.

You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.

“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.

You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.

Then, when your eyes wandered left again,

“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”

He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.

“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.

Steve blinked a little harder.

“What do y—”

“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.

Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.

“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.

You figured as much.

In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.

You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.

“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”

Every head nodded.

“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”

You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.

That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.

Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.

Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.

The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.

You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.

“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.

It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.

“And now?” he cut in.

“I’m getting there, James.”

Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.

“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.

Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.

“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.

“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”

That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.

“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”

Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.

“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.

It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,

“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”

“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.

You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.

“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”

“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.

If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.

Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.

“I am not going back to that shithole.”

The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.

“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.

“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”

She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.

“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”

“So?” Bucky snapped.

His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.

“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”

“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.

“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.

Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.

“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.

“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.

“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."

This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.

"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."

Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.

Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,

"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."

It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.

"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"

Sharon nodded that she did.

A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.

"Bucky," she said.

Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.

"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.

Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."

Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:

"Look. Over there."

She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.

Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.

"What's this?" he murmured.

"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."

Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.

He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.

"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.

Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.

Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.

"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."

"What?"

Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.

Then the eyes stopped in one spot.

Bucky stood.

Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,

"We can make it work. We can keep you—"

"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"

"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."

"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"

You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.

Your father averted his gaze.

He knew.

You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.

Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.

Something clicked in Bucky's brain.

He knew.

Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:

“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.

You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.

It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.

Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.

You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.

Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.

“Zip me up?”

The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.

You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.

The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.

Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.

“Wanna—?”

“Bucky!”

One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.

“Are you serious?” you bit.

“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.

To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.

He had thought wrong.

You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:

Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.

You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.

And you planned to. Eventually.

For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.

You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.

He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.

Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?

You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.

“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.

Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.

“We can talk,” you said, measured.

You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.

“Okay. What about?”

Where the hell could you even begin?

“Sit first,” you urged him.

It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.

You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.

Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.

Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.

To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.

“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”

“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”

Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.

“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”

Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.

“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.

“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.

“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”

“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”

“You never bothered to ask!”

This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.

So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.

You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.

“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.

“No,” you answered simply.

“No?”

“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”

Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”

“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”

“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”

“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”

In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.

“What? Like the deal you made with him?”

Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.

“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”

“But you didn’t, and you got me.”

“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.

“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”

To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.

“Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.

That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.

As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.

“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.

“Leave it,” he murmured.

His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.

You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.

“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.

When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.

“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.

He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.

Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.

“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.

“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.

You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.

“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.

“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”

Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.

You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.

The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.

“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.

You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.

“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”

Bucky frowned.

“Yes murder,” he retorted.

You sighed.

This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.

Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.

“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.

“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.

“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.

Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.

“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”

You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.

“Bucky.”

“Bunny.”

Damn, that name.

“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”

“Baby—”

“Promise.”

His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.

He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.

With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.

“I— I promise,” he stammered.

That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.

Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—

STOP.

You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe even two—

FUCK YOU.

The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.

You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.

Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.

“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.

“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”

“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.

Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.

“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.

“Don’t start with this shit.”

“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.

The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.

“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.

“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”

From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.

“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.

“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”

“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.

Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.

“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”

The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.

He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.

And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.

“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.

“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”

“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.

“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”

Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.

“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”

‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.

“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.

“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”

Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.

“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”

“Bucky.”

“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”

Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.

“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.

“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.

“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”

“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”

When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,

“Right?”

There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.

“I’ll go.”

It was stupid.

Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.

But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.

“She could,” he said, shortly.

“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.

“Sure, why not?”

“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.

‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.

“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.

But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.

“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.

Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.

“No,” he said, again.

“Yes.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”

If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.

“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.

“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”

“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.

“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”

“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”

But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.

“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”

You wouldn’t bow that easily.

“Why not?”

Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:

“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”

What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.

“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”

Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.

Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.

“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”

“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.

“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”

You did. Or would, eventually.

After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.

And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.

Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.

While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.

Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.

“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.

“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:

“Honey? You there?”

At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”

“I love you.”

This fucker.

“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.

“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”

If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.

“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.

You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.

All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.

The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.

The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.

“Hi. Zemo sent me.”

You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.

The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.

There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?

Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.

But you already knew that. You stepped inside.

The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.

But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.

“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”

You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.

“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.

And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.

But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.

“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.

Then a beat.

“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”

How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.

“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”

The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.

You chipped away at the ice even faster.

Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.

Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.

“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Who?

“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”

It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.

“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”

That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.

So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.

When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.

Until the dipshit hit you again.

This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.

“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.

Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.

You turned.

“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.

Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.

“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.

You swallowed.

“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.

The man’s grin stretched even wider.

“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”

For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.

“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.

No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.

“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.

“Take it easy now, he’s just—”

“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”

The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.

In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.

You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.

In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.

It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.

But if they had, they didn’t show it.

No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.

“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.

A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.

“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.

Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.

Then he grabbed you by the waist.

“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.

Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:

“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”

“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”

“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”

The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.

Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.

“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”

You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.

But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:

“Whatever you want, sir.”

You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.

Roleplay.

You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—

“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.

You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.

“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.

You froze in fear.

“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.

You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.

“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”

Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.

Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.

Then another. And another. And another.

Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.

Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.

You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.

“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.

Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.

A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.

You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.

The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.

You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.

Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.

“What happened?! Where’d he go?”

Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.

“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.

“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”

Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.

“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.

“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.

Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.

“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.

He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.

So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.

He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.

For you—where the fuck had you gone?!

Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.

He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.

In his periphery, he saw two forms.

He stopped fully and turned to the side.

If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.

“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.

Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.

Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.

He fired without a second thought.

The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.

Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.

Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.

Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.

Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.

Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.

Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.

He saw you crawl over the body.

He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.

He watched you lift the mask.

From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.

That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.

Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:

“DAD!”

—

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[arjwrites]

Times You Threatened to Kill Dean Winchester- Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: A brief account of all the times you wanted to kill a certain hunter.

Warnings: Language, character death, thoughts of suicide, references to sex, threats... A good mix of fluff and angst! Word Count: 2.3k A/N: This one was a labor of love! I have a few other fics in the works as per a few requests I have received, but this one was speaking to me tonight, so I sat down to write it! Please enjoy- in the meantime, your requests are coming soon! <3

-

“Dean Winchester, I could just KILL you!” 

You were extremely familiar with the Winchester boys’ prank wars by now. You had been witness to a few different cycles of this behavior over the many years you had known them- in fact, if someone were to dig through the old cardboard box you kept hidden in the spare room at Bobby’s, they’d probably find a few faded teenage pictures of a bald Sam after Dean snuck Nair into his shampoo, or a sleeping Dean with some sharpie-d enhancements adorning his face. But up until now, you had always kept to the sidelines. Time and time again, you claimed Switzerland to avoid their shenanigans, because it always got way too out of hand.

But today, when you climbed out of bed, still groggy with sleep, stepping into the bathroom of your shared motel room, an entire bucket’s worth of ice water that had been balanced atop the door came crashing down on you. The sensation sent a shockwave through your whole body, and from the noise that escaped your lips, you would’ve thought you had been shot. And to add insult to injury, the bucket itself smacked against your head on its way down. 

So to start your day, you were soaking wet, freezing, pissed off, and nursing a swelling bump atop your head. A blind rage filled your body. You knew it had to have been Dean, it was his turn to retaliate after Sam had messed with the stereo in the Impala so that it only played Barbie Girl. It had been a long, silent ride home after last night’s hunt. 

“Dean Winchester, you are a dead man!” The words came bursting out of you as you stormed your way out of the bathroom.

“What did I- Oh my GOD. That wasn’t for you.” Dean’s eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his head. He knew he had fucked up. 

The first thing to go flying across the room was the bucket, which nailed Dean in the chest with an anticlimactic thud. You followed close behind it. At full speed, you sprinted into Dean, knocking him back onto the bed behind him.

“Get off me! You’re soaking wet!” Dean protested, throwing his arms between you two in an effort to shield himself. 

“Yeah, how do you like it?” You weren’t going to back down. 

So that is how you ended up wrestling with Dean. You put up a surprisingly good fight for a lot longer than you expected, able to overpower him via sheer force of will. Once Dean got his bearings, though, he flipped you over, hovering on top of you and pinning you to the bed by your wrists. You held an intense eye contact for a brief moment while you each caught your breath. In doing so, you came to the mutual realization that this was ridiculous. You didn’t know who cracked the smile first, but as Dean’s grew, so did yours, until you were grinning like idiots and erupting into laughter.

“You know, this isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted you wet and in my bed,” Dean raised his eyebrows and tossed you a sly wink.

“Yup, I’m doing it. I am killing you.” 

-

“Dean I swear to God, if you keep me cooped up in this motel room for one more minute I am going to lose my mind.” 

“Would you relax? Sam and I are almost back at the witch’s house. We’ll gank her, it’ll reverse the spell, you’ll be right as rain.”

“God I hope so. This is driving me up the wall. I will never watch another second of daytime TV after this.” With the press of a button, you hung up the phone and tossed it across the room onto the bed. This was getting seriously old.

While taking on a vengeful spirit case, you and the Winchesters had run into a particularly pesky witch. Long story short, she cast a spell at you, and none of you could figure out what it was. It was driving you crazy, and what was driving you crazier was that the boys had locked you in the motel room for two days while they tracked the witch back down. All around town, all over the area, until they finally caught her trail heading back to her own house. Where they had started.

The problem was, you felt fine. You really didn’t think there was anything wrong with you. You wanted to get out there and help them, do some research, go to the damn grocery store, literally anything. But Sam and Dean had insisted that the safest thing for you to do was to stay behind. We don’t know what she did to you, Y/N. It could be dangerous for you to leave. It’s better if you stay here and do absolutely nothing. It made sense, to an extent, you just weren’t very happy about it. 

After a few hours and several more episodes of the most mind-numbing daytime talk shows you could imagine, you heard the sound of keys jingling and the motel door creeping open. In came Dean, wearing a strange expression on his face. If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve thought it was fear.

“So? Ding dong, the witch is dead, I don’t have to blow my brains out?” You asked, more than ready to be done with the whole fiasco.

“Um.” Dean was avoiding eye contact. His hands slipped into his pocket and he sucked in a long, sharp breath.

“Dean.” 

“So, uh, maybe…” He slipped a hand across his mouth, stalling his words. “Look, you might have to stick around here for one more day. We uh, think she might be in the town over, but we kind of lost her trail.”

On the car ride back to the motel, Dean had prepared for you to react by yelling, screaming, hitting, anything to unleash the anger he knew was coming. In fact, that was why Sam had waited in the car- to give him a little time to break the news. But in front of Dean was something much, much scarier. Your jaw was clenched, your gaze was distant, and your eyes narrowed. You were just… sitting there. The silence lasted for what felt like ages. It was enough to send the man spiraling. Finally, you looked up.

“Dean?” 

“... Yes?”

“You better kill that witch tomorrow before I kill you.”

“Duly noted.”

- 

Losing Sam had been just about the worst thing that could have ever happened to any of you. Watching him fall to his knees after Jake backstabbed him, Dean cradling him as the life finally slipped from his body… It brought you to tears just thinking about it. You had loved Sam like a little brother. But as much as it tore you up inside, his death had happened. So goes the life of a hunter. It was time to let Sam rest. 

Dean, however, had still refused to make peace with the loss of his brother. It had been several days and Sam’s lifeless body was still laying out on a mattress. Dean just couldn’t let go. You and Bobby had begged him to let you lay Sam to rest, but he simply wasn’t having it. Dean was angry, defensive, and hurt, far deeper than you had ever seen. After conferring privately with each other, you and Bobby figured maybe it would be best to give him a little time alone with Sam, for closure’s sake. 

So a day later when Sam Winchester, live and in the flesh, waltzed into the room to thank you and Bobby for patching up his wound without so much as a second thought, your heart dropped like a rock. The feeling that washed over you was worse than any grief you had felt this past week. Of course, it was amazing to have Sam back- it felt like a miracle. But miracles don’t just happen, especially not to Winchesters. And when you looked to Dean, he refused to meet your eyes.

Not wanting to alert Sam of the situation, you made an excuse to get Dean to follow you outside. You trudged as far as you could in silence, you not daring to look in his direction, until you knew you were out of earshot from the house. 

“What did you do, Dean?” Your back was still turned, and your voice was hardly a whisper. You were surprised Dean could hear you at all.

“Y/N-”

“What did you DO? How long did they give you?” The question ripped from your chest, but you weren’t sure you were ready to hear the answer. 

“A year.” 

One year. You dropped to the ground. The gravel dug into your skin, but all your senses were numbed with hurt. You wanted to ask what made him think he could do this- to Bobby, to Sammy, to you? But when you opened your mouth to speak, the ache that resonated through your chest stifled the words.

Dean slid down next to you in silence. He wrapped a single arm around you, and you leaned your head into him. All you could do was cry silent, heavy tears. For what felt like hours, there was nothing you could say. The pit in your stomach swirled back and forth from anger to despair to fear, culminating in a blinding nausea. You looked up at Dean, who simply stared straight ahead. There was a staggering coldness in his eyes that drove the knife further into your core.  

“God damn it Dean Winchester, I could just kill you myself, right now.” 

“You’ll have to get in line, sweetheart.” 

-

If you thought a few days without Sam had been bad, four whole months without Dean was your own personal hell. After Dean’s time was up, you couldn’t bear to be around anyone who reminded you of him. You hadn't spoken to Bobby or Sam or any other hunters- any other people, for that matter. You had practically dug yourself a grave, isolated from the world around you, lost and in the dark. 

This was the worst hurt you had ever felt in your life. Four months later and the wound in your heart was just as fresh as the day it arrived there. Every time it began to heal, one wrong move and it started aching, throbbing, bleeding again. But at this point, the pain was all you had left of Dean. So you let it bleed. 

The knock on the motel room door did nothing to stir you from your place in bed. It had been days, maybe a week, since you had risen for anything but your basic needs. You had called the front desk to extend your stay multiple times, running up a scammed credit card Dean had probably given to you at some point. There was nowhere else for you to go, so you laid down weary roots right here. 

The knock persisted but you remained still. It could’ve been the police, the president, or the pope and you couldn’t have cared any less. Go away. There was a clanging noise followed by the shifting of the lock’s mechanisms. Whoever it was, they were breaking into your room. A few months ago, you would’ve jumped into action, but all of your hunter self-preservation instincts were long gone. Whoever it was could come in and take whatever they wanted and shoot you dead in the process. Maybe they’d be doing you a favor. 

You rolled over in bed as the door creaked open, prepared to lay eyes on whoever was here to bring your demise. However, you were met with the one face that could have coaxed you out of the bed. The face you hadn’t seen in four months. The look in his eyes teemed with love and longing, which made your stomach churn. 

“This is a real sick joke.”

“No, Y/N, it’s-” 

For the first time since before Dean’s death, you snapped into hunter-mode, rising to your feet and snatching holy water and a knife from the bag under your bed in the process. It was a little slow, a little clumsy, and clearly a bit out of practice.

“You know, I was about to let whoever you were come right in and kill me. What reason do I have to stick around anymore? But this- this is just sick.” You laughed- your first laugh in months, and yet nothing was funny. 

“It’s me, Y/N, I-”

“No. I’m going to kill you now.” And you lunged, splashing holy water with one hand and thrusting the knife with the other. 

When Dean caught your hand before the knife could strike him, twisting your arm to defend himself from your lackluster attack, it took you longer than it should have to realize that the holy water hadn’t fazed him. Before it registered, you struggled against his grasp, but months of malnutrition and stagnant muscles had left you weak. You cried out as you fought, before fully dissolving into tears and dropping the knife in a mix of defeat and acceptance. Dean placed two heavy hands on your shoulders as if to ground you back in the moment.

“It’s me. I swear.” The beads of holy water that rolled off his face paralleled the tears that rolled off yours. Your hand reached up to wipe a droplet away- partially out of habit, partially to test that he was real, that he wouldn’t disappear at your touch. He didn’t. Instead, both his hands planted on your face, matching your movement. 

“Oh, Dean.” That was the only way you could express it. Dean. Here, real, standing in front of you, and not a demon. Just pure Dean. 

“Hi sweetheart,” he whispered, and it felt like home. He pulled you into a gentle hug, as if he harbored the same fear as you- that you may disappear beneath his very touch. But you were real, and so was he. You wouldn’t disappear, and neither would he. Dean was back, and because of that, you were back too.

“Good thing you didn’t kill me, right?” 

[gay-dorito-dust]

I JUST SAW YOUR ONE WITH BILL POSSESSING READER AND OMG, adding onto bill possessing the reader and pushing them into the portal, can you do one where readers just like "fuck it, if I betrayed him and everyone thinks that might as well" and joins bill, I just think k it would be a cool concept, especially if Ford realizes way too late that reader was innocent.

I’m combining these who requests cuz they are practically the same.

Bill came to you the night after Ford had kicked you out of the shack in the form of a dream.

You didn’t even need to see him to know it was him, there was signs and the obvious one was when the birch trees opened their eyes to stare at you. ‘Bill.’ You said calmly.

‘My favourite fleshbag!’ Bill replied as he hovered in front of you, tipping his top hat towards you but you only looked at him blankly, having had your heart ripped out of your chest mere moments ago, that nothing was left from the encounter other then a dull ache where your heart should’ve been.

‘Hope you’re happy because I’m despised for the things YOU DID AS ME!’ You roared as you grabbed ahold of Bill with your bare hands and bringing him close to your face so that he could see the hurt, the betrayal; but most importantly the angry balding within your eyes so clearly like star constellations on a cloudless night.

‘And they didn’t let you explain? Not even mr logistics himself fordsy?’ Bill asked, finding this really heard to believe as your reality, but the way your eyes became sharp as steel at the mention of Ford’s name only made Bill start to believe that the nerd could’ve done something so heartless. ‘Oh you poor flesh bag.’ He coos as he pats your face with his small hand. ‘I knew I could smell the desire for revenge from dimensions away.’ He adds and you push him away, scoffing as you brought your attention to the landscape that your mind took; a serene forest with fairy lights hung from the branches high about you with the sound of frogs croaking and crickets to accompany the perpetual drizzle of light rainfall.

It was a weird place for you to be, especially with what you went through just moments prior, it felt too calm for a reflection of your current mental state and Bill noticed this abnormality too. You went through the biggest betrayal of your life and your dreamscape was barely affected by the reality you lived in, how fascinating. ‘I don’t want revenge.’ You said to Bill.

‘Are you sure? They didn’t even give you room to explain yourself, they took it at face value and tossed you aside like you were nothing.’ Bill said as he watched your face for every possible expressing he could get out of you. ‘Ford didn’t value you, neither did Stanley so why bother keeping your loyalties to men who don’t see your worth, nor value your loyalty that you’ve given them as they curse your name because they didn’t think you’d do anything in retaliation. Think about it getting even with them while dropping the truth on them will be a spectacle for the ages.’ Bill finishes as he leans towards you while whispering promises into your ears.

You let bill into your head once and you promised that you wouldn’t ever again, you’ve learnt your lesson but you were lost within your emotions, your grief of your friendship with Ford as you allowed him to shatter your last hope for someone to take your side in this long winded argument. That and Bill’s whispers of revenge and getting your own back at the old men has you succumbing to thoughts you’d never thought you were comfortable of thinking so freely as you did in that moment.

‘You promise to make their lives hell?’ You asked.

‘You’re not the only one they’ve wronged. I’ve dedicated my long life to seeing them helpless as I destroy their everything.’ Bill replied as he stuck out his hand, blue flames licking at his palms as it illuminated the dark forest and yourselves. ‘There’s no point denying it kid, you and I? We’re more alike than you think. We both wanna see lesser Sixer and Sixer eat dirt for what they’ve done to us, so let’s make that a reality partner.’ He adds.

-mini skip-

‘We need to wait for my partner, I can’t start torturing you all without them, I kinda promised them a front row seat to your demise.’ Bill said as he caged up Stan, Ford, Dipper and Mabel into their respective prisons.

‘You? A partner? You said it yourself Bill you don’t do partners!’ Ford replied sarcastically but something within him told him that something was wrong.

Bill laughed as he waved his hand. ‘Things change Stanford, and besides me and this person have more in common then I originally imagined when I first possessed them.’ He mentions off handedly as the doors open and the Pines Family saw a familiar figure come into the light, dressed in a dark suit/dress with eyes patterned across it as though to show that no corner of the room went unseen by this person; this person being you as you stopped by Bill’s side.

‘Y/n?’ Ford whispered.

You looked at him with a blank look. ‘Hello Stanford. Having fun in your little cage?’ You asked.

‘Y/n please tell me this isn’t true, that you’re working with Bill?’ Ford pressed on as he fought hard to suspended his disbelief for your sake and for the sake that this was all a horrid dream that he’d soon wake up from.

You shrugged. ‘Like he said, we’re more alike than he originally imagined when he first possessed me into pushing you into the portal.’

The family gasped.

‘He possessed you?’ Dipper asked.

‘This whole time…’ Stanley trailed off.

‘You were being used against your will,’ Ford continued as he realised that his and Stan’s treatment of you was unjust and unwarranted, ‘and now you’re working with him…why you’re my assistant!’ He adds knowing that Bill was using you against him once again.

‘Oh don’t get all jealous that your partner has found someone better fordsy.’ Bill said as he puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it possessively. ‘Besides they just found someone better to spend eternity with.’ Bill adds as Ford could only sit in the realisation that if he had let you speak instead of assume the worst of you, then maybe you’d still be by his side, happy.

But he failed you as much as he failed his brother and Fiddleford. Ford had no one to blame but himself and it’ll be something he’d have to live with for the rest of his life, assuming he should live that long after you and Bill we’re through with him.

[hermitcraftheadcanons]

Gem is a deer hybrid, and when she joined Hermitcraft she completely forgot to mention that her antlers would just. fall off her head once the weather got chilly enough. In her defense, it's so normal to her that she forgot it wasn't normal in the slightest to any of her new friends in the Hermitcraft server. But she definitely freaked some people out.

The first one fell when she was sparring with Etho. He stabbed, she ducked, his sword caught her antler and took it off in one clean swoop. While Etho is standing there in shock and horror because as far as he knows that is not supposed to happen and he just severely injured his dear friend, Gem gets up, thanks him for dealing with that for her, it was getting kinda itchy and they're gonna drop either way, y'know? might as well make it fun, and asks if he can help her adjust her hair to cover up that awkward little bald spot. Etho does, and then later goes home wondering if the whole thing was a fucked-up fever dream or maybe Gem is just a masochist. Gem goes home thinking that Etho might not know that much about deer.

The second one she might have been actively trying to get rid of, because it's just really weird to be walking around with only one antler. It feels all lopsided, and the other hermits are looking at her funny, probably because of how weird it looks. (They're wondering if she got a haircut or something, or did she always look like that? They can't even tell what's missing from her appearance but something looks off). She knows all the doorways in Grian's midnight alley are fairly Grian-sized (read: short), so she agrees to the tour with the assumption that her antler will knock against a doorway or a low-hanging lantern and fall right off. Which is exactly what happens. Grian, who at that point has been awake for 36 hours and may be missing his entire soul, thanks to Mumbo, decides that such a thing isn't even worth dedicating any of his sparse and precious brainpower to. Gem realizes that Grian is not in any state to be giving tours or building or being awake, and reports him to Pearl. The next few people, Pearl included, that Gem sees all give her the same confused-freaked-out look. Gem chalks it up to them getting used to her winter look.

Once Gem realizes why everybody has been freaking out, (which takes a while in it's own right, since the hermits are too polite to just come right up and ask her where the hell her antlers went) she stands up at the next Hermitcraft meeting to explain that deer drop their antlers in the wintertime, and they'll grow back in the spring, and she's fine, it's like how kids lose their baby teeth and grow new ones, except she does this every year. (Cut to: Gem explaining to about 15 vaguely mortified hermits, that, yeah, in most species, young kids teeth fall out of their heads one by one and are replaced by stronger teeth. this is normal. please stop looking at her like that. it's normal.)

Completely normal! I wonder if she ever uses the shed antlers as decoration?

[moonstruckme]

hey mae this is purely self indulgent (bc i think i just got the worst haircut of my life) but would you write a drabble where steve comforts reader who got a bad haircut? totally understand if this isn’t something you’d write but thank u either way <33

Oh no! I'm sorry lovely, I hope it wasn't as bad as you originally thought and either way, it'll grow back <3

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 578 words

“You can’t wear that all the time.” 

“Says who?” 

“Says Indiana.” Steve sets a hand on top of your hat. Your own flies up to cover it, worried he’s going to take your hat off, but he doesn’t. “It’s seventy degrees out, and it’s gonna be for weeks. You’re gonna melt in there.” 

“Good thing your place has air conditioning.” Steve gives you a look, but you’re not about to admit that even in his cool basement your scalp is starting to itch from the heat. You sigh. “It’s fine. It’s worth it to me.” 

“Let me see.” 

You clamp your hand harder on top of your head. “No.” 

“Come on,” Steve laughs. “I’m picturing the worst thing I can imagine, and it’s only bringing you down from a ten to an eight. It can’t be that bad.” 

“I don’t appreciate you evaluating me in numerical terms.” 

“Are you really telling me that if I dropped below a nine we’d still be dating?” 

You know he’s joking, but you give him a hard look anyway. Steve smiles with one side of his mouth. 

“Come on,” he says again, gentler now. His fingers curl in the material of your hat. Your face heats, but you allow him to ease it off your head, smoothing down self-consciously the hair beneath. 

Steve looks at you for a second. His expression is frustratingly difficult to read, not horrified or happy but not necessarily anything in between, either. He just looks thoughtful. 

“I don’t get why you were so nervous,” he says finally. 

“Steve,” you plead, “don’t lie to me.” 

“No, honest. I mean, it’s not your best look—” 

“I know that!” 

“—but it’s not as bad as you were acting like it was. You’re not, like, hideous.” 

“Oh, thank you.” You cover your face with your hands, anxious laughter bubbling to the surface. “I’m glad to be not hideous.” 

“Shut up.” Steve bumps his knee into yours. His hands wrap around your wrists, not pulling but there. “That’s not what I meant. You just acted like I was going to think you weren’t pretty, and I mean, that didn’t seem super possible to me, but you were so nervous you almost convinced me. But you’re still pretty. I think I was right, nothing can change that.” 

When you don’t reply, he laughs, giving your wrists a little shake. “I’m serious. I mean, I’m not just dating you for your looks, I’m not that shallow, but you’d be hot even if you were bald. It doesn’t matter.” 

You peek at him. “You think I should go bald?” 

“If you want to,” Steve says easily. “It could be cool. Don’t tell Robin unless you’re sure, though. She’d love to shave your head. She’s been trying to get me to do a buzz cut every summer since I met her.” 

“I don’t think you should shave your head,” you say meekly. 

“Yeah, me neither. But would you still like me if I did?” 

You nod. Steve grins, pulling you towards him for a kiss. “There you go, then. It doesn’t change anything.” 

Your face still feels hot, but now it’s a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, Steve’s eyes on you unmistakably adoring despite your botched haircut. 

He picks up your hat. “Let’s get rid of this, ‘kay?” Tosses it into a corner. “I mean, I like you with the hat, too, but I like you the most when you’re not…”

You smile. “Sweaty?” 

“Boiling yourself.”

[beyondthesefourwalls]

Twin Fire Signs

Summary: When the majority of your squad intentionally leaves you drunk and alone at a bar, you resign yourself to finding your own way home and dealing with your wounded pride in peace. But then your phone rings, the name of the last person you expected to be calling you on a Friday night flashing on your screen. You know you shouldn’t answer, but too much tequila has never led to great decisions. 

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: language, drinking

-------

—

You were drunk. 

There wasn’t really any denying it now, just like there was no denying that you were alone without any of the people you came here with. It took a complete lap of the bar and waiting outside of the bathrooms for an eyebrow raising amount of time for you to accept it, but it was an inevitable conclusion now: your team, your squad, had ditched you. By the looks they had exchanged in the ready room in the tower, you were sure the invitation had only been extended as a courtesy and that none of them had expected you to actually say yes. Which was fair, because up until this point, you hadn’t. But you decided to accept on a whim, high off the adrenaline from the phenomenal flying you had just done, mixed with a lapse in judgment and a previous night of feeling particularly lonely. You had been off-brand craving social interaction. Now, you were regretting it and remembering why you preferred being alone. They had bought you a few shots, and all it took was a quick trip to the bathroom for you to come back and all of them be just…gone.

You never should have let your guard down. 

There was a reason you had declined nearly every invitation from them to go out for drinks, and it wasn’t because of your desperate need to keep work separate from your private life. You knew the people on your squad were assholes, and you knew they didn’t like you all that much. You were the lone Lieutenant Junior Grade amongst a squad of Lieutenants. On top of that, the first woman of said rank to not only make it there, but be handed the trophy at the end of Top Gun. 

You were good. Very good. You knew it, and so did the rest of the squad you had been assigned to when, following your win, you were transferred from Corpus Christi and stationed at Top Gun permanently two months ago. You had come in and blown them all out of the water, and none of them particularly liked it. 

You should have known that something like this would happen tonight. 

You tried not to let it bother you as you plopped down on a barstool. The bartender, an older man tattooed from his bald head to the tips of his fingers, slid a glass of water in front of you with a roll of his eyes. You gave what you hoped was an appreciative thank you and hiccuped as you took your first sip. After downing half the glass and a handful of bar pretzels, you fumbled with your phone, looking through several rideshare apps to see which one would get you the cheapest and quickest ride home so you could sulk in private. 

You were debating if the extra ten bucks for a ride that would show up five minutes quicker was worth it when your screen switched over to an incoming call. Your eyes widened in shock at the name staring up at you. 

Lieutenant Seresin

Oh no. Oh no. 

It was almost 10pm on a Friday night and Hangman was calling you. And you were drunk. He hadn’t come out with you all tonight, but that wasn’t uncommon. If you were an outcast in one regard, he was an outcast in another. Your squad wanted little to do with you, but they worshiped him. But instead of humoring them, he spent the majority of his time with the special squadron he was also assigned to, who were spread out amongst other teams on base. 

You didn’t think that he'd said two words to you that weren’t criticism or a challenge since that day. So why the hell was he calling you now?

You considered not answering and letting the call go to voicemail. You stared at the name for so long weighing your options that the screen darkened as the vibrations stopped. You heaved out a sigh of relief, only to squeak in surprise when the phone started vibrating again. 

You tried to take a deep breath when you answered, a slightly high pitched “Hello?” being offered. You winced when it was quickly followed by a hiccup, and then another.

“Are you drunk?” 

Fuck.

“Um. Yes.” 

You winced at your answer. Being blunt was one of your many character flaws, but you probably could have tried to have a little more tact, considering who you were talking to. 

“Are you still at Lumpys?” 

“Yes,” you answered automatically, but your brows furrowed as your alcohol soaked brain processed his words. “Wait. How did you know that?” 

“Are you okay?” he asked, completely ignoring your question. The bar was so loud around you that you had a bit of trouble hearing him, but that last tequila shot must have done you in, because you could hear annoyance, certainly, but you thought maybe you heard concern, too. You took a gulp of your water to try and clear your mind, because there was no way. 

You must have taken too long to respond because he snapped out your name, your first name, and you almost gasped at the sound of it. You don’t think he’s ever actually said your name before; the deep timber of his voice sent a shiver down your spine. 

Oh no. 

Now was not the time for your thoughts to run away from you into that territory. 

“I’m drunk,” you said dumbly. 

You could practically feel the pause on the other end before he let out a sigh of your call sign that sounded almost angry. 

“Are you safe?” he asked, since you hadn’t directly answered his question on being okay. You took in your surroundings with a long glance, your normal ability to clock everything delayed. 

Lumpys wasn’t the nicest place. You had never even heard of it before tonight. It was dark and loud and smokey despite the laws prohibiting it in California. It definitely wasn’t a military bar, that was for sure. You wondered for the first time why the rest of the squad had chosen this spot when the Hard Deck was so close to base, as well as two or three other bars that were frequented by uniforms not of the biker variety. You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat when you realized that maybe they had done that on purpose, because you were coming with them and they knew they wouldn’t stick around. From the end of the bar, the bartender glanced at the water in front of you to see if a refill was needed before rolling his eyes again and looking away as he cleaned glasses. 

“Well,” you drew out, pushing down the unwanted emotions suddenly hitting you. “I can’t decide if the bartender is a giant tattooed teddy bear or a gang enforcer. Could go either way, honestly.”

He cursed on the other end and you thought maybe you heard the sound of a vehicle starting. You weren’t really sure, thinking maybe the loudness of the bar was making you hear things, but then his next words affirmed it. 

“Don’t move. I’ll come get you.” 

Your eyes widened and you sat up straighter in the barstool you had been slumped over in. “Wait, what?” 

“I’m coming to get you.” 

“No, no, you don’t have to do that. I was about to get an Uber or something-” 

He said your first name again, and it set butterflies loose in your stomach that you tried desperately to catch and put back in the box they came from. His voice lowered into something gentle, a tone you hadn’t heard in weeks from the fellow aviator. “Just hang tight. I’ll be there in 20, maybe less.” 

You thought about arguing with him and insisting that that wasn’t necessary and you could make your way home just fine by yourself. Even if you were sober, you’d have been in charge of finding your own way home tonight. Quarterback had given you a ride from base after work, and you had assumed you’d be able to catch a ride back, too. But he was long gone with the rest of your squad. 

“I…okay,” you finally said, accepting your fate. 

He hung up without a goodbye, and you were sure if this was a regular phone call, you’d roll your eyes at how rude the gesture was. But all you could focus on at this point was the sound of your name in his voice and the fact that he was apparently coming to get you. 

You were fucked. 

You chugged your water, some of it spilling down your chin in the process. When you set the glass down it was with a little too much force right as the bartender walked by. You winced at the annoyed look he shot you. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled. He refilled your water with a glare and without a word, moving onto other customers before you could say anything else. You took another gulp of it with a grimace and then set your head in your hand, taking in a deep breath. 

Your team leader, Hangman, Jake, would be picking you up from the bar, because the rest of your squad had abandoned you after you had taken a few too many shots. 

The same one who you had more respect for than anyone else, who you’ve also maybe harbored a crush on since you came to Top Gun, and who had barely looked at you since you almost kissed four weeks ago.

Great. 

Lieutenant Jake “Hangman” Seresin was a legend in the small population of aviators in the US Navy. He was truly the 1% of the 1%. You tried to model a lot of your own career and techniques after him. It helped that you seemed to be similar on an instinctual level, and you had the same indifferent attitudes. Standoffish, as some would say. You both knew you were good, too good to be true in a lot of ways. You had earned the right to have the attitude. 

You had been thrilled to be assigned to the same squad as him. You were excited to learn as much as you could from him, to befriend him. And that’s what it had been, at first. The two of you flew together well, and it translated on the ground. He noticed the similarities too, and didn’t hesitate with sharing notes and advice with you. He was so passionate and intelligent about what he did, and that’s what drew you to him first. He knew what he was doing and wasn’t ashamed of it, and that had attracted you more than anything. His good looks certainly didn’t hurt, though. 

You had taken to spending time together between hops, and eventually, started talking about more than just flying. It turned out you had a lot in common outside of the Navy, too. He was so easy to talk to. But then almost a month ago, you had been alone in the rec room, talking about the previous night's Cowboys game, of all things, when he had suddenly stepped into your personal space. 

His eyes had been dark and intense, and you could feel the heat emanating from his body. The intoxicating combination of his cologne and the smell of jet fuel that you had started associating with him had been even more palpable that close together. You thought he was going to kiss you, to finally give into the tension you thought had been building, and you wanted him to. But then just as quickly as he stepped forward, he had pulled away, leaving you hanging and confused.

And you’ve been that way ever since.

After that moment, things had been different between you. He barely spared you a second glance when you were on the ground and criticized everything you did when you were in the cockpit. You had tried to speak with him, to understand what the fuck had happened, but Jake Seresin was just as good at evading on the ground as he was in the air. So you buried your feelings as deep as you could inside of yourself and tried to mark him off as just another asshole who wasn’t worth your time.

But damn if the alcohol and the way he said your name and sounded something like concerned didn’t have your heart racing and you questioning everything. 

A little over fifteen minutes and another glass of water later, a shiver ran through your body. You turned your head right as the door to the bar swung open, eyes meeting the unmistakable figure of the aviator occupying your mind. He wasn’t donning his usual khaki uniform or flight suit that you were used to seeing him in — snug jeans hugged his legs and a white shirt clung to his chest, and you realized it was the first time you’d seen him so casual. Your lips parted slightly as you watched him look around. He stood in the entrance, scanning the room with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. Your heart skipped a beat when his eyes finally locked onto you.

You raised your hand in a pitiful, unneeded wave, and in the dimly lit bar, you swore you saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. He started making his way through the crowd to you immediately. You watched him with wary, cautious eyes. 

“You alright?” he asked. His demeanor remained stoic, but those intense green eyes that you had admired for so long seemed to hold a blend of concern and something else you couldn't quite decipher. From this close up, you could see the way they flicked up and down your body as if assessing for himself your current state. 

“Yeah,” you said softly, feeling flushed under his scrutiny. “I’m fine.”

He gave a slight nod, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned to the bar. Without a word, he pulled out his wallet and slipped his credit card from the leather. Your eyes widened. 

“Wait, Hangman, no.” 

You scrambled for your wallet in your tiny small crossbody bag, but before you could get the zipper opened, your self-appointed savior waved you off and handed his card to the approaching bartender. You watched in defeat as the card was swiped and handed back and his signature scrawled on the receipt all in what looked like one smooth motion. Why had you not thought to pay your tab before he had shown up? You were never going to live this down. 

“Finish your water and we’ll go,” he told you as he slipped his wallet back into his back pocket. 

“It’s my third glass since you called me. If I finish it I can’t be held responsible for your upholstery.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as soon as the words left your mouth. You rubbed at your temples with a groan, your face twisted into a disbelieving grimace. “Please tell me I didn’t just say that.”

To your surprise, Hangman let out a chuckle. Your eyes popped open in shock. His laughter was a rare occurrence in your presence these days, and the butterflies in your stomach fluttered wildly at the sound. Damnit.

"You did," he replied with a faint smirk, his stoic demeanor cracking just a bit. You groaned, and the blonde laughed again before he glanced around the bar, his expression settling back into something more serious. “Are you ready?” 

You slid off the barstool, feeling slightly unbalanced on your feet. When you stumbled, he reached out to steady you. You sucked in a breath. It was a simple touch, but it sent a jolt of electricity through your body. For a moment, the two of you just…stared. It was almost reminiscent of that day. But then a bottle broke from a few feet away, shattering the moment — whatever it was — right along with it. Hangman cleared his throat and dropped his hand back to his side. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.” You thought maybe you saw the faintest hint of red creeping up on his neck before he turned away, and your mind struggled to rationalize it. 

Once you were outside, the cool night air hit you, and it was a welcome relief. You breathed in deeply as you followed behind him to where his large black truck was parked. You knew from one of your conversations before that he had boughten it last year when he was stationed in California after only ever leasing vehicles before. It was a way for him to establish roots now that he was given the opportunity to settle in one place. 

The lights flashed as he unlocked it, opening the passenger door and motioning for you to get in. You hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was really how your night was going. You chanced a glance at the man holding the door open and he raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering what the hold up was. You could have laughed at the irony. It took you a second to realize that you had. 

“What’s so funny?” he asked, and you felt the heat of embarrassment in your face. 

“Nothing,” you muttered, and you turned away before you could say or do anything else to make a fool out of yourself. 

The leather seats were comfortable when you clumsily climbed in, and the interior of the car was immaculate, crisp and clean just like you often thought he was. It didn’t surprise you a bit. Hangman settled into the driver's seat, and you couldn't help but steal glances at him as he started the engine. He handed you his phone to put your address in and as country music played quietly over the speakers, he put the truck in drive. 

You didn’t know what to say, and Hangman seemed content with the quiet. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he drove, the muscles in his arms flexing with every turn of the wheel. You couldn’t help but wonder what those arms would feel like around you, holding you against him. It was a dangerous thought, and you shook it off before it could take root.

You closed your eyes and leant your head back against the seat as you let the wind from the open windows cool your skin. The effects of the alcohol were slowly wearing off, leaving your mind clearer, but no less confused. Being in his presence like this was still throwing you for a loop. 

Why had he dropped everything and shown up for you tonight, after doing everything professionally possible to avoid you for the last month? Why had he ignored you to begin with? 

Why did you even care? 

Neither of you spoke the entire way, and all the questions in your head were like a stoking fire that was rapidly sparking by the time he turned into your apartment complex. Instead of dropping you off in front of your building, he pulled into one of the visitors spots and put the truck in park. He didn’t kill the engine, though, and you wondered if that meant something. 

For a moment, you both just sat there, staring straight ahead. You could feel the tension between you, slowly but surely simmering. You knew the smart thing to do would be to get out of the truck. Thank him for coming to get you and go inside, and then come Monday morning, go back to the same routine. You knew you were capable of it — you had mastered the art of indifference years ago.

“Think you’ll make it upstairs?” he asked, disrupting the silence. You frowned at his choice of words, feeling just the tiniest bit offended. You knew how it looked, being drunk and alone. But he was the one who took it upon himself to show up. He had no right to judge you. You couldn’t help the scoff you let out. 

“You didn’t have to come get me, you know. You didn’t have to call at all.” 

His eyes widened before they squeezed shut, and it was almost like he realized the tone of what he said. You shook your head with a sigh, suddenly so unbelievably tired. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you mumbled. You unbuckled your seatbelt and leant down to grab your purse from the floor. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Hangman’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist before you could open the door. You turned to look at him and found him staring at you intently, his green eyes dark and brooding.

“Wait,” he said, his voice urgent and rough. “I’m sorry.” 

“Are you?” 

He said your name in such a way that you knew nothing would follow it, the blonde at a loss for words for once in his life. 

"How did you know where I was?" you blurted out, the words escaping before you could censor them. But the question had been plaguing you since he called, so you didn’t backtrack. You felt like you had a right to know. 

You could see the tension in his jaw before he spoke. “Quarterback.”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Quarterback told you where I was?”

“Yes.”

“Did he call you, or….?”

Hangman let out a long sigh, tilting his head back to rest against the seat. “The squad was at the Hard Deck like they normally are, being obnoxious —” 

“Like they normally are?” you couldn’t help but interrupt. He cracked a half smile, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes as he dipped his chin in agreement. Your shared tolerance level for the other members of your squad was something you had discussed at length before. 

“Like they usually are. I asked them where you were, since you were the only one not there and I had heard you tell them yes earlier. He told me they left you at Lumpy’s. They thought it was funny.” 

You nodded slowly, processing the information. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting, just a little bit, that they went as far as going somewhere out of the ordinary just so they could leave you there and make you the punchline of a joke. You let your eyes close and sulked in the feeling for a brief moment. You didn’t need these people. You didn’t even particularly like them, outside of being in the air. But damn. You swallowed thickly and shook your head, as if to completely dislodge the feeling. You supposed them ditching you wasn’t necessarily surprising. You knew how they felt about you, just as they knew your opinions, too. What you were surprised about was that Hangman had bothered to ask about your whereabouts in the first place. It was almost like he cared. Almost.

“So why’d you come?” you asked, still trying to understand. “I could have gotten an Uber.” 

For a long moment, he just stared, and you looked right back. His expression was hard to decipher. The streetlights outside cast shifting patterns of light and shadow across his face, and you felt like he was seeing right through you. Still, he said nothing. The silence stretched on, tension growing thick in the air. You couldn’t stand it. 

You were about to ask him again, to demand an answer, when he finally spoke. His voice was low and measured, a hint of anger looping through the words, and you shivered at the tone of it. 

“They had no right to leave you there like that. I couldn’t — I had to know you were okay.” 

You stared at him, feeling something deep and aching stir inside you. You didn't know what to say, didn't know how to react.  Everything was suddenly so much more complicated than it had been before.

“Jake…” you whispered, and you don’t know if it was the way you used his first name over his callsign or if he was just finally ready to get it off of his chest, but it was like the single syllable finally cracked the floodgates open. 

“I was seeing somebody,” he said. You sucked in a deep breath at the words, a soft “oh” falling from your lips. He continued on before you could think to say anything else. “For a while. Almost a year. She’s exactly what I always pictured I wanted, you know? She travels a lot, but we were figuring it out. But we were serious.” 

A beat passed, and you cleared your throat in the silence of the truck. You almost felt awkward when you asked, “Were?” 

He nodded, clenching his jaw, before laughing in a way that sounded more self-deprecating than you had ever heard from him. “I’m a lot of things, darlin. But I’m not a cheater, physical or otherwise. It wouldn’t have been so easy for me to catch feelings for someone else if she and I were meant to be together. And the way I had started to feel…” 

He cut himself off with a shake of his head, gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned ghostly white. You processed the words slowly, mulling over them over and over again as you tried to figure out the implications behind them. 

“About me?” you dared yourself to ask, your heart beating hard in your chest and damn near holding your breath after you did. 

He met your gaze head on, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “About you. I think I’ve been feeling this way for a while now, but it wasn’t until that day in the ready room that I realized I couldn’t keep denying it anymore. I care about you more than I should.”

The weight of his words was heavy, and you felt a flush start to creep up your neck. It was like all the air had been sucked out of the truck, leaving the two of you suspended in a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting. You didn't know what to say, didn't even know exactly what you were feeling right now. You never thought he would feel the same way that you did, to the point where he had apparently broken up with a girlfriend you had no idea about. But then he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t acted. 

You had no idea what any of this meant. 

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask him, but before you could get a word out, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. You gasped against his mouth, but his lips were warm and firm and you couldn’t help the way you relaxed into it. It wasn’t more than a press of your lips together, neither of you moving to deepen it, but it left you dizzy like it was the most intense kiss of your life. 

When you pulled back, you were both breathing heavier, your foreheads pressed together. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick with something that felt emotional. “I shouldn't have...not yet. But I had to know what it felt like.” 

You swallowed, focusing on one word.“Yet?” 

Hangman, Jake, nodded, and the silence stretched on for a long moment. You were still reeling from his kiss, the emotion, your own confusion over your feelings and what it all might mean. Then he sighed, loud and deep. From this close, you could smell the peppermint from the gum he always chewed on his breath. He pulled away so he could look into your eyes and cupped your cheek. The smile he gave you was tinged with sadness and longing, and the strangest mix of hope. You knew before he said anything that nothing would be happening tonight. 

“I’m not…I’m not ready yet,” he said softly. Even though you knew something of the sort was coming, there was a flash of disappointment. He must have read it on your face, because he was quick to try and reassure you. “It’s not you. It’s just…I just ended it with her. And I’m still confused as hell over what I feel for you. I think you both deserve more than me rushing into something without figuring that out. Please understand.” 

You nodded, even though you weren't entirely sure if you did. You wanted him, that much was clear. But you also didn't want to be someone's rebound. You wanted something real, something meaningful. And you were willing to wait for that. You just hoped he was too. 

“Okay," you whispered, taking a deep breath. "I understand.” 

He smiled at you again, a small, sad curve of his lips, before leaning in to press his forehead against yours. "Thank you," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. "You're amazing, you know that?"

You wanted him to kiss you again. You ached for it, almost. But you knew if you closed the distance that you’d be going back on everything he had just asked for and the understanding you had promised him you had. So instead, you swallowed thickly and pulled away from him all together. He seemed to understand the distance you were creating and released another deep breath, clearing his throat. 

"Thank you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "For coming to get me." 

He nodded, and the two of you fell into silence again. There was something in his eyes that made you think he wasn't done yet. "Can I walk you up to your door?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. 

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if it was a good idea. But at the same time, you didn't want this moment to end, either, even if it was just a few more minutes. "Sure," you finally said. 

The two of you got out of the truck and made your way up to your apartment, the silence between you heavy. He was walking so close that you could feel the body heat radiating from him, and you were starting to feel hot all over. When you reached your door, you turned to face him, unsure of what to say. You drew your bottom lip between your teeth as you stared. 

"Thank you again," you said softly.

He nodded, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he let out a deep breath. "Of course,” he said, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Your skin tingled when he pulled away. “I'll see you Monday?" he asked, his voice uncertain. 

You nodded. "Yeah, I'll see you then." 

He stepped away, staring for just a moment longer before he whispered out a goodnight and turned and walked back down the hallway. You watched him go, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside of you. You didn't know what was going to happen between the two of you, but you thought maybe you were ready to find out. You turned to your door and pulled out your keys, taking a deep breath before unlocking it and stepping inside. 

---------------

Main Masterlist

Notes: More of The Blonde One™️needed to be added to my masterlist. I hope you enjoyed whatever this was lol. Likes/comments/reblogs are the best encouragement!

Thanks to @roosterforme @mak-32 @thedroneranger for the help! And to Mak for the prettiest banner that finally gets to see the light of day😍

[storiesfromafan]

Little Bird - Part One

A/N: I am finally diving into writing a story for Feyd. Forgive me if he is ooc, but I am trying haha. This idea came when rewatching Dune Part Two almost a week ago. And i haven't been able to stop thinking about it, only to work on Benny one-shots.

Also, things may/have been changed to suit the Story, and will possibly keep changing to fit it as a whole.

This will probably be a slow written/updated story, as I want to make sure it's as good as it can be.

Do let me know what you think 😊

Part One

Rabban strode heavily and with confidence into the war room, his uncle – Baron Vladimir Harkonnen – grotesquely sitting at the head of the table. The Baron looked to his nephew with a scathing look, making Rabban's step faulted for a second, yet he continued on as if nothing happened.

“Well?” Boomed the Baron's impatient voice.

Coming to stand before his uncle, Rabban looked to the man with a proud and confident demeanour. “Yes Uncle. We have successfully obtained Arrakis, and wiped out the Atreides".

The gluttonous man smiled wickedly at his nephew, his plans coming along nicely. “Good. You have done well Rabban".

In the moment Rabban felt light, the weight of delivering what was expected of him lifted. Something that seemed rare, hardly happening for him. Today he had finally showed his worth, and his Uncle had shown him he was favoured. For the Baron had given him the place he conquered. Commanding he go to Arrakis, take the spice and make the Harkonnen name mean something of greater greatness.

A dark chuckle came from the shadows off to the side of both men. Both cast their gaze to the figure that slowly stepped out, their skin pale and head bald, like the other men. But the main feature separating the three was the new comers stormy blue eyes, which shone with mischief and mayhem. His full lips housing a knowing smirk. He was the Baron’s other nephew, Feyd-Rautha.

“Brother, do tell our Uncle about the souvenir you brought back from your invasion of Arrakis" came Feyd's raspy, yet amused voice.

Rabban's jaw clenched at his brothers words, have beating him to the punch. For he had hoped to inform the Baron of his prize himself. Part of him knew that the Baron would be angry for taking what he did. Yet he could not help himself. The perfect opportunity arose and Rabban couldn’t resist taking something for himself. Even if he didn’t truly want it. It was to show his strength and power.

“What is he on about?” Demanded the Baron, eyes drawing together in agitation.

The older nephew sputtered, trying to find the words while being put on the spot. Feyd held his arms behind his back as he leisurely strolled to stand beside his Uncle. His intense gaze on Rabban. With both sets of eyes on him, Rabban was uneasy, yet did his best to not show it.

“Well!” The Baron yelled, now becoming impatient with the man before him.

Once more Rabban could not speak, only angering the Baron more. Feyd smiling joyously at his brothers lack of response, how both he and the Baron seem to effect him.

“Uncle, since Rabban is tongue tied, I will inform you" came Feyd's raspy voice. “It would seem my brother has taken the prize of Atreides niece, the one who’s mother ran away and disgraced her family".

The Baron listened to Feyd's words, staying silent. Which he took as a sign to go on.

“I will say one thing in my brothers defence" Feyd mused, walking towards Rabban. “This prize is known to be good friends of the Princess. So, having her in our hands is favourable. And if we were to join her to our house, we may gain more favour with the Princess. And ultimately her father, the Emperor”. Feyd stood by Rabban and turned to look to the Baron.

Silence fell for a few minutes. Feyd watching the gluttonous man before him. Rabban not looking to his Uncle, and uneasy by the complimentary words of his brother. And the Baron, the wheels in his head turning. But then he smirked, a deep chuckle coming from the man both nephews despised.

“We already have an in with the Emperor. For he supplied us with his own men" the Baron looked to each of his nephews, who stared at the man before them intently. “Having the princesses favour because I allowed Atreides niece to join our house, is not necessary. In fact, it would low us!”

Locked in a windowless, bland room – walls a sterile grey, basic grey and black furniture. It was some sort of holding cell, a fancier one for those who had come from wealthy and influential families. Yet the Harkonnen’s seized, contemplating if they would execute them or not. That was were you were currently waiting, and for over twenty-four hours.

You had been dragged here, after being taken from Arrakis during the take over. You recall being asleep in your room, before hearing noises from the halls. When you left your room you found the chaos. Soldiers moving about, killing all insight. Unlucky for you Rabban Harkonnen had been coming down your hall. His eyes landed on you, recognition flashing in his eyes. And that was it. Before you could run he had his large hand on your arm, dragging you away while death and destruction passed you.

Even now you were still dressed in your night dress, which had dirt and some blood on it. Your hair was a tangled mess from those that would take hold of it and drag you about, Rabban included. Your lip was also split from being backhanded when you finally spoke up. Thankfully it had clotted over, but it was still quiet sore. You were on alert, but frightened. And who wouldn’t be? Yet you thrived, navigating it while feeling everything you did.

You had to be strong from a young age. Due to your mothers choice to pick love over duty, resulting in you, you were the one to suffer for her indiscretion. All the great families looked down their nose at you from the age of seven, when your mother had gotten her foot in the door, your father’s family rising and gaining a small bit of power. It wasn’t much but it allowed you all to be seen in social circles. But many whispered, speaking ill of you all.

Great families told their children to not speak to you, leaving you out in the beginning. When you were nine did the Princess Irulan for-go what people and children said. She was kind to you, befriending you. A true friend. And for once you felt as if you didn’t have to fight to be seen. Over time your friendship influenced those around the Princess, and in turn those children were kind to you under the Princesses gaze. But as soon as she turned her back, or left, they turned their backs to you.

Your ears faintly picked up shuffling in the hallway outside your room. Followed by voices, which sounded to be in a heated exchange. Wearily you stood from the chair you’d been sitting in, refusing to sleep till you knew what was to become of you. Taking a couple steps toward the rooms door, you strained to hear what was transpiring behind your closed door.

“How could you!” A gruff, angry voice said. “She was to be mine!”

Then there was a deep chuckle. “An why would you want her? Don’t you have enough whores to keep yourself entertained?”

“I was the one to take Arrakis and wiped out the Atreides! She is my prize!” A loud bang rang out down the hall, a fist had hit a wall.

“She was taken from you because you hid her from our Uncle”.

“Which I was going to inform him of! Until you told him!”

Their voices lowered, and their words faster. You didn’t hear anything after that. With a final loud aggravated groan, followed by heavy feet stomping away from your room. Then silence. Yet you could not relax just yet, for the other person was still out there. You knew it.

When the door suddenly open did you jump. But the doorway was empty, staring out the door frame  you questioned what was going on. Then he entered the space of the door. You took a step back. Slowly, as if stalking pray, he entered the room. The door closing shut behind him. Like all that you had seen he was pale and bald, but also tall and lean. As he entered into the light of the room his face coming into full view. First you noticed his full lips, that were set in a straight line. His strong jaw and sharp cheek bones. Last it was his blue eyes, their bright blue contrast to the dark look he was giving you.

With every step closer to you, did you step back. Until you were stopped by the chair you had been sitting in. Recovering from being trapped while the man came to stand before you. You stood tall, holding your head up high. Your gaze fierce as it meets his bright blue eyes. What surprised you was the amusement shining in his eyes now. You were amusing to him.

You looked at him, really looked at him. For a Harkonnen, this man had some unearthly beauty. Yet something told you you’ve met before, though you couldn’t believe it. But those eyes, bright blue, different yet familiar. Either in this life, or a past one.

“W-who are you?” You finally asked, wanting the silence to end.

He remained silent, just watching you a little longer, before he took a step back, giving you breathing room. His hands moving to rest behind his back, as a fear enduring smile crossed his full lips, which did not reach his eyes.

“I am Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen” came his raspy, deep voice.

A chill ran down your spine, both from who he was and his voice. You had heard many stories of the man before you, stories that chill to the bone and leave no room for humanity in him. And you stood before him. But why?

“W-why are you here?” You questioned, knowing you were pushing it. And Feyd was allowing it.

“I am here to inspect what is now mine" he coolly replied, as if it was common knowledge.

You looked at him with confusion. How did you end up his, if his brother was the one to take you from Arrakis? “What about your brother?”

Feyd chuckled softly. “My brother did not inform the Baron of taking you. And as punishment you were given to me, little bird".

You remained quiet, letting his words sink in. You had been worried about being Rabban's prize. But now Feyd owning you, that was terrifying. He would either spend his time torturing you, your flesh, before killing you. Or he would make you his whore, your body servicing him in every carnal way. Neither were options you looked forward too. Though maybe the death route would be the best of the two, for it would end the soonest.

“Come now" Feyd's words broke you from your thoughts. “Surely you wish to ask more questions little bird?”

He’d already given you a nickname, one you found annoying. “S-stop with that nickname".

“Why?” He asked in amusement. “I think it suits you. Taken from the wild, only to be locked up" – he reach out to take a lock of hair in his fingers, which you pulled away from – “untamed but with time can be...”

Your gaze darkened, as you managed to move from the chair and putting more distance between the two of you. His words had truth to them, but you would not be tamed. Not by him, and not by his methods.

“You are strong" Feyd said suddenly, his face dropping so it was serious. “I remember you at the palace when we were younger. How the children from the great families looked down at you, spat insults at you. It made you strong...”

Was that a compliment? “So what?” You spat.

He chuckled once more. “I was making an observation little bird. As not once had you cried or cowered when you were taken. Nor when in this room, or in my presence. You stand tall, and do your best to remain calm. I will give you that".

You glared at him. Not for what he said, but the nickname and how sure of himself he was. You were here because of his brother, not by choice. You were here, in your nightdress and looking a fright, because of them. They didn’t even have the decency to let you freshen up.

Feyd took no time to move before you again, his hand taking a hold of your chin. Lifting your head so he could look down into your eyes. Your glare deepened at his actions, which only pleased him more. Feyd then moved his thumb to your bottom lip, the rough pad running along it. The pressure he used collided with the split in your lip, causing it to open and you to hiss. Music to Feyd's ears. Running his thumb over the blood, he moved it over your lip, back and forth till it was completely covered.

Pulling his hand back, Feyd moved the blood covered thumb to his mouth. His tongue licking the pad, collecting your blood. The metallic taste delightful. “You will be moved to a better room. I will send some women to help clean you up, before you get some needed rest. By tomorrow I should have worked it out...”

“W-worked what out?” You asked curiously. A sinking feeling in your stomach.

A twisted smile crossed Feyd's face, chilling you to the bone. “If I will kill you or make you my whore".

With those words he turned from you, and walked to the door. Once it opened, he moved from the room and once more the doors closed, leaving you alone. Leaving you wonder what just happened. You moved to the chair and sat, your mind running over all that transpired with Fayd. Then finally you understood, tomorrow would either be the day you die or the day you loose yourself.

You don’t know how long you sat there, but when the doors opened and two guards walked into the room, you knew it was time to go. Reluctantly you lifted yourself from the chair, and crossed the room to them. One guard exited first, with you following before the second guard brought up the rear. It felt like you were being marched like a criminal, but it was far from it. For as you arrived to your new room, the halls to get there were nicer but still bland. The room was larger, a couch and big bed. The walls were still grey but with this room there was a window. You could see the night of Giedi Prime.

Two bodies walking from an adjoining room caught your attention, and upon turning you were greeted to the sight of two Harkonnen women, slaves, waiting with their hands held before them and eyes down. They were pale and bald, yet thin and were quite beautiful.

“My lady" they greeted softly, scared to be loud.

“If you follow us, we have a bath being drawn for you" one of them advised.

You didn’t say a word, but cautiously crossed the room to them. They stepped aside and allowed you to enter first. The bathroom had the same grey walls and grey, and black furniture, but with a large sunken tub in the middle of the room. Another woman was filling the tub, pouring in oils and scents. It didn’t take long for it to be full, and she left her spot. She walked over to you, bowed and then left. The other two women came in, and moved to undress you. You didn’t fight them when they removed your nightdress and undergarments.

You walked into the tub, the warm water feeling good as you slowly submerged your body in it. Your muscles loved the warm water, it helping with the tension you were holding. The floral scent pleasing to your nose. One of the woman came up and asked to help with your hair, which you accepted. So there you were, relaxing in a tub of water while the slave washed your hair and detangled it. It felt so good you almost forgot where you were, and what had happened to Arrakis and your family.

“Leave me" you commanded when your hair had been seen to.

Both women bowed before scurrying out of the room, door closing behind them. There you floated, eyes cast to the dark, sterile ceiling. In this moment of relaxation did you recall your family. Your Uncle, Duke Leto Atreides. His concubine Jessica. Your Cousin Paul. And all those innocent people serving the family that had fallen at the Harkonnen hands.

For the first time in years did tears rise in your eyes, and made their escape down your cheeks. The situation you were in was not easy. Many would have crumbled as soon as seeing the soldiers, or when they were on the ship to this toxic planet. You crumbled in a tub full of pleasant smelling water, realisation of possible outcomes of fate flashing before your eyes. Tomorrow would come too quick, you just knew it.

TBC...

[eatanorange]

marauders do the candy trauma salad trend since I JUST saw a fantastic one for pjo (highly encourage y'all to add your versions/to this pls I don't have solid hcs of everyone) (evan's is fully me projecting btw)(a lot of them are me projecting <3).

Upon completion I want to add up here n not just the tags that these do reference various traumas/bigotry so be careful and mind what headspace ur in n all that pls take care of urselves k thanks love u.

Sirius: Hi I'm sirius and every time my mother considered something I did 'impure', like experience joy or get sorted in to gryffindor, she took my mouth away! *momentary zone out from the horrors* I brought milk duds!

Barty: bazooka bubblegum. *vid cuts* I'm barty and I hate my dad for all of the reasons you can imagine and I think it would be fun if he blew up. good?

Lily: Hi I'm Lily and after I got sent to magic school, all emotional ties with my muggle sister, who regards me as a freak, and my mother, who was more sensitive to her side, were severed. They didn't tell me when my dad died. I brought 3 musketeers.

Remus: Hi I'm remus and I got bit by a werewolf when I was 5, then my dad offed himself because of it. I brought moon pies.

James: Hi I'm James and I fell into limerence with someone and incessantly pursued them for over a year in ways that were detrimental to both of our mental states. I was so public about it I don't even need to say who it was. My mother sat me down one day and said "was it something your father and I did, something we said, that convinced you you need to beg someone to love you? to let you show them love?" and that broke something in me. We're chill now though, and I have coping techniques that work for me while still allowing me to be my expressive self, so I brought mr. goodbars.

Peter: Hi I'm peter and my animagus is literally a rat. I brought sour patch kids.

Dorcas: Hi I'm dorcas and my pureblood parents will never say it to my face but they wanted me to be a boy. To compensate I was sure to always get top marks, be well liked, and experience gender dysphoria. I burnt out before our 5th year, and learning radical acceptance in the place of trying to guess unspoken rules saved my life. I brought smarties.

Regulus: Hi I'm regulus and in order to be sure my mother didn't assassinate my brother for running away, I stayed behind in the abusive household and eventually became a deatheater to keep my cover, hunting down one bald headed bitch's horcruxes until it literally almost killed me. I think it did kill me in some lives. and I brought the starburst.

Mary: Hi I'm Mary and due to blood supremacist bigots, I have to go to school with people who want me to die just for having the audacity to exist. The muggle world is also like this. The school I go to does not matter in this scenario. I brought mentos for the salad and a bottle of soda for the show.

Evan: Hi I'm evan and my ex went on holiday to another country for 3 months, told me we could write to stay connected, they didn't, broke up with me via owl while still on said vacation, and then came to talk to me in person about that, denied that it was an active choice to disconnect from me, then tried to put the onus of any friendship to follow on just me. We haven't spoken since. Also I'm a sex positive, but also trauma affected ace, it was an open relationship, and they somehow still managed to be shady/inconsiderate about hooking up with someone on the vacation. I brought blow pops.

Pandora: Hi I'm pandora and sometimes I get prophetic dreams so vivid I can't tell when I wake up. Sometimes, though the future is not stagnant, I see my friends die :) I brought airheads.

Marlene: Hi I'm marlene and I have 5 brothers. 3 of them accept my nonbinary identity. The rest, and my parents, blatantly ignore that I use they/them pronouns. Then they told me if I don't have children as an adult I won't be worth visiting because it's my job as a pureblood to produce an heir. So I went to St. Mungos and got sterilized. I brought baby ruth candy.

Hope you enjoy! and thanks if you read them all! This was fun for me.

[mitsukitsume]

Feast on Fear~

Pov: Pickle meets Pet!

(There will only be one reader which will be pickle! But I'll keep pet as an insert character too!)

"Are you done yet?! I am waiting sweetheart..."

You heard the muffled voice of Isaac as you finish up your final look. You take a good look in the mirror while wearing the outfit Isaac had picked out for you. He truly knew what would look best on you. Not to mention the heavy price tag it came with. Not that hed ever mind. You were worth every penny. After all it was a fancy event so it was only essential that you wore the best.

"How do I look?"

Azriel had invited you and Isaac to a evening party he had held. Although it was mostly for business purposes, you were still excited and nervous to go. It was your first time attending anything fancy.

"Yea just a minute!"

You replied as you took a final look and went ahead to open the door. Isaac's gaze immediately fell on you and his eyes widened a little. You looked...gorgeous. He was almost at a loss for words. You saw the blush on his ears and smiled at his cute flustered state.

"Wow..you..look so beautiful..I.. barely have the words to describe you.."

"You look pretty good yourself handsome.."

He chuckled a little at your flirty reply. He got closer to you and took your hand to give it a kiss before asking you to leave with him.

The drive to Asriel's house was about 30 minutes.. you and Isaac talked about random things and who could be at the event. Eventually the drive came to an end and you and Issac stepped outside. It was the first time you looked at Asriels manor and it was breathtaking...alot bigger than Isaacs. You and Isaac made your way inside and immediately a few people recognised Isaac and started to chat with him. Isaac introduced you as his partner and people were nice to you as well. You were still very anxious about meeting all these fancy people. A few moments pass and you see a beautiful blonde man walking up to Isaac. You thought he must be another one of Isaac's associates but he was Asriel himself. You couldn't believe it. You honestly thought he was some old bald man. But he was quite attractive. Not as much as Isaac though. He was the most charming in your eyes.

"Hmm Adorable pet.."

Asriel said teasingly. Isaac let out a scoff and replied.

"They are not a pet you know."

Asriel laughed and said in return.

"I know I know...just teasing.. Although you are quite adorable dear..what's your name? I am guessing you already know who I am?"

You replied nervously and nodded your head a little.

"Y-Yes ..it's nice to meet you Mr.Cain..My name is XXXX"

"It's good to meet you. I really wanted to know what made this man of steel melt

You laughed at his remark meanwhile Isaac rolled his eyes. After a bit of chitchat, Isaac got pulled away from you. He was discussing a few things with his work accociates. You decided to explore the enormous manor a bit. It was beautiful. The walls were painted in an off white colour with gold decorations all around. You didn't doubt that it was real pure gold.

As you were wandering you got a bit away from the party and noise to a more seculed area. It was a balcony with a beautiful view to the outside. You were looking up at the stars appreciating them for Thier beauty and glamour. It was a calm atmosphere until...there was a hand on your back that startled you to your core.

You gasped loudly and saw the person who touched you. It was a beautiful person with a bright smile. They looked even more ethereal in the moonlight.

"Hello.."

They said. You were still a little nervous and starteld from the way they silently creeped up to you.

"H-Hello..C-Can I know who you are..?"

"Hmm..is that really important..?"

The reply caught you off guard. How wasn't it important?

"W-Well I'd like to know who you are..! You know you almost scared me.."

"Oh did I..? My apologies.."

They said as they took a step forward. You didn't know what it was but there was something off about this person... something just wasn't right. You took a step back only to get trapped between the railing and them.

"Umm..what are you doing..? W-Why are you.."

"You ask too many questions."

They cut you off. They were only fueling your suspicion. As they walked in even closer..they were about to grab you until you pulled out a small knife Isaac had given you for safety and stabbed them in the abdomen...You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. When you opened them you expect med to see a person bleeding out but instead what you saw shook you to your core. They didn't move an inch. Instead, just smiling back at you. You gasped in utter shock and horror...no it couldn't be..? Was it really one of those of what Isaac told you?.

They took out the sharp object and threw it to the ground...they looked up to you.

"W-Wha..t..a-are...y-yo-.."

Before you could even finish your sentence.. you were grabbed harshly with inhuman power and smashed against a wall. They pinned you while standing over you.

"I didn't appreciate that."

Those words made you shiver...you had definitely dug a hole for yourself. There was no way you could defend yourself against a mythic.

"Don't close your eyes...look..at..me.."

You were way too Afraid but compiled. They smirked as they saw the fear and tears in your eyes threatening to spill. You saw there fangs and immediately realised what you had gotten yourself into..

" A vampire..?"

You mumbled softly. They chuckled and grabbed your chin to make your fearful gaze meet theirs..

"Yes...a vampire.."

You felt a shiver down your spine. It was true...You had thought that what Isaac told you just might not be true. You didn't pay much attention to it but this was something else. Right Infront of you was something that was inhuman... nothing was going to save you. You closed your eyes in fear and a few tears spilled out. You could hear them chuckle in amusement.

"Scared..? I love that.."

"P-please...l-let..me..g-go..W-Why..are you doing t-this..?"

You managed to say barely. What was it planning with you!? You were just just minding your own business!..

"Hmm..Why should I let a prey go huh..? You smell so sweet..I just need to get a taste..but I think that might just not be enough.."

"Open them."

They commanded sternly. You opened your eyes and saw the predatory look in their eyes. You opened your mouth to scream but soon felt a hand on your mouth silencing you . Half of your body was suddenly pushed over the balcony with their hand pinning your abdomen to the railing.

"Tell me how I should drain you..? Slit your throat and let it all drip out?.."

You started to silently sob at that. You thought of Isaac and how'd he feel if he ever found you like that. You can't let this happen but what could you even do?

"Or maybe thatd be too wasteful...I wouldn't to waste your precious blood now.."

"L-Let me g-go..please! I...h-havent d-done anything...let me go please..."

Your breathing was getting faster and now you were beyond terrified. You kept thinking of Isaac and wishing at any moment maybe he could save you. But what could even he do in this? If he intervened his life would be equally at risk.

Suddenly, they pushed you away from the balcony and back onto to the wall. You slumped down and crouched against the wall in fear. They slowly walked up to you and crouched down still wearing that sly smirk. They grabbed both of your shoulders and leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"I am going to suck the life out of you."

Your eyes widened...is this really how your end was written? How would he feel? He'll be in so much pain...and there's nothing you could've done now. You were beyond stupid for wandering off. They leaned back and started to laugh at you. Mocking you. You could only cry in fear as you saw your end near.

"PET!!!"

You heard a familiar voice call out loudly. They looked at the direction of voice and rolled there eyes.

"How many times do I tell you not to mess with people I work with!?"

You heard Asriel say angrily. Then you saw Isaac. He looked a bit afraid but panicked more when he saw your terrified expression. He quickly made his way to you and snatched you away from the inhumane creature. He wrapped his arms around you as to shield you away. You sighed in relief and felt your shoulders relax a bit. You were finally back in your comfort place when you thought you'd die a few minutes ago.

"I was just having fun..Come on look they are unharmed.. nothing wrong with a little teasing."

"My god..you are unbelievable..I should've locked you."

Asriel was more disappointed than angry. He knew that this was expected of his "pet"

"Are you okay..!? Are you hurt anywhere..? I was so worried when I couldn't find you anywhere..!"

"Calm down Mr.Loverman...Although it's adorable how you're scared but trying to seem like a hero Infront of them..? How cute.."

Isaac didn't reply as he knew what they said was true but even if he was scared your safety was still his first priority. In his presence he'd try everything just to protect you. He took off his coat and wrapped it around you still holding you tightly.

"Sigh...I can't believe this..isaac..I apologise for this..and to you too...And you..you're in deep trouble tonight...in need of a discipline."

"Don't threaten me with a good time!"

Isaac shortly left after and took you home.

"I thought I was going to die.."

"God I was worried sick looking for you everywhere...I thought..."

"I am sorry Isaac. I shouldn't have wandered off..I didn't know something so dangerous..was.. lurking.."

"It scared me too because I know that's something I can't really do anything to protect you from and that's my biggest fear! To not be able to protect you...I'd never forgive myself if something ever happened."

"....why would he even keep something like that?"

"It's..for protection..but I think he has many other reasons too...reasons I'd rather not know..."

The rest of the evening was you explaining to Isaac in detail what happened. Tonight really changed your view of the world and made you more cautious while going outside.

[bucks-babe]

Letter for a sneak peek of your nsfw alphabet…

H

Please becuase it’s so fucking adorable and you should share that with them all.🤭🤭

Of course you picked hair😂 @low0tter here is a sneak peak since @buckys-wintersoldier went crazy when she read it 😂

Full A-Z here

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He keeps himself trimmed, usually using a pair of hair scissors to keep his bush tamed. He hates having a full bush, it feels weird when he wears underwear. He uses an electric razor every so often when he feels like going bald, but he doesn’t do that too often. The one time he saw you wince when he was fucking you because his hair poked your clit just wrong, he vowed to shave and keep his hair short. You told him it wasn’t necessary but he did it anyway.

And of course you asked to watch him shave. It wasn’t your fault you’ve never seen how a man shaves his cock and balls.

“So, like how does that work?” Bucky gives you an incredulous look. “Shaving. It seems difficult. How do you not cut yourself?”

Bucky sighs, he should be used to this by now, his girlfriend being obsessed with his cock, and not just because you always want to fuck him, but because you want to know how it works. Can I hold him while you pee? Can you swing him around? Can I hold him when we cuddle? I want to watch him get hard. Can I keep him in my mouth while you work?

Bucky doesn’t mind the last one, he would be insane to say no to having his cock in your mouth. In the end, he lets you come into the bathroom while he shaves. “Sweets, don’t look at me like that, gonna make me hard.”

“I’m not looking any type of way. I’m just interested.” He runs the razor through his hair, delicately grabbing his soft cock, pulling it away from where he shaves next. “Woah, so you just move him around?”

“Well, how else would you shave the hair there, sweets?” He lets out a chuckle before focusing on his task again.

“So you don’t get hard touching your dick so much?” Bucky laughs, almost nicking himself.

“What do you think I do when I take a shower? You get used to it.”

“You always get hard when I hold him.” He has to turn the razor off, doubling over with laughter.

“That’s different, sweets.” He goes back to shaving, now focusing on his balls, pulling the skin tight.

“That’s fucking cool and kind of hot. You know, you playing with your balls.”

Bucky’s cock twitches at your words. “You’re never watching me shave again.”

On you however, he couldn’t give less of a damn what you do with your pubic hair. If you shave, that’s fine, he gets to feel your silky skin under his fingers. Loverboy would gladly put your lotion on you, making sure you don’t get razor burn. Of course, it’s because he has to make sure his pretty girl is taken care of, not because he wants to touch your pussy, no, he would never. He doesn’t mind the prickly hair as it grows back, one time he had the nerve to say that it was exfoliating his face for the day when eating you out. That got him a wake to the head.

If you wax, he’s going to do the same thing, treating your pussy like she was injured, doting on her hand and foot.

“How is my pretty girl? I know, I can’t believe she would do this to you, to us.”

Sometimes he tilts his head so his ear is next to your bare cunt. “What’s that? She hurt you, ripped out all your pretty curls? Don’t worry, I’ll show her what happens when she treats you like this.”

Full bush, oh he couldn’t care less. The coarse curls don’t slow him down at all. He’ll still devour you like his last meal. So what if he may have to spit out a few hairs after, it’s worth it.

[the-grimm-writer]

Dabi with a darling who's obsessed with her art, her art being ballet

Cue vantom of the opera music ballet addition.

Also, I'm genuinely so sorry this took so long. I'm getting better at answering requests, I swear 😭😭😭

Mdni

Tw: stalking, paranoia, mentions of unhealthy habits, kidnapping.

You were used to people staring at you. Their eyes glued to you with pure admiration as you gracefully glided across the stage, moving your body in ways that took you years to master.

But this felt different. You felt someone's eyes burning into you with such intensity that any normal person would've broken down from it. Yet if you were one to break, you would've never made it very far. So you continued your performance like chills weren't running down your spine.

Heroes were hard to please. The world's top elite, coming to the theater to watch you, dressed in their finest night apparel. But the moment you started, all their doubts would wash away, watching silently with fascination once the music started.

The crowd broke into applause once you finished your dance, standing up and yelling their praise. It always made those long, painful nights of practice worth it.

As you bowed, you looked up to the audience, your blood running cold as you saw bright blue eyes from the back, hiding away from everyone else. Like a ghost, only you could see.

By the time you get down to greet the audience and discuss your performance, the man with the glowing eyes is nowhere to be scene. You don't know why you look for him, going past the darkest part of the theater and peaking in to see if he's still there, watching you.

Even your walk is elegant, your posture is perfect, back straight, and head held up high. Your voice was soft and feminine as you spoke to the people as they congratulated you.

"That was a stunning performance, my dear!" A tall, balding man with round, thick rimmed glasses eagerly shook your hand, yet you could tell by his crisp black suit and the beautiful younger woman that looked to be in her mid twenties or early thirties that stood by his side looking at you that he obviously had money. "When will you be performing again?"

"I'm here every night, thank you very much."

You smiled like he didn't give you the creeps. One thing your master didn't have to teach you but were thankful that he did. How to keep your admirers happy while maintaining a distance from them.

It continued on and on. You knew most people who attended the theater were wealthy, but you didn't care. You had all you wanted right now. So even as they introduced themselves, you didn't bother to remember their names. Always changing the topic if one got too bold with you.

A dancer's career was like a star, your balletmaster used to tell you. Shine too bright, and it would burn out quickly.

That's what you liked about it being busy, not being able to stay and talk to one person for too long. So whenever someone made you uncomfortable, you easily excused yourself and moved on to the next person. Sometimes, it would last for hours until you were finally able to leave.

There was a continuous cycle in your job. After you perform, you'd go to bed, get showered then something to eat, and then rush back to the studio in the early morning to practice. It was your favorite time to do it. When the sun was on the verge of rising and it was still dark outside. You could practice in peace with no prying eyes to judge you.

Turning the lights on, you walked onto the stage, dressed in your practice outfit. Skin tight nude colored leggings, a black leotard with a small tutu connected to it, and pointe shoes you just recently replaced and broke in. Your hair up in a tight bun, completely out of your face.

Taking a deep breath, you stood on the center stage and got in position, pretending like it was an actual performance as you danced.

It was always something you reminded yourself of when you got the lead role in dances. And whenever you didn't get what you were striving for and it felt like your world was going to come crashing down.

Yet still, you would dance until your feet bled and you physically couldn't anymore. It was painful yet an addicting feeling each time you overcame a boundary you once had and turned it into a new move you mastered.

"Why did you stop?"

Spinning around, you were about to stop until you collided with a person. You were about to apologize, thinking it was one of the other performers or the janitor until he spoke up.

You gasped in shock, turning around and stepping back from him. Those cerulean eyes were something you could never forget. Ever since that night.

"It's you..." Fear twisted in your stomach as you looked at him.

He chuckled at this, casually stepping forward towards you. "I knew you'd recognize me."

"Dabi..." You said breathlessly. It wasn't difficult to know who he was when he was always on the news. Heroes' warning is to be on the lookout for a deadly villain litered in patched scars and black hair. He smirked, knowing you'd seen him before.

"The theater is usually the last place I'd hide in. Too many witnesses." He stepped forward, making you go back. "But those idiots didn't even notice me. Not that I could blame them. That was quite the performance you put on."

You backed away, and he could see in your costume that your body was stiff as a board. Trained to have perfect posture even when just having a discussion with someone.

"Those fools don't deserve you, you know." He spoke up, his voice low and raspy. "They'll do what they do with everyone that has a talent. They'll make you dance like a puppet until you break."

You were stiff as you stood there, watching him circle around you on the stage. "I know what I signed up for," you said softly.

His eyes narrowed. "Then you're just as foolish as they are."

"It's ironic, you know," Dabi chuckled darkly as he stood behind you, placing his hands on your waist. "My father... he always strived for perfection. But even his most precious creation isn't enough for him."

You didn't blink an eye at his cold tone. Used to getting degraded and talked down to whenever you messed up even the slightest in front of your master and the instructors. So brutally harsh it could make even the villains with the blackest of hearts cry.

"Surely you understand," you argued back. "To love something so much, you'll continue to do it even if it kills you."

Though you didn't have a strong or flashy quirk, you made it up in your abilities in ballet. Pouring your heart and soul into your performances so even the untrained eye would be able to tell you aere the best at what you did.

You touched him like the fire that was dancing in his veins. The thing that consumed him aside from his needs for vengeance. Though he knew that obsession ran deep in his genetics. It was just something he never thought would hit him until that night he first saw you.

"That's because perfection doesn't exist."

His breath hit the shell of your ear, hot just like the rest of him, yet it sent shivers down your spine. "Yet here it is in the form of a little dancer."

You could tell how bitter it made him. You understood the feeling well. Every ballerina knew how it felt to be rejected and pushed to the side whenever a younger, prettier dancer came in and took the place they spent years working to get.

"Were you ever warned?" He mused. "Some hero or fuckin rich pig with too much time on his hands could ever use their power and money to snatch you up?"

Of course you were, and you hesitantly nodded your head. Nobody ever thought it would happen to them until it actually did. Hell, Dabi bet his mother thought she'd never wind up in an arranged marriage with his father, abused and locked away in an institution after making her have four children with him.

"I'm my father's son, after all." His scarred hand ran down your smooth cheek, down your chin until it wrapped around your throat and pinned you against him, his other arm snaking around your waist. "Men like us, when we see something beautiful, we have to own it, keep it for ourselves."

"You don't have to be like him." You protested, your heart racing in fear. Dread filled you at the thought of him taking away everything you spent your whole life working for.

"And you don't have to be a dancer." He retorted. "Sometimes we don't have a choice in life (Y/n). Now you're coming with me."

You tried to pull away despite his hand wrapped firmly around your throat, threatening you. "No! You can't do this! I have to perform tonight. I have to-"

"This is a lovely place," he cute you off. "Something even I could appreciate." His grip on your neck tightened as he held his other hand out, making you watch as bright blue fire appeared out of his hand. "Such a rich history. It would be a shame if it all went down in flames."

You weakly nodded your head, bursting into tears as you looked at the stage, the theater, your home on last time as he let his flame die out. He picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. His strong arm held you in place with ease as he walked away.

"Don't worry," he said softly, his smile wide and twisted as you cried. "You can still dance for me."

[saintescuderia]

cross my heart (pt. 1)

in terms of positive thinking, shibuya gave us more sukuna content so here's this -

AKA - the story of how you were sent on a mission to kill none other than ryomen sukuna. things get a little more complicated when you end up saving his life. more than once.

unedited (i was too excited)

1 / bored idiots

And in the next line of stupid decisions the higher ups have made, they now decided they wanted to kill Ryomen Sukuna.

Which was fine. If they wanted to be stupid, that was between them and their stupidity. However, you liked to think that you were not stupid. Kill Sukuna? The Sukuna? Yeah, good luck. No amount of training would ever be worth matching that. You had once heard him set fire to an entire village by snapping his fingers because he was bored.

Bored.

Just like you currently were in this meeting that had been called for a discussion as to how they would carry out their next stupid decision to kill the very man they were supposedly calling King. Fucking idiots.

"It's gone too far! He has doubled his tax. And I've just had three women fall pregnant with child!" One man slapped his palm on the table. "Let's see the King of Curses try running a business!"

The image of Ryomen Sukuna counting stock and calculating cash flow made you want to laugh. Yes, you definitely could picture him hunched over a notebook going over the business accounts.

Then again, considering Kimo's line of work, you wondered about when forcing women into prostitution was considered a business?

"You're sneering again." You heard a whisper beside you and saw the familiar small face of your sister giggling at your side. "Your resting bitch face is raging."

"It's not resting. It's reacting to that fucking idiot." You said, nodding a short bald man who was waving a servant over for more drink. His name was Kami but you referred to mentally address him as such and now considered him Kimo.

As she poured his glass, Kimo unashamedly slapped her behind. She gasped but could do nothing. You felt your fingers curl around the blade at your side. If only Kimo's father was still alive then this idiot would not be considered a Head who makes actively makes you gag.

"You call everyone an idiot." You looked at you sister who spoke and was smiling up at you.

"Because, Eva, everyone acts idiotic." You said. She laughed quietly and shook her head. "By the way, you shouldn't be here." Eva's response was a frown before you shushed her out of the room.

Your kill tally was the only reason you were allowed in these meetings, standing quietly behind sensei as he acted as a Head for his sick uncle. You honestly wouldn't have taken as many jobs if it meant you now had to stand through these meetings. Then again, more jobs meant a better life for your little sister.

Eva's father had run off before she'd been born and when she had been born, your mother had died in childbirth. You then spent your entire life raising Eva - and trying to dissuade her guilt for feeling that she had murdered your mother.

Especially since, between the two of you, you were the real murderer.

"Why not the girl?"

At the mention of you, you finally stepped forward from your usual spot of brooding by the wall. At such a formal meeting with all the family Heads sat discussing such important matters, tradition was important. One dressed accordingly. One acted accordingly. One spoke accordingly.

So when you were called as the assassin to kill Ryomen Sukuna, you expressed your concerns in the appropriate manner.

"Excuse the fuck outta me?" You crossed your arms, feeling more offended by their sheer stupidity by the second. "And did you just refer to me as girl?"

There was a sigh. An older man with a tired smile looked at you. He said your name with a hint of plea in it. You looked at the man you considered your sensei. You called him Oribu for his love of olives and he only person in this room you wouldn't describe as idiotic. Looking at him you forced yourself to take a deep breath.

Then Kimo, the idiot, spoke again.

"When I said girl, I was referring to the younger one." He said, a mouthful of food. "She is much prettier and could perhaps pass as a concubine."

In less than a split second, a few things happened.

The flower on Kimo's dress shirt was sliced cleanly in half. A blade was embedded in the table. Your hand was thrown out. And your Oribu was in stance, blade drawn.

It took a second for the room to process what had happened, that Oribu had deflected your blade - that you had actually drawn a sword at a Head. Kimo looked down at the flower petals that were falling slowly to the table, gravity slowly making its effects known. You slowly stood up from your throwing stance, the sheath at your side very clearly empty and the blade embedded in the table emblazoned with your own signature crest.

Kami finally found it in himself to speak. "Ya! You dare draw a blade at me!" The rage was almost comical. You snorted.

"Yes." You said as if that was the most obvious thing ever. However, your eyes darted over to Oribu-sensei who looked slightly displeased. Sure, he never liked these things - and knew of the lengths you'd go to protect your sister - but he was always about violence being the last option. Which you found quite ironic considering, well, everything.

There was a sound of a chair being pushed back against the ground. You turned to where another man - was his name Raijin? something about thunderstorms - stared down at you. "You will speak accordingly!"

"He literally asked me a question." You said, gesturing at Kimo. There were some displeased sounds from around all the table heads and you sighed. "I'm sorry, if you guys have a problem then how about you go kill the bad guys then. Do you think I care?"

"Heartless bitch." Someone commented.

"Well, at least I'm not worried about getting blood under my fingernails." You sassed back. To make things even funnier, Kami had been in the process of looking at his nails and immediately looked caught out. You snorted a very unladylike snort. "Yeah, thought so."

"Oribu has told me of Eva's training." Raijin spoke. "She is exactly the sort of woman Ryomen Sukuna likes his concubines to be."

You really wanted to know how he knew that. You opened your mouth but thankfully, Oribu bet you to it. "Her skills are promising but... unripe." He said. "Uncle is yet to send her on a mission anyway. It's unlikely she would succeed with her first mission being such a powerful creature."

"Her sister did." Raijin said, curling his lip. You couldn't help the look on your face - was he not aware that his supposed insult was actually a compliment?

Gag.

"Why not she kill Sukuna then?" Kimo chimed in.

Ah.

You understood Raijin's comment. He wanted this for you. Killing Ryomen Sukuna was a promised death wish - and he wanted nothing more for your head since you humiliated him by turning down a proposal. So fucking petty.

Kimo turned in his seat to look you up and down. "You can pass as a cleaner or something."

"And you can pass as a failed abortion."

There was some uproar at your sass - why they were still surprised was beyond you - until Raijin stood up and held his hands in the air. You stared at him with your own disgusted look. This crusty, dusty ass motherf--

"So, all in favour for Y/N to kill Ryomen Sukuna?"

And, of course, they put their hands up in agreement.

Idiots.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Written for @steddieangstyaugust - day 12: Terrible Things - Mayday Parade. Only inspired by the theme of the song.

Eddie never thought he'd live long, no matter what people kept telling him. He had a soul of a rocker and those were like fireworks - loud, bright, and went out with a blast. Their lives were brief, but for Eddie Munson, it was worth it.

He'd see old people and pity them, so full of wrinkles, their hair going that sad shade of grey. They would be frail and have way too much time on their hands, and he'd think - this is never going to be me. It's better to live fast and die before I become someone else.

He lived according to his own rules. He was loud. He was abrasive. He spoke his mind, even if no one cared for it.

He was supposed to die. And then he didn't.

And okay, maybe underneath the gratefulness to Steve Harrington from pulling him out of literal hell, he felt just a little bitter. His death was supposed to mean something. Now that option was gone.

The reality of old Eddie Munson was starting to hit him. He'd just waste away in a dead end job, go grey, maybe lose his hair too - as much as he loved Wayne, his bald head was a constant reminder of the possibility. He'd have wrinkles and stuff. And he'd have to lie every single day about who he really was, for forty years, maybe more. What a future.

But as time passed, Eddie found himself thinking less and less about the heroic death that he wasn't granted. Maybe it was because he was constantly surrounded by his friends. Maybe it was the music, it always helped him work through things. Wayne too - nearly losing Eddie broke the man, and Eddie couldn't do it to him. Nope.

And then there was Steve Harrington, the impossible combination of all things good. Somehow, the former jock and heart-throb of all the ladies in Hawkins saw Eddie kissing a guy and didn't freak out. Well, just a little. For one day. Then he drove back to Eddie's and, while Eddie was wondering when he'd get punched, nervously explained that he wasn't mad at Eddie for liking guys, but he was mad at himself for waiting too long. Which was, uh. Wow. The previous guy was forgotten in a heartbeat - "he wasn't that good of a kisser anyway," shrugged Eddie - and a new chapter of Eddie's life began.

It never occurred to him that the new chapter could be close to the end of the book.

As he was staring at his x-rays, listening to results of his bloodwork, and trying the phrase "lung cancer" on his tongue, he had sudden realization that maybe grey hair and wrinkles weren't so bad. He just hoped he'd live long enough to see them on Steve one day.

[simplyzeeka]

Episode 1. Season 1 (Pilot)

The Big Bang

Come follow me to luxury

Gold on the floors

And all over me

Warnings: MDNI!! Profanity, mentions of violence, adult themes, use of the n-word, use of the b-word, themes of infidelity

Summary: Not every princess lived in a castle. Terry learns this when he meets what he considers a celestial being in the dirtiest of places. Too enamored, he forgets about all his spoken promises to another.

"AND ACTION" 🎬

There's always a comfort that comes with having options, especially if every option benefits you. It didn't matter how miniscule the situation may be, having options just made it all the better.

A man like Terry was one that believed options to be a luxury. He wished he had that luxury when life struck a butcher knife to his heart and ordered him to walk like it didn't hurt. Maybe then, if he had options, he would've picked a butter knife instead. And maybe then, he wouldn't have needed to experience hell or high waters.

So it's understandable that he felt a tinge of discomfort when that luxury was taken away from him, maybe a little irritated. Here he stood, with two of his friends (dumb friends, might he add), first in line to enter what he would describe as the dingiest strip clubs he has ever seen, not that he’s seen many. Now, Terry has been in worse predicaments than this, he's been in places that looked way more… unsightly than this.

It was just the subtle air, a foreboding feeling that washes over him as he looked at the club doors, that made him think that he could have spent his bachelor party at home instead, by himself. Nothing appealing came from watching strippers dancing anyway… for him at least.

“So you tellin’ me you couldn't have picked a less shady place? Looks like it's bout to rain bullets here.”

Or maybe he was just paranoid. Three years of therapy could only do as much as you let it, and Terrence Richmond? Well, he didn't let it do much for him.

“I just wanna see some ass shake man, all them fancy strip clubs have the bitches with no ass. They not even pretty in the face.” Rome exaggerated, chewing the gun in his mouth so loudly, Terry had the right mind to knock him out.

“Nigga, you dense as fuck. This that shit that got you that STD.” Yosohn shook his head as he schooled Rome, not that Rome was open to listening.

Terry met Rome and Yosohn a year after moving to Georgia. Rome being the big mouth he was, got a little mouthy with Terry and almost got knocked out clean. Yosohn spoke on behalf of his friend, then weirdly, they became friends. Although they weren't the type of company he would normally surround himself with, they were great distractions when life didn't seem worth living. Them and his fiancé.

“Man, I ain't ever telling you shit. This why Ronda left yo ass. Let's get inside before I crash out on you, blowing my high.”

Yeah, amazing distractions.

It smelled better than expected really. While Terry expected a cacosmic mixture of perfumes, sweat and vomit. It smelled like sweet cherry liquor, only a little bit of sweat and it seemed every woman here used the same perfume because it smelled all the same to him.

The interior of the club was very… busy. Not a shocking resolution, it was a strip club. Just a little uncomfortable, the three men had to bump, push and wedge between drunk bodies to get to the small booth Rome booked.

“Man, look at all this. Tell me you don't want that Terry.” Rome tilted his head downwards as one girl, seemingly a dancer, walked past him. Terry just gives Rome a blank look, “You don't ever get tired of talkin’?”

Yosohn's shoulders shook, head thrown downwards. Rome was clearly the most talkative out of all three, and while Yosohn matched his energy sometimes, it got a little unbearable at times. But what made him laugh was how he shut up as Terry spoke to him, until this day, Rome doesn't dare cross a line with the large man.

“Fuck you laughin’ at? Bald-headed motherfucker. Yo beard patchy as fuck, go take some Minoxidil.” Terry couldn't help but laugh at that. Their banter is always something worth watching.

Raunchy music dripped from the speakers as dancers performed praise-worthy tricks on the poles at the main stage. With hands digging deep into his pockets, he bopped his head to the catchy beat of the music. Not his usual taste, but anything was better than standing there looking awkward.

Rome had long disappeared, Terry wasn't sure if it was the bar he went to, or perhaps he followed behind a dancer. “Let's get you a drink man, can't even act like you enjoying yourself.” Yosohn shook his head at how sad the man looked. “It's cause I'm not.” Terry retorted with a small chuckle, the first he's given since being away from his fiancé.

Alas after a few drinks, Terry has let a little loose. His teeth were on display more, his shoulders slack and his hands out of his pockets.

There were a few girls in the booth with them, Terry didn't care to entertain either of them though. Courtesy of the club, they sent them a bottle with knowledge of the occasion, and of course, that was thanks to Rome.

The DJ kept announcing the arrival of dancers on stage for solo performances. All which had patrons screaming and throwing money on the stage, painting it green with Benjamins. Clearly this was a generous crowd.

It wasn't until the music changed into something slow and sensual that his attention perked towards the stage. The lights have changed to warm,dim, orange, then queued the DJ. “Aight, y'all already know what time it is. Let's get into some slow seduction with one of your favourites… Indigo.”

Except this time the crowd was quiet. Not a single scream, just sublime silence. “Yo, what's this wack ass shit? We don't wanna hear this slow shit.” Silence that Rome had no problem breaking.

Terry couldn't help but internally agree, because this was a strip club. There was a specific aesthetic that strip clubs had, and slow wasn't one of them. The crowd wasn't silent in boredom though, they were attentive, staring directly at the stage. He notices how not a single phone was out, just wide eyes and anticipating smiles.

He wondered why until he registered the soft melody of Victoria Monét's “Big Boss” playing through the speakers, and there was Indigo.

A hand on the pole as she walked around it, before climbing up. A gold set was on her, glitter stuck to her skin. Just as the song recited. She resonated a bright star as she twirled on the pole with skill.

Her black tresses flowed around her in controlled movements. Her movements weren't as sharp, quick or as ‘sexy’ as the other dancers. Her movements were smooth, sensual and hypnotising. She didn't let the pole control her, instead the pole gave her every command and she obliged willingly.

Indigo wasn't dancing to seduce. She danced to engage, to captivate. She captured more than just her audience's eyes, she captured their hearts and their minds. She commanded everyone to silence. The small smile on her face as she danced made her all the more ethereal, there was no way on this damned earth that a beauty like that existed. Not when mundane people like himself existed. Was it possible to co-exist with such an entity? That much was unbeknownst to Terry.

She had taken so much of his attention, that he did not notice when her set was over. The party was back up again once everyone regained their composure, everyone except him because his friends had to shake him out of his trance.

“Yo Terry, you good bro? This nigga gone.” Yosohn laughed at Terry, but truthfully, he understood him. Indigo was a beauty yet to be reckoned with. It took him a while to shake out of it after watching the dancer perform.

“Now that's the kind of hoe you turn into a housewife.” Rome comments, still glancing at where Indigo had exited the stage.

“Aye Rome, Terry gone bruh.” Yosohn doubled over as he took a short video of Terry. Rome reached over and slightly smacked the big man out of it. And immediately, old Terry was back to mugging and grunting.

“Don't get fucked up.” He muttered to Rome, before glancing back to the stage again. “Oh hell no, bring her back on stage. Big ass attitude. I hope Amber cheating on yo ass.”

A drunk Yosohn was sliding off the sofa in laughter. Terry smacks his teeth before taking a sip of his whiskey. His mind was racing, eyes twitching as his leg began bouncing. He needed another fix of seeing Indigo and suddenly he understood the crowd, the silence. The need to capture that moment in its entirety, because Terry thought it was short… too short. *She just got on stage.*

“Who was that?” He asked, nobody in particular, as long as he would get an answer, he didn't care who it came from. “That's Indigo, she been dancing here for a couple years. Pretty as fuck, as you see. I think her-” Yosohn answers before Rome interrupts. “And greedy as fuck too, you forgot to add that.” Yosohn rolls his eyes, “She rejected him, don't mind him. Anyway, think her real name Senia or some shit like that.”

Terry hums, eyebrows twitching subtly. Now his mind was treading on dangerous territory, wanting to know how he could get to see her again, right now. “She do private dances?”

The mere question has Rome and Yosohn shocked. Terrence Richmond had lost all sense of composure at that moment, that he didn't care much about looking a little too invested.

“Huh? You tryna fuck up before your wedding day? Yeah no, let's bounce.” Yosohn shook his head, being the angel on Terry's one shoulder, and of course, Rome would play devil's advocate. “Bro what? Stop being lame, it's his last day single, one lil dance not gon hurt. Amber probably doin’ the same shit.” Rome waved his hand in dismissal. “He's not single dumb ass nigga.”

The two continued going back and forth, they didn't even notice Terry getting up. “Hey man, I was wondering if I could get a private dance.” He questioned the bouncer who stood near velvet curtains. The bouncer mugs Terry, “Nigga, do I look like a stripper to you? Fuck you asking me for?”

Terry sighs, how the fuck was he supposed to know who and what to ask. His thick brows furrow and his lips curl downwards before looking around. The bouncer sighs, the man was clearly new to this.

“Who you lookin’ for?” His ears perk, head whips in the bouncer's direction. Wasn't even the slightest bit embarrassed in his pursuit of finding her. “Indigo.”

The bouncer nodded with a hum, his request was very much understandable. Sticking his head in the curtains, he yells the stripper’s name. It wasn't long until she appeared again that Terry felt his heart skip a beat. The stage did not do her any justice, because even now under dim lights that made it hard to see, Indigo still looked jaw-dropping. “What’s up Nyx, who is this?”

Her southern accent was thick, the drawl did something to his chest that had him wondering if he had a heart condition. “He askin’ for a dance, baby.”

The dark-skinned beauty raised a perfectly trimmed brow in Terry’s direction. “Oh is that right?” she asked the man himself, and the smile on her face was enough to send him into cardiac arrest. “Yes ma’am.” Terry retorts with a smile of his own, close-lipped and gentle.

Eyes glazing across her features, Indigo laughs at his politeness. It wasn’t often she met someone as polite as him when asking for a dance. “It’s gon’ cost you.”, a declaration. Terry found that wooing more than anything, “That’s fine. I’m willing.”

They stare at one another for a while, while Indigo seemed to be sizing him up, Terry was tracing her face, pocketing the memory in a place where everything felt nostalgic, because Terry couldn't help but feel something familiar about her. A feeling he shook off because now he sounded stupid.

Indigo hums, that was also a response she didn’t hear often, but she wouldn’t dare complain. “I’ll keep that in mind, c’mon baby.”

"AND CUT" 🎬

Note: Not as long as I would have liked, but I also beat a record... so win some lose some?

Yosohn pronounced. Yo-shawn. I'm extra...

This will be an angsty series revolving around uncomfortable matters. Infidelity. Like I said in my last post, I do not condone it, and neither should anyone.

This is purely fiction.

Hope you enjoy this, I'm honestly really invested. That playlist I made is really doing what it's supposed to.

Playlist here if you're interested. Hope you enjoyed the first part.

[alexging]

sean diaz + daniel diaz modern hcs

i kind of forgot this was exclusively modern at the end just ignore that LMFAO

- sean has no social media presence whatsoever

- a lot of people from school follow him but he only follows lyla and his track team back 😭 popular loner energy 🥀🐺

- i feel like if sean went to hs now hed be sm more popular esp w girls but hes rlly humble so he doesnt see it at all

- hes stupid and just thinks theyre being nice

- it gets on lylas nerves bc he refuses to believe anybody wants him 😭

- all his stories are like fireworks he posted when he was thirteen that he never bothered to delete

- its titled Highlights bc he doesnt know how to make an aesthetic instagram

- if anything, if he posts now its skate videos, drawings, or funny pics of daniel

- sean def takes 0.5x photos of daniel where his eyes go two diff directions and threatens to send them to lyla whenever he starts acting up

- daniel always throws a tantrum and esteban gets mad and tells sean to delete the pics (he doesnt)

- speaking of daniel he def got wayyy into skibidi toilet

- daniel tries to explain skibidi toilet n sean just tunes him out and says “uh huh” every so often

- hes those impressionable kids that gets into literally anything on the internet. among us, squid games, ROBLOX FOR SURE. sticky ipad baby energy overall!

- sean plays roblox with daniel on very rare occasions. i can imagine daniels avatar is decked out with limited items and sean is a bacon haired woman 😭

- daniel has definitely swiped estebans card a couple times under his nose for his robux…

- daniel purposely chooses games hes good at to watch sean struggle and die over and over again

- daniel watches weird kid youtube videos like… among us 24 hour challenge with spiderman and elsa giving birth kind of videos. sean gets really pissed off partly bc theyre rotting daniels brain and partly bc daniel always put it at max volume in the living room

- once sean gets paid he always goes thrifting. he fs goes to the bins and finds dirty dookie drawls every weekend 😭 but its worth it bc he finds cool shit

- as a skater boy i feel its obligatory for him to wear those afflication types of clothing as well as ironic graphic tees

- sean def wears baggy jeans in 2023 🙅‍♀️ none of that straight leg jeans from the game!!

- he also probably loves those ironic wolf shirts w the galaxy print n thinks theyre so funny

- sean also buys clothes in his style for daniel from the thrift n records 360s of daniel in his skater outfits

- “can i go play roblox now?” “no u have to cover ur nose when u turn around”

- got a buzzcut and surprisingly it looked really good

- esteban, daniel, lyla, and practically everyone else in his life kept making fun of him for being bald and would rub his head like a genie bottle tho

- daniels go-to is “well- well at least i don’t look like… look like caillou!” bc i imagine he tries to make funny comebacks but always stutters in the middle 😭😭

- eventually grew it back out bc he got annoyed at everyone making fun of him. they dont see his blond album cover early 2000s vision 💔

- daniel has no room to talk bc sooner or later he goes to the barber and gets a fucked edgar bowlcut

- sean laughs until he can barely breathe 😭 when lyla sees she TRIES to cheer him up about it but its too late

- even esteban laughs a little but only when daniel cant see bc he knows how much itd hurt him

- back to the blond album cover… sean LOVES music. his playlists are hours long

- i feel like he indulges in a super LARGE range of music likeee from bad bunny to deftones to pinkpantheress

- everybody hates it when he has aux and boos him off

- when esteban orders mexican food, sean and daniel both get horchata. sean dgaf if hes grown he still loves it!!

- i imagine esteban slowly stopped enforcing mexican food and culture overtime. bc of this, daniel knows barely any spanish and has 0 spice tolerance. sean always makes fun of him bc he goes gets water after a couple hot cheetos

- daniel tries to recreate those videos of people eating carolina reapers in hot sauce to prove a point and almost dies

- sean absolutely LOVES halloween. horror movies, costumes, the weather, everything abt it

- a part of him always gets jealous of daniel bc hes no longer considered trick or treating age anymore

- lowkey hed be willing to pull up in a full body costume just so he can trick or treat again

- when watching horror movies, sean will get way too immersed and start judging the people in the movies 😭

- daniels not allowed to watch but he peaks around the corner when estebans not watching

- “why the fuck is she just standing there? RUN! WHAT THE FUCK DUDE?!”

- “language mijo”

- he acts like he cld fight off the killer and explains his mastermind plan during the movie

- he doesnt admit it but he gets jumpy after a horror movie 😭 esteban and daniel take advantage of this every single time

- sean daniel and esteban are a tight knit family REGARDLESS of sean’s moodiness and daniel’s annoying gen alpha brainrot theyre so 😢

yes im aware that 2016 wasnt tjat long ago but i dont want to imagine sean diaz enjoying dank memes and saying boi 💔

[iichaeyj]

TOMORROW'S ESCAPE

prologue

the wind was gently blowing your hair behind you as you walked to the concert venue. the warm spring breeze only added to your happiness. you could hardly believe you were finally going to see your favorite idol in concert after spending months saving up for tickets.

after an accident had left you hospitalized for nearly two years, you found it difficult to get back into your life. you couldn't finish college or find a stable job due to the incident, but it all seemed worth it as you saw the concert venue in the far distance. you sighed in relief, finding happiness in the fact that you would soon be seeing your favorite idol.

however, the sudden sound of a notification distracted you. pulling out your phone, you see a new tweet from dispatch, causing you to click it out of curiosity while waiting to cross the street.

the news you see causes your heart to drop.

you read the simple tweet over and over again, struggling to comprehend if it was a joke or not. your heart starts beating rapidly and you fall to your knees, clutching onto your phone as you feel tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

your breathing gets harsher as you close your eyes, struggling to gain composure. you can hear cars stopping to check on you and people running towards you, all worried about the young adult kneeling on the ground.

"hey, are you okay?"

"somebody call an ambulance!"

"miss, do you need some assistance?"

voices called out to you, but your thoughts were far louder than anything else. and no matter how many people tried to reach out to you, their faces were blurry from your tears that never seemed to end.

it didn't make sense to you. how was it possible that sunghoon died? he had posted just an hour earlier and he should've been preparing for the concert. surely he had a security team with him, or at the very least his manager. all these thoughts flood your mind as you feel your heart beating faster than it ever has before.

'i could save him' you think to yourself as you fall into unconsciousness. you might not be the smartest or strongest person in the world, but you wholeheartedly believed you could do it. when it came to sunghoon, you were just about ready to do anything for him. after he saved your life, the least you could do was return the favor.

the sound that you wake up to is the sound of somebody tapping.

"hey, y/n! no sleeping in class!" a familiar voice shouts at you from your left.

you stir awake, blinking your eyes as you try and focus on the person next to you. you sit up slowly, looking around slowly.

"'class'?" you mumble out quietly, looking around as your eyes adjust to the light. despite the tears you must've shed, your eyes felt strangely fine, albeit tired.

"are you daydreaming? you need to focus up if you want to get good grades," the man says, shaking his head in disappointment.

as you look clearly at the man, looking up at him from your seat with wide eyes, you notice his bald head and short stature. you could never forget the way his head glistened whenever it became hotter than 60 degrees fahrenheit. this was your 12th grade calculus teacher, somebody you hadn't seen in 6 years. and when you turn your head to see dell, your face pales at the sight.

dell was sitting there wearing a t-shirt she had claimed to lose about 6 years ago right after high school.

"hey, are you alright? why are you looking at me like that?" dell questions you, raising an eyebrow as you look at her with wide eyes.

as you look around the classroom, you try and find an explanation for everything. this could've been a dream or it could've been an unfunny prank somebody had pulled on you.

however, when you look down at yourself, you find something that couldn't have been possible.

you were wearing the exact same friendship bracelet dell had made for you back in middle school, something that was, or at least should've been, destroyed in your accident. nobody knew about the bracelet besides you and dell, and dell would never play such a horrible prank on you.

there was only one explanation—you had gone back in time.

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