#but they still carry enough emotions that anybody can see their emotions in it

[buckymorelikefuckme]

and baby makes three

(the reboot)

bucky barnes x fem reader

words: 11.3k

warnings: **18+ ONLY** friends to lovers, pining, smut, oral (f receiving), breeding kink, pregnancy kink, cockwarming (kind of??), trigger warning for having troubles with getting pregnant. it's still super fuckin soft despite all of that though, i swear.

a/n: okay so it's currently 6am as i'm typing this and i haven't been to sleep yet bc i decided to just heavily edit this instead of rewrite it bc i'm lazy i guess idk. this was posted originally back in 2021 i believe and it's still on ao3 it's just orphaned rip. i promise i'll be writing and posting new stuff soon ok pls have faith in me and cheer me on bc it's hard and scary and i don't wanna disappoint anybody :( ANYWAY, as usual, any and all mistakes are my own. if i've missed anything important pls let me know so i can correct it. feedback is encouraged (pls) and appreciated (i am begging...)

The idea of you having a child one day always seemed foreign and very unlikely. Sure, you liked kids well enough, but having one of your own…

It’s a thought that’s sat in a corner deep in your mind, buried beneath a million other impossible concepts; a thought that you’ve only ever glanced over and never gave your full attention, having ruled it out ages ago as something you just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do.

And then, on a day like any other, it pushes its way to the forefront of your mind, making itself known and unwilling to leave.

You’re going into the clothing store to find a new cardigan after your most favorite one got eaten by the dryer. Usually you’re a single-minded shopper, walking into a store with tunnel vision and on a mission to get what you need and that’s it.

Today, however, you make the mistake of letting your eyes wander on your way to the sweater section. Your gaze just so happens to land on the baby clothes… and your steps falter. It’s there that you see it, a tiny, pink onesie with a sleeping teddy bear printed on the front, displayed on an even tinier hanger. There’s matching pants with teddy bears all over them and ruffles on the butt and all your brain can muster up is cutecutecutecutecute.

Your feet carry you closer and before you realize what you’re doing you pick up the outfit, letting out a coo when you realize the teddy bear is fuzzy, softly rubbing your thumb across it. Somehow, you walk out of the store, not with a new cardigan, but with the cute baby outfit and a bow you thought looked adorable with it.

It’s not until you get home that it hits you, that you bought baby clothes for a baby you don’t even have.

The feeling that rushes through you is hard to describe. Shame? Embarrassment?

...Yearning?

No. Definitely not. Nope.

There’s absolutely no yearning going on here, not for a baby. You’ve never even had that desire before and you certainly don’t see yourself having it now. You shake your head to clear it, telling yourself you’ll take it back tomorrow.

Except you don’t take it back. You conveniently “forget” and it stays shoved on the top shelf in your hall closet. You pretend you don’t pause in front of said closet throughout the following days—weeks—chewing on the inside of your cheek and staring at the door like you can see through the wood at the evidence of your impulsive purchase.

It gets harder to ignore, though, when you start getting ads for baby clothing brands. And baby toys, bottles, handy little gadgets for new parents, nursery decor… It’s endless.

Then, as if it wasn’t already bad enough, all of your childhood friends start popping out babies like it’s a brand new trend. You don't think you've seen your social media this flooded with pregnancy announcements and baby arrivals, ever. Your emotions are mixed; happy for them, and for their excitement, but there’s also a weird discomfort settled in your stomach.

You hesitate to be that person who thinks the universe is trying to tell you something, but you do wonder. Why else would you suddenly have these feelings? Why else would there be baby stuff everywhere you look now?

It brings on other thoughts, as well. In this day and age, it’s not too unusual for women to have babies without being married, or without a significant other at all. There is the pressure, still, to at least be in a relationship, but considering you’ve been practically in love with one of your closest friends for the last two years, it’s safe to say that you’re tragically single, so having a baby with someone is out of the question.

And god, do you even want a baby?

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, with a sudden clarity that hits you like a ton of bricks, you realize you do. It feels like a freight train has slammed into you. Your mind’s eye supplies you with images of a swollen belly and wide smile, a precious baby wrapped in a soft blanket, cradled in your arms, a gummy grin and happy giggle.

Emotion consumes you then, longing like you’ve never felt in your life, chest aching with how badly you want that.

It’s not as if you’re too young. You’re plenty old enough and you’ve got a secure job. You don’t subscribe to that whole biological clock nonsense, but you do feel that if you are going to potentially have a baby, it might be better to do it now while you’re still in relatively good health.

You groan, dropping your face into your open palms, the movie you'd been watching to try and distract yourself long forgotten as it continues to play on the television.

This is a lot to think about, you ponder to yourself. Taking a deep breath in and releasing it slowly, you decide the mature thing to do is give yourself more time to ruminate on it. Having a baby is no small decision. You need to be absolutely certain it’s what you want. It’s going to change your entire life, everything, and you’d be responsible for a new life. So, you’ll have to give yourself a few months to decide and then you can go from there.

***

You’re scrolling through yet another article on your laptop, engrossed in every detail of the process of artificial insemination and the symptoms and side effects that come with it. So engrossed, in fact, that you don’t hear the key turning in the lock, the door opening and closing, and the heavy footfalls that follow.

It’s only when Bucky asks, “Whatcha reading?” that you are even aware of his presence.

You startle so hard that your knee slams into the underside of your table. Ignoring the throbbing pain in your knee and your wildly beating heart, you close your laptop with a snap and turn to Bucky.

“You could knock,” you grouse.

“Why give me a key, then?” he retorts, unapologetic.

You roll your eyes and grumble under your breath, “Clearly, it was a mistake.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

Brows furrowed, you ask, “What?”

He gestures to your laptop. “What were you reading? Your nose was nearly smushed against the screen.”

You blink, trying to think of a reasonable excuse and coming up empty.

“Nothing,” is all your brilliant mind can supply.

Bucky’s eyes narrow for a few seconds, and you pray to every higher power and all that is holy and good that he won’t press further. You remain frozen under Bucky’s suspicious stare, hearing that Old West shootout music playing in your mind.

Thankfully, it seems the deities are feeling indulgent, as Bucky chooses let it go.

He holds up the bags he carried in. “I brought lunch.”

You perk up instantly. “Did you go to that one place—?”

“With the fried rice you like so much, yes,” he finishes for you, smiling.

“You’re the best,” you sigh, stomach rumbling eagerly.

“I know,” he replies, solemn and dramatic like the idiot he is.

He begins taking out the styrofoam boxes and chattering on about something dumb Steve did the other day, and you mean to listen, you really do. It’s just. That article is still lingering in your brain. There’s so many steps and hassles. Plus, it’s not cheap. It would be a hefty investment.

You’d only researched it because, after months of contemplating the pros and cons of having a baby, you determined the pros far outweigh the cons. But then the problem was: how to even make it happen.

Your first thought was that you didn’t think you’d let just any man come inside you, for many obvious reasons. You’d shuddered to think of it. Then there was surrogacy, which is admirable and wonderful, but you’d quickly dismissed that idea as you realized you wanted to actually carry the baby yourself. So that led you to artificial insemination. You weren’t sure how you felt about it yet. There was something a little too clinical about choosing a random man’s sperm to have injected into your uterus.

Bucky’s still speaking as he grabs plates and forks, unaware of your inner monologue. “And then he got Sam involved,” he’s saying, scooping out food onto the plates, “which, as you know, I always think is a dumb thing to do.”

“I want to have a baby,” you blurt, eyes widening at your outburst.

Bucky fumbles with the spoon, sending fried rice flying, muttering curses as he tries to catch it with no luck as it lands with a dull clunk on the table. The silence that follows is loud. It feels like your heart is in your throat as you wait for him to just say something, anything.

“This is… quite a mess I’ve made,” Bucky finally observes. His voice is a bit higher than usual. “Where’s your vacuum? Actually, do you have one of those mini ones? Or would Clorox wipes be better? You know what, I’ll do both.”

He nods decisively then turns an expectant look towards you. His eyes look a bit wild, but you wisely keep that to yourself.

Wordlessly, you direct him to your hall closet. You realize your error a second too late when he opens the closet and reaches for the vacuum on the top shelf, where the purchase you’d made months ago also rests. His fingers get caught in the plastic bag when he grabs the handheld vacuum and its contents spill out. He goes to catch them right away, but once it registers what they are, he lets go of them like they’re on fire and nearly drops the vacuum on his foot.

Heat has been steadily creeping up your neck, but now your whole body feels aflame with embarrassment. The two of you stare at the baby clothes lying unassumingly on the floor for a long moment, until Bucky quietly walks back to the table with the vacuum clutched tightly in his fist. He flicks the switch on and it whirs to life, sucking up the bits of rice scattered around the table.

There’s another lengthy silence after he turns the vacuum off and you're unable to find the right thing to say to break it. Bucky does it for you.

“So… You’re serious.”

You meet his eyes and sigh heavily. “Yeah.”

He blinks a few times before clearing his throat, schooling his expression carefully. “I didn’t realize you were seeing someone.”

You cough lightly and start picking the peas out of your fried rice. “Well, that would be because I’m not.”

“I don’t think I follow,” he admits slowly.

You sigh again, lowering your gaze to your lap. “Look, I’ve thought about this a lot, okay? I’ve given myself months to really make sure it’s what I want. I’m in a good place in my life to have one, Bucky, and I don’t want to feel pressured to wait until I might get married.” You lift your gaze to his. “I want to have a baby,” you repeat firmly. “And I don’t need a partner to have one.”

You’re not sure why you feel the need to defend yourself. It’s not up to Bucky what you decide to do. You don’t need his approval, or anyone else’s. Maybe it’s because, even though you know it's not true, it feels like you're making too hasty of a decision.

After a beat, Bucky amends, “Well, I mean… You do…”

“Oh my god, shut up, you know what I mean,” you groan as you smack his arm, glad that he's not calling you crazy or trying to talk you out of it.

He doesn’t even flinch, the jerk.

“Wait, so what were you reading when I got here?” he suddenly questions, brows furrowed.

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, guiltily.

“Let me see your laptop then,” he counters as he crosses his arms over his chest.

You flounder for a second, scoffing. “What? No!”

“It can’t be that embarrassing, just show me,” he wheedles.

“Absolutely not.”

“Let me see!”

“It’s private!”

“Don’t be a chicken.”

Your eye twitches. “I’m not a chicken.” Bucky smirks and before he can even open his mouth you interject with a finger pointed accusingly at his face, “Do not start clucking at me, Bucky. I’ll kick your ass,” you threaten, though it's weak and you're not the only one who knows it.

You glare when his smirk only widens. Slowly, he moves his arms like he’s gonna flap them like chicken wings.

“Ugh! God, fine! You wanna know what I was reading?” You open your laptop and slide it over to him, turning it to where he can read it. “There.”

Bucky scans the page, then scans it again, eyes flicking all over like it’s in a different language. His cheeks grow redder and redder as he reads and you get a small sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“Wow,” he mutters finally. “You’re turkey baster serious.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“What?” he asks innocently.

When you make eye contact with him, you purse your lips to keep the laughter threatening to bubble out at bay, but the ever growing smile on Bucky’s face is hard to resist and you find yourself snorting a laugh that leads to uncontrollable giggles. Bucky’s laughing with you, his eyes crinkling on the sides. The tension you hadn’t realized you held in your shoulders loosens and you nudge his knee with yours in silent thanks.

“So,” he says after you've both calmed down.

“So,” you repeat, dragging it out, drumming your fingers on the tabletop. “I’ve been doing research, checking out all of my options, and while artificial insemination seems like the best choice… I don’t know, there’s just something too clinical about it,” you reply, voicing your concerns, “It doesn’t feel right. I know I said I don’t need a partner, and I don’t, but… Having absolutely no connection is weird.”

You shrug, waving a hand as if to say oh well, putting an end to the conversation, and pick up your plate to carry it over to the microwave. You reheat Bucky’s food while you’re up, and then you both start eating in comfortable silence. He gets halfway through his meal before speaking up.

“Have you… I mean, did you think about… I’ve heard that, uh. Some people ask another person…”

He trails off, clearly frustrated that he can’t just spit out what he’s trying to say. You think you understand what he means, though.

“I read up on surrogacy,” you say, biting your lip. “But I don’t think I’d want someone else to carry my baby.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t suggesting, uh, that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it!” he rushes to say.

You tilt your head. “What did you mean then?”

“Well,” Bucky starts, stilted, licking his lips. “For the artificial insemination, have you considered… you know. Asking someone you’re close with?”

You frown, not following.

“For—for the sperm,” he clarifies, shifting in his seat.

“Oh,” you breathe, blinking rapidly, surprised as you think of how to reply. “Um. No? I wouldn’t even know who I could ask, to be honest. That’s quite the request, you know? Who would—“

“Me,” he interrupts, determined and cheeks flushed, “I would.”

Your own face heats. “Oh,” you say again, quieter.

You can say, with full confidence, that not once did it cross your mind to ask anyone to help you, but you especially would have never given thought to asking Bucky.

For a list of reasons, really, with “it’s Bucky” being right at the very top. Like—sure, yes, you’re in love with him, but after two years of no signs of reciprocation you’ve learned to stop dreaming, to stop hoping. If the attraction was mutual he would have shown it by now, right? And on top of that, his friendship means the world to you and you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. You'd never forgive yourself if you ever managed to fuck up the one good, constant thing going for you.

“Bucky,” you start, slow and careful, “this… This isn't something you can just jump into. It’s something you should think about for a while.”

He contemplates that for a second. “You’re right,” he concedes with a nod. “But…” He purses his lips, glancing away for a minute before turning back to you, leaning forward. “Okay listen, this is important for you. It’s going to change your whole life. You said it yourself, not having a connection to the sperm donor feels wrong. You’re my best friend, alright? I—care about you. You should pick someone you can trust.”

He clenches his jaw after he finishes speaking. You sort of hate the way your heart both flutters and plummets at his words. It’s nice to know you matter to him, just not in the way you’ve wanted for too long.

And if you’re really honest with yourself, Bucky would be a great choice as a donor. He’s in great health, has strong features that would look wonderful on any gender. But would you be able to handle the repercussions of having his child? Would you be able to look at your baby and see those features without it sending a pang through your chest every single time? You can’t say for certain.

Yet, the chance to have that type of connection with him, selfishly, sounds too good to pass up.

“At least think about it for a few days,” you murmur reluctantly.

It’s the most acceptance he’ll get and he knows it. A smile blooms across his face and you have to swallow down the warring emotions rising within you.

***

With the amount of research you do on the subject now, it doesn’t take long for you to find out that there are at-home kits for artificial insemination that are much easier (and cheaper). It’s easy to settle on that, clicking on the info to order your kit with butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

You read through the instructions online and it all sounds simple enough, until you get to the part where it says that having an orgasm after injection helps increase your chances of conception.

Blinking, heat crawling up your neck, you read that step several times, hoping you read it wrong, but it doesn’t change.

You… You can’t masturbate with Bucky’s sperm inside you. That’s a line you refuse to cross.

And besides, he’s a healthy man in his thirties who exercises regularly and eats fairly healthy food! You probably—definitely—won’t need to take that step. It’ll be fine. Probably.

Once the kit arrives, you call Bucky and ask him to come over so you can explain the process to him. Since he’s only across the hall of your apartment building, he’s there a moment later, letting himself in with his key.

“Let’s make a baby,” is how he greets you.

“Hold your horses,” you reply, fighting back a laugh. “I gotta walk you through everything first.”

He plops himself down next to you on your couch. “Fine, fine. Go ahead.”

Squaring your shoulders, you begin telling him how it all works, and what parts he is key for. You speak through your awkwardness, avoiding eye contact, when you explain that he’ll need to masturbate into a clean, sterile cup. You leave out how it’s suggested for you to also masturbate, deciding it’s not pertinent information for him to know.

“When do we start?” he asks once you’re done.

“I have to take an ovulation test first to find out the best days for me to conceive, but once I do that we’ll be able to, um.” You gesture vaguely. “I’ll be able to do the injections.”

He nods. “Alright.” He looks at you then, taking your hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be here every step of the way, okay?”

“I know,” you say, smiling. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“You’re welcome,” he returns softly.

“No, really, thank you,” you assert. “This is a lot to take on and I can never fully repay you.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I want you to be happy, and I can see that having this baby is going to do that. I’ll do whatever I need to do to ensure it happens.”

You pull him into a hug, willing yourself to not cry. You’re not sure he’ll ever understand what this means for you, personally, or that you’d ever find a way to express it. He’s giving you so much more than just a baby.

***

The first injection time comes and you find yourself fidgeting where you sit as you wait for Bucky to bring over the, uh… sample. You do your best to not think about what he’s doing in his apartment, to not think about exactly how he’s collecting his sperm.

Now is not the time, you mentally scold yourself. Get it together.

A timid knock at your door alerts you to his presence. The fact he’s knocking says a lot about his own level of embarrassment about the situation.

His cheeks are pink when you open the door. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” you return.

He clears his throat and lifts the small cup in his hand. “Here’s… well, you know.”

You gingerly take it from him, not knowing what else to say, but when he smiles somewhat crookedly and turns to leave, you find yourself asking, “Will you stay?”

Bucky’s steps pause. “Huh?”

“Will you—I mean… Would you mind staying?” You shift on your feet. “This is a big moment for me. I-I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Are you asking me to…?” He trails off awkwardly.

“Oh! God, no, I wouldn’t—no,” you assure, huffing a laugh, “I’m doing the injection, I just need a little moral support. That’s all.”

Bucky smiles. “Sure, I’ll stay.”

Relief floods through you. You step aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. He follows you to your bedroom and just before entering you stop in your tracks, nearly causing Bucky to bump into you.

“Um,” you mutter, turning to him. “You’ll have to, ah, sit out here,” you explain. “I have to be lying down…”

Understanding dawns on him. “Oh! Right, right, of course. Sorry.”

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” you promise.

He nods and watches you close the door. You walk over to your bed and sit down, glancing at the syringe you’ll be using and biting the inside of your cheek.

This is it. There’s really no going back after this. Sure, you may not get pregnant the first time, but Bucky’s already said he’d help you for as long as it takes. It’s just… very real now. You don’t feel any doubts, though. You want this.

Inhaling a large breath and slowly letting it out, hands shaking, you take the lid off the cup and pick up the syringe. You remember the instructions, making sure there’s as little air sucked in as possible when you draw out the semen, and getting rid of the few air bubbles that you see. You grab your pillows and lie down, propping them beneath you to lift your hips.

“Here I go,” you mumble to yourself, taking another deep breath and releasing it.

A couple minutes later, the syringe is empty and you’ve got your legs pulled up to your chest. You cover yourself with your blanket and call out Bucky’s name.

“You okay?” you hear through the door.

“Will you come here, please?” you ask.

He walks in cautiously, making sure you’re decently covered before entering fully, wisely not commenting on your position. “Well?”

“I did it,” you whisper.

He stays quiet, letting you parse through your thoughts. You blink when you feel tears threatening to gather in your eyes. He’s beside you in an instant, crawling in the bed and lying down, taking your hand in his.

“Congratulations,” he says softly.

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” you reply, sniffing and wiping at your eyes.

“Still,” he presses. “You’re one step closer now.”

He pulls your hand up and kisses the back of it. You give him a watery smile. The two of you lay there in silence for a moment before Bucky breaks it.

“This isn’t how I pictured myself making a baby.”

It startles a laugh out of you and Bucky grins, pleased to have helped ease the tense atmosphere. He distracts you with idle conversation after that, talking about his plans for the upcoming weekend, asking about yours, tells you about the newest stupid thing Sam did; he talks and talks and talks, until your anxiety is gone, and then he stays to cook dinner for you.

Your hug when he gets ready to head back to his apartment lasts a couple minutes longer than usual. Bucky quietly allows it, dropping a kiss on your forehead when you pull away.

“Same time next week?” he jokes, making you crack a smile.

“Goodbye, Bucky,” you reply exasperatedly as you close your door.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he returns over his shoulder.

***

Weeks pass. More injections. Pregnancy tests taken.

But nothing happens.

All of your tests come back negative.

When reading up on artificial insemination, and pregnancy in general, you’d understood that there was a chance it wouldn’t happen right away. You thought you were fine with that, that you’d be alright with the waiting and all. Looking at your growing collection of negative tests, however, has a sense of dread building within you. You do your best to quell it, telling yourself there’s no need to stress over it. Yet.

Besides, your mind supplies in an overly cheerful manner, there’s still one more method to try!

***

The next time Bucky brings over his sample, he lets himself in, like always, and passes along the cup with an encouraging smile. You try to smile back, but it feels more like a grimace. He either doesn’t notice or he at least pretends not to, thankfully.

But when he goes to make himself comfortable to wait, you’re reminded that you haven’t told him about the, uh… change in procedure, so to speak.

You clear your throat delicately. “I don’t think you’ll need to stick around this time.”

Bucky frowns. “Why not?”

“Because…” You trail off, cheeks pinking, yet not finishing the sentence, because how do you explain this?

“I promised you I’d be here every step of the way,” he recalls. “I intend to keep that promise.”

You wince. “I really appreciate where your heart is, Bucky, I really do, but I literally cannot let you be here for this injection.”

“Why not?”

You look heavenward for mercy. “I have to…”

When you don’t finish your sentence again, Bucky raises a single brow, gesturing for you to go on. “You have to… what?”

You huff, throwing your arms out. “I have to orgasm, okay?”

His eyes go a little bit wide, but you can tell he tries to control his reaction. He swallows, shifting where he sits on the couch.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “Have… have you had to do that before?”

“No. Well, I mean, it was suggested, but I never…”

His eyebrows furrow. “Does it help or something?”

You absently scratch your neck. “They say it increases the chances of conception.”

“But you haven’t been doing… that.”

“I didn’t think I’d need to.”

Bucky inhales like he’s going to say something, but then doesn’t.

“Yeah, so, I don’t think you should be here,” you utter, quickly adding, “No offense.”

“No, yeah, that’s fair, um. I’ll just—I’ll head back to my apartment,” he states as he stands. “You can—I mean, if you still want me to—I can come back over? After you… uh…”

“I’ll let you know,” you reply, voice tight and high.

He nods, looking lost and like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. Finally, he mutters a soft bye and is out the door.

Alone now, your stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots and your heart is doing its damnedest to beat out of your chest. You try to tell yourself that it’s just another injection, that this is the same as any other time you've done this, but you know it’s not. It's really, really not.

Laying down on your bed, syringe in hand, is much more nerve wracking than before. On your left lies a new addition to your routine. You don’t know why you’re acting like such a prude all the sudden. It’s not like you’ve never masturbated before. Though, you suppose the major difference is that you didn’t have Bucky’s sperm hangin’ out in your vagina all those other times while you did it.

“Quit being such a goober about this,” you tell yourself.

This has to be done for a reason. If you want to have a baby—and you do, very badly—then you’re gonna have to deal with the process.

Once you’ve injected the sperm, you reach for your bullet vibrator next to your left hand. The instructions say not to insert anything, only to stimulate your clit. You try to clear your head, think of it as a chore or something, yet it’s hard not to think of a certain someone.

The vibrator buzzes with the press of a button. You adjust your hips, making sure they’re tilted, then bring the vibrator to your clit. The first touch makes your stomach tense and thighs spasm.

You close your eyes, running the toy along your slit. You really don’t want to drag this out, would prefer to get it over with as quickly as possible, but your mind begins running away with images.

Bucky, settled between your spread thighs, one hand resting on one of them, the other controlling the vibrator. You imagine he’d tease you, slowly trail it along the crease of your thighs, over your hips; everywhere but where you wanted it.

Bucky would probably give in once you whine and beg enough, once your desperation bled into your voice, and hold the vibrator directly to your clit, drink in your cries of pleasure like they’re the finest whisky.

He’d mutter soft but firm encouragement, tell you how good you’re doing, how good you sound. He’d start circling the vibrator, going from quick to lazy swirls, then he’d change the setting to a higher one just to hear you whimper. His free hand would run up your torso to pinch at your nipples for added stimulation.

When you imagine him leaning down to add his tongue into the mix, your mind blanks as your climax hits you, a ragged moan forcing its way out of your throat. You’re quick to turn the vibrator off and toss it to the floor, deciding you’ll worry about cleaning it later, chest heaving as you pant for breath after an intense orgasm.

Shame and embarrassment consume you, mock you for using Bucky to rub one out. You’d given in to the fantasy so easily.

Truthfully, it’s not the first time you’ve thought of him while pleasuring yourself, but the context this time is completely different, and you feel immediately guilty. Admittedly, it’s probably irrational.

That doesn’t stop you from cringing at your actions.

***

You’re sure you’ve bought out the entire pregnancy test section from the convenience store down the block. Currently, there are six different brands in front of you, all promising the most accurate results.

Bucky is sitting in your bedroom, quietly waiting for you to pee on all of them so you can both find out what they say. You chug the last bit of your third bottle of water even though your bladder is fit to burst at any moment. Turning the faucet on for modesty, you make quick work of the tests, then wash your hands.

And wait.

You call Bucky into the bathroom with you. The two of you quietly sit on the edge of your bathtub, counting down the minutes. Part of you wishes Bucky would say something dumb to break the tension, like he usually does, but you're also kind of glad he's just here, next to you, a silent comfort.

It seems like hours have passed when you’re finally sure you can check them.

The first one is negative, and so is the second. The third, however, reads positive. Your heart begins racing, clutching at the counter, but before your hopes get too carried away you read the rest. To your dismay, they are all negative. You stare down at them all, eyes falling on the loan positive test multiple times, knowing that it’s likely a false positive, yet stupidly hoping otherwise.

Your chin wobbles. Bucky hugs you from behind, resting his cheek on your shoulder.

“What do I do, Bucky?”

At your broken whisper, he sighs. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

Neither of you know what to say or do after that. Bucky continues offering quiet support, his solid presence at your back, and you’re grateful. Eventually, he leads you out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, sitting you down at the table as he starts preparing dinner.

When you’re both eating the spaghetti he made, he breaks the silence.

“Do you think…” he starts, pausing to think of how to phrase his question before carefully carrying on. “Are you going to stop?”

“I don’t want to,” you answer, the implied but hanging heavy in the air.

Bucky sits his fork down. “I know you want this, very much.” He pushes his hair out of his face as he leans forward, elbows settling on the table. “But I hate seeing how sad you get when the tests come out negative. I feel so… powerless. Like I could be doing more or something.”

“You’re doing all you can, Bucky,” you assure.

“That’s the thing, though. I don’t think I am.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

He licks his lips, locking his fingers together. “I think we should have sex.”

Your fork drops to your plate with a clang, eyes going wide.

“I apologize for how blunt that came out,” he states with a wince. “But, I mean, think about it. You’ve only been using my sperm from a syringe, and up until the last time, you hadn’t been, um, orgasming with it.” You look away, bashful. “I just wonder if maybe trying the old-fashioned way would give you better results.”

“Bucky,” you start, opening and closing your mouth a couple times before shaking your head. “It’s one thing for you to offer your sperm, which I’m thankful for, truly, but… Having sex?”

“I’ve already told you I’m willing to do whatever I need to do,” he retorts earnestly. “Your happiness means a lot to me, okay? I hate sitting around and watching your heart break every week. You’ve tried it your way, now I think we should try mine.”

“I-I don’t know,” you hesitate, chewing on the inside of your cheek, knee beginning to bounce under the table.

His hand slides onto your knee, stilling the movement as he ducks his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are impossibly sincere and your resolve crumbles in an instant.

“It won’t… It’s not going to change anything,” he assures. “I won’t allow it.”

You swallow roughly. He may not, but your heart is going to take its toughest beating yet. It’s going to be hopeless trying to overcome the inevitable emotions that come with sex.

Even so, somehow, your longing for a baby eclipses all of this. Now that you’ve imagined holding your child in your arms, raising them and loving them, you can’t go back. Not anymore.

“Okay,” you allow, softly.

Bucky’s shoulders relax, lips tipping up into a devastating smile.

You’re so fucked. (Pun intended.)

***

Two nights later, you’re pacing in your bedroom, impatiently waiting for Bucky to arrive. You’d been unsure whether or not you should dress up. You didn’t see the point, honestly. Still, a small part of you wondered what his reaction would be if he saw you all done up in lingerie. At the moment, you’re in an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts.

It’s Bucky, you think, and this isn’t a normal situation, it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing.

You hear his key turning in the lock then and your heart begins hammering away. He calls your name as he enters.

“In here,” you reply, twisting your fingers nervously.

He walks into your room looking just as on edge as you are. He also seems to have had the same idea about his attire, comfortable in his white tee and sweatpants. His feet are bare and for whatever reason that feels way more intimate than it has any right to.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Hi.”

You bite your lip, eyes flitting around your room and coming back to settle on Bucky. He huffs.

“This is ridiculous,” he declares, “It’s just us.”

“Right,” you nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

“It’s not gonna be weird.”

“Nope.”

His jaw ticks. You stare back at him. It only takes a moment for you to realize that somebody has to make the first move, so you steel yourself and turn on your heel, walking towards your bed.

“I’m keeping my shirt on,” you announce as you unceremoniously drop onto the mattress, grabbing your pillows to stuff them under you.

Bucky follows at a sedate pace, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He pauses next to you, taking a second to roll his shoulders, then he climbs in and settles in front of your bent legs. He gingerly places his hands on your knees.

“May I?” he asks.

Mouth suddenly dry, you nod. He moves his hands to the waistband of your shorts and tugs. You lift your hips to help him slide them down and off, along with your underwear. Gently, he spreads your legs.

Your breathing has picked up considerably, eyes firmly trained on the ceiling. You know you’re already wet and are blessedly thankful he doesn’t mention it.

The first slide of his fingers has you inhaling sharply. He slowly gathers your slick and trails it up to your clit, lightly circling it. Your mind recalls your fantasy, but you quickly shove it back to the depths of your thoughts, lest you do something idiotic like tell him about it.

He spreads your legs more, adjusting his position between them. His fingers move down until he can sink one into you. You gasp, hands shooting out to grasp your sheets. He wastes no time and begins thrusting his finger inside you.

It becomes quickly apparent to you that it’s going to be very difficult to hold back any noise or reactions. Goddamnit, you will try, though!

When he decides it’s time to add another finger, you feel yourself clench around them, and his soft fuck does not go unnoticed, evident in the way your pussy traitorously clenches again.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice cracking, but doesn’t finish his thought, making you have to break your staring contest with the ceiling and look at him.

He’s not even looking back at you, he’s staring at his fingers, watching them pump in and out of you, half bent over with a slack jaw, like he wants to…

He meets your eyes then, licking his lips.

Oh.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat, knowing you’re probably going to regret it, you nod.

He’s leaning over and sucking on your clit before you can even blink. You cry out, thighs trying to clamp around his head, but his free hand shoots out to hold you open. It makes you squirm, fisting the sheets even tighter. His fingers curl inside you as his tongue licks around them and you whine, high and needy, and then mouth is back on your clit, tongue swiping over it, sucking on it with loud, obscene noises.

His hand comes up to grab the hem of your shirt, shoves it upward until it’s bunched underneath your breasts. Those fingers ghost back down your torso, goosebumps erupting in their wake.

He speeds up his thrusts and your hand flies down to grip his hair. You don’t think you’re meant to hear the quiet grunt he lets out, but you do, and it has you panting even harder. Your orgasm is building, fast, and you pull on his hair in warning.

“Bucky,” you say on a gasp.

Using his arm to hold you down, his free hand joins, thumb swiping over your clit now as he dips his head to slide his tongue in alongside his fingers. It draws a yell out of you, the ever expanding pleasure within you bursting into the hardest orgasm you’ve experienced thus far in your adult life. You know you’re moaning, bucking into the sensations coursing through you, and you’d feel abashed if you didn’t feel so fucking good.

Before you can become too sensitive, Bucky withdraws his fingers and sits up. You can’t even really catch your breath, though, because in the next second he’s whipping his t-shirt off and shoving his sweatpants down far enough to free his cock.

Your thighs do clamp closed then, at the sight of how thick he is, and he tries and fails to keep his smirk hidden.

“Oh, shut up,” you wheeze.

“Didn’t say anything,” he counters.

He doesn’t let you argue, choosing that moment to shuffle closer and line up with your opening. Cautiously, he eases himself inside, inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, brows furrowing as he fills you, stretching you so perfectly. When he’s in as far as he can go, the breath wooshes out of him, his head falling back. You know he’s trying to be polite and let you adjust, but—

“Oh my god, move,” you demand, impatient.

He huffs a laugh, dropping his heavy lidded gaze to yours. “Bossy.”

“Did you really expect anything else—oh!”

The grin he aims your way after grinding into you is downright sinful. You mentally tell yourself to kick him for that later.

He grabs your hips and the pillows and settles you closer to his lap, changing the angle, then pulls out and glides back in, creating a painstakingly slow rhythm.

You have to close your eyes. You can’t look at him anymore. You knew he was probably a god in bed, but to now have firsthand experience? There was no way you’d be able to fuck anyone else without comparing them.

His grip on your hips tightens, the only warning you get before his thrusts turn sharp.

“Fuck,” you cry out, your hands reaching up to grip the pillow beneath your head.

The sound of your skin meeting his is harsh in the otherwise quiet room. Well, okay, you’re not exactly being quiet, but you can’t be blamed for that.

Bucky, however, is nearly silent. The only thing you hear from him is heavy breathing. You wonder if he’s holding back, the thought crossing your mind for a split second, and then you’re clenching around his cock, trying to see if you can gain a reaction. And boy, do you get one.

He grunts and sucks in a breath, lips parting as his eyes squeeze shut. His hips pick up their pace and hair falls into his face. You find yourself wishing he was closer so you could brush it out of the way.

Stop it, you scold yourself.

He pauses to grind into you again, your walls fluttering around his throbbing cock, and you both sigh. Bucky leans forward, hooking your legs into the crooks of his elbows, and resumes his brutal pace.

“O-Oh,” you whimper.

The new angle is heavenly, his cock dragging along a spot inside you that you thought nobody else could find. Unable to help yourself, you clutch at his arms, nails digging in.

“Shit,” he groans, thrusts faltering.

He lets go of one of your legs to slip his hand between you, rubbing at your clit and sending you that much closer to your second orgasm. He can tell you’re close, but you’re gonna need something to push you over the edge. He leans down even closer, breath fanning out against your cheek.

“C’mon,” he pants. “Let go.”

You shiver when his tongue flicks your earlobe and sucks it into his mouth, keening as the pressure builds. He thrusts harder, faster, and when you grasp his hair and pull, he growls and latches on to your shoulder, biting down. You gasp from the added pain and then you’re coming, shuddering and whining through your release. Bucky isn’t far behind, raising up and fucking into you savagely before pausing abruptly, groaning as he finally comes. He lazily thrusts a few more times to draw it out, then stops, stilling with his cock inside you.

Your hair is sticking to your forehead, as well as your shirt to your clammy back, breathing in lungfuls of air. Bucky is softly caressing your thighs, letting out shaky breaths as your pussy continues to flutter around him.

It takes several moments for you to gather your wits, for the rest of the world to come filtering back in. You are truly and completely fucked now, in every sense of the word.

“Well…” You trail off, voice scratchy.

“That was…”

“Mhm,” you mumble.

Bucky sighs heavily. “Let’s hope it worked this time.”

You hum. “Thank you for your service,” you reply with a lazy salute.

You yelp when he pinches your hip, kicking at him in retaliation. The jostling reminds you, with a gasping groan, that he’s still buried balls deep inside you.

“Um.” You cough lightly. “You wanna, you know… pull out?”

He looks down where you’re connected like it hadn’t even dawned on him. “Oh, uh. Well, I thought maybe it could, like. Help.”

His gaze stays locked, fingers flexing on your hips, and you feel like squirming again.

“I think it’s good,” you say quietly.

Bucky finally glances back up at your shy tone, cheeks pinking. He clears his throat.

“Right.”

Carefully, he eases his softening cock out of you, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise.

You can’t hold back yours, though, gasping once he’s gone. You feel unbearably empty, but refrain from voicing that incessant thought.

Bucky’s intense eyes stare at your pussy until you reach for the throw blanket next to you. He watches you throw it over your lap, drawing your legs up to your chest, and takes that as his cue, jolting into action.

“Okay, so.” He starts, then stops, climbs off your bed and pulls his sweatpants back up. “This was—I mean, if it doesn’t take this time, we can… try again.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Sounds good.”

He nods, bending to pick up his discarded t-shirt. “Great. I’ll just, um, see myself out, I guess.”

You nod, sending a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes in his direction. He seems to contemplate something for a second, then leans down to kiss your forehead before saying a quick goodbye and leaving.

As soon as you hear your apartment door shut, you let your tears fall.

***

It’s not really like you mean to avoid him after that.

Honest.

You simply become busy, that’s all. You definitely don’t go out of your way by taking the stairs in your apartment building to avoid possibly bumping into him in the elevator. No, you take the stairs because you could use the cardio. It’s important you stay healthy right now. And when he texts you to ask if you want to have dinner, you can’t help that you’ve got boatloads of work to catch up on—all five times he asks.

Okay, so, that’s a lie. You’re totally avoiding him. But what on earth are you supposed to say to him now? You don’t think you’d even be able to look him in the eye anymore, not after the fuck of your goddamn life.

That night confirmed what you already knew for the last two years: Bucky absolutely ruined you for anyone else.

More than anything, though, you were angry with yourself. He’d only offered because you weren’t getting your desired results the other way. You should have been able to separate your feelings and emotions from all of it. After all, none of this was about whatever you feel towards Bucky. This was about trying to conceive a baby.

You try telling yourself to get over it. He’s your best friend, you can’t just cut him off because you’re a spineless pansy.

I just need some time, you reason. You can give yourself a few days to wallow over what could have been and then you can reach out to him and pretend like everything is fine. Because it is.

***

Flash forward two weeks to you attempting to sneak into your apartment, only to jump out of your skin when you turn around and find Bucky sitting on your couch, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Oh, good, you’re still alive,” he drawls.

His tone suggests annoyance. You suppose you deserve that.

“Hey,” you say after a pause.

He stares at you for a moment longer before speaking again. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t let it get weird.”

You agreed, you almost say, thankfully biting it back. You drop your purse on the entryway table, sliding your shoes off and making your way over to sit next to him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. You tug your sweater sleeves down and tuck your feet beneath you. “I haven’t ever… I’ve never been intimate with a friend before. It was just… a lot.”

It’s a half truth, at least. You haven’t had sex with a friend before. Or, well, not one you had feelings for.

“You could’ve just told me,” he replies, reaching for your hand.

You nod. “I know, and I should have, I just. Things are all out of whack lately with the whole… trying to get pregnant thing.”

“If I overstepped in any way—” Bucky starts, but you’re quick to interrupt.

“You didn’t,” you promise. “You’ve been nothing but fantastic throughout this whole ordeal. Honestly, Bucky, you’ve done way more than anyone else would have in this situation. I just had a lot going on in my head and let it get the best of me. I’m fine, I swear.”

He searches your eyes and must find what he’s looking for.

“Don’t shut me out again,” he pleads.

Heart cracking in your chest, you can only nod, shuffling closer to pull him into a hug. He buries his face in your neck and holds on tight.

***

Another week passes.

Bucky is with you as you wait for the results of the latest pregnancy test. He’s reassured you that you’ll keep trying until it happens if it didn’t work this time.

When the timer on your phone goes off, you release the breath you’ve been holding. You take tentative steps over to the sink and gingerly pick up the test.

Positive.

Your stomach swoops. It’s positive. You check again, reading the digitized screen, but it stays the same. Positive. Holy shit.

“Okay, wait, no, I need to do more. I can’t get my hopes up again,” you mutter, rushing to open the cabinet under your sink to dig out several more varieties of tests.

You don’t even wait for Bucky to leave before you’re peeing on the other sticks. He’s seen it all at this point anyway, and he doesn’t seem to care, sitting on the edge of your tub with an anxious expression. The downside is that you have to wait another few minutes for these tests to finish and you can’t sit still, pacing back and forth in the small space of your bathroom.

The timer goes off again. You feel like you’re going to throw up when you finally work up the courage to look down.

Every single one of them… Positive.

A shocked, happy laugh escapes you. You cover your mouth, turning to Bucky with wide eyes.

He rises to his full height, coming closer and peering down at the tests, then back to your teary eyed expression.

“Did we…?”

Words failing you, you nod, giggling in astonishment. Bucky’s face breaks into the biggest, handsomest, most gut-wrenching smile. His happiness is palpable and you’re suddenly so overcome with emotion. Your hands are gripping his face and angling it to align your lips to his before you register what you’re doing. He freezes and you hurriedly pull away, taking a few steps back.

“I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know why—”

“Shut up,” he cuts you off, closing the gap between you in a single stride.

He kisses you like his life depends on it, pressing your bodies as close as possible, his hands cupping your cheeks. You clutch his shirt desperately, never wanting to let go. He steals the breath straight from your lungs when he swipes at the seam of your lips with his tongue, moaning happily when you allow him access. A feeble whine from you after he flicks his tongue against yours makes him break the kiss.

“I have a confession,” he breathes into the miniscule space between your mouths.

“What?” you question distractedly.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your gaze shoots up to his, astounded. He brushes stray hairs off your forehead, runs his thumbs softly under your eyes.

“I’ve been selfish this whole time,” he reveals. “I couldn’t let you choose some random stranger to be your sperm donor, to father your child, couldn’t bear the thought of you carrying their baby, because I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you. I wanted to be the one. And I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but I’m not sorry I did it.”

You’re hearing the words, yet your brain can’t seem to make sense of them. Surely you’re hearing him wrong. You can’t possibly have this too, right? You can't have Bucky and have his baby…

But he’s here, very real and solid beneath your hands, looking at you like you’re his entire world.

“Bucky…” You trail off, struggling to find the right words, at a complete loss. “I-I’ve loved you for so long now, I didn’t think you…” You shake your head, a giggle escaping you as you stare at him in wonder. “I couldn’t let myself hope.”

He grins, relieved, planting a few chaste kisses to your mouth. “I know this entire circumstance is totally backwards, but I want you, and I want this baby. I meant it when I said I’m not going anywhere.”

Fresh tears gather in the corners of your eyes. “Are you sure?” you still ask.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You have to kiss him then, uncaring of the tears that trickle down your face. The only thing you are focused on is the way his hands trail down your back, pausing to squeeze your ass, then grip underneath to lift you. Your legs wrap around his waist, arms locked around his neck, as he heads for your bed. He makes a point of throwing your extra pillows on the floor before settling between your thighs and kissing the hell out of you.

He pulls away only to undress you and himself, but he’s always back as quickly as possible, lips pressing kisses wherever he can reach. You impatiently tug at him until his lips are attached to yours again. The way he fucks his tongue into your mouth is nothing short of indecent and it sends a rush of pure want all the way to your core.

When you bury your fingers in his hair, gripping it tight, he grunts, biting your lip. You whimper and he grins as he pulls away.

“You make the most beautiful sounds,” he praises, his hands beginning to sweep down and up, tickling under your breasts.

His thumb and forefinger pinch one of your nipples and you gasp, back arching off your mattress. He repeats it on the other side, just to hear the same noise.

“Bucky, please,” you beg.

“Please what?” he prods. His hands drift further to the creases of your thighs, spreading them open. “What do you need?”

You whine, canting your hips up. “You, I need you, please.”

“You have me, sweetheart.” He tilts his head and you make a noise of frustration. “Use your words, darlin’.”

“Fuck me, please,” you burst out, feeling your pussy clench around nothing.

Bucky smiles, slow and torturous. “Yeah? Want me to fuck you? Fuck this perfect pussy until you’re so full of my come that it drips down your beautiful thighs?”

“Oh god,” you mumble.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he teases.

His fingers slide down your slit, gathering your slick then thrusts two fingers in at once. You groan brokenly, shifting your hips to try and get more friction, but he holds them down with his metal arm. Agonizingly slow, he begins fucking you with his fingers. It’s good, it’s amazing, but it’s not enough. Not when you know what his cock feels like. He takes his precious time fingering you and you’re sure you’re going to lose your mind before the day is done.

“You have no idea how incredible you felt around my cock,” he tells you in a ridiculously conversational tone. “I was trying to think of any excuse I could come up with to have you at least one more time.”

He shifts until his mouth is directly above where you’re dripping for him, and he waits until you make eye contact with him.

“But now I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making you come apart on my cock any chance I get.”

You hardly have any functioning brain cells at the moment, but even if you could form a coherent sentence you wouldn’t have been able to say it aloud, because then he’s descending and all you can feel is the wet warmth of his mouth.

He definitely doesn’t hold back this time, that much is apparent in the way he devours you, lips and tongue drawing out noises you’ve never heard yourself make, pressing his face so far into your pussy that he has to come up for air. His mouth and chin shine when you chance a look down, and when you clench on his fingers his smile goes smug at the corners.

He plants kisses along your hips, the insides of your thighs, around where his fingers are buried within you. He curls them, in search of the spot he found last time. He knows he found it when you try to close your thighs around his head and cry out. Now that he's found it, he angles to brush it on every thrust of his fingers and attaches his mouth back on your clit.

You chant his name, nearly sobbing as you approach your climax, until finally you fly over the edge. Your vision blurs and you’re not sure if you’re making any noise now, unable to hear past the blood rushing in your ears. Bucky helps you ride it out until you’re shuddering from sensitivity.

He kisses your thighs again, trailing them up your stomach and between the valley of your breasts.

“So good, did so well,” he mutters.

Weakly, you lift your hands to trace them down his toned stomach and around his back, down further so you can cop a feel of your own, smiling at his grunt of surprise.

“That was great and all,” you say, arching your back so your chest presses against his, “but I do believe I asked you to fuck me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who said I was done with you?” It’s apparently a rhetorical question, as he continues before you get a chance to reply. “I’m gonna fuck you until you come, and then I’m gonna keep fucking you until you come again, and only then will I come so deep inside you there’ll be zero doubt I’ve put a baby there.”

Your legs are lifted and thrown over his shoulders in a blink, his cock pushing into your pussy, dragging out a high-pitched moan from you. There’s barely a pause and then he’s fucking you, just like you asked. The pace is brutal right from the start, a steady rhythm that has you mewling and writhing in pleasure. Bucky is watching his cock as he thrusts in and out of you, his mouth hanging open slightly as he pants. He hikes your hips up a little higher and you jolt through your startled moan. This angle is divine and the telltale signs of your second orgasm start tingling at the base of your spine.

“Can feel you,” Bucky says through panting breaths, “so close. C’mon, let me feel you.”

He pulls you down on his cock, grinding into you, his thumb reaching to rub tight circles over your clit. You sob through your release, shuddering against Bucky as you clench around him. He groans, still barely moving as you come down from your high.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Come here.”

He helps you sit up, still seated on his cock, making you both hiss from your movement. Your arms automatically wrap around his shoulders and his around your waist. He kisses you so sweetly, a stark contradiction to the way he just fucked you. When you pull away, resting your foreheads together, he grins.

“Hi.”

You crack a smile. “Hi.”

“Ready for more?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You think you got it in you?” you tease as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

The light smack to your ass startles you and you let out a soft sound of surprise, hands tugging his hair harshly. Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Interesting,” he muses.

Another slap, a little harder than the first, and you’re whimpering, your walls clenching around his still hard cock.

“I’ll play with that later,” he promises, voice breathy.

You bury your face in his neck and start shifting your hips. He takes the hint, gathering you as close as he can and thrusts up into you. He can’t pull out as far this way, but the snap of his hips more than makes up for it. You mouth at his collarbone messily, kissing and licking your way up to his jaw, biting marks wherever you see fit. You make it up to his mouth and he kisses you, wet and filthy. You suck on his tongue and a ragged moan claws its way out of his throat. The need for air eventually has you pulling away.

“It’s a good thing you love me back,” you whisper in his ear. “Nobody else could ever compare to you.”

He growls, fisting your hair and yanking your head back to look him in the eye.

“Nobody will ever compare,” he corrects.

You moan. “Yes,” you agree, whining, “No one else could’ve given me a baby.”

Bucky thrusts harder and faster at your words. You’re picking up on a few hints and you can’t say it’s not doing it for you either.

“Filled me up so good, fucked me so well. Gonna be round with your baby soon.”

“Fuck, fuck,” he keens, hurrying to lay you flat on your back so he can fuck into you easier.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, your cries of pleasure mixing in with Bucky’s grunts and curses. His grip on you tightens almost painfully as he chases both your and his orgasm. You’re sure to have bruises tomorrow and you already know you'll be poking at them to remember this moment.

“C’mon, baby, wanna feel you too,” you beg.

His thumb finds your swollen clit once more. It’s beyond sensitive now, feels like a shockwave coursing through you, and without any warning, you come. You spasm around Bucky and he swears under his breath, thrusts going sloppy. With a final groan, he comes inside you, his hips moving seemingly on their own as he draws out both your pleasures. Slowly, he comes to a stop, but he leaves his cock buried in you like he did last time.

You know you’re gonna feel too empty when he does pull out, so you don’t mind sitting like this for a while. Bucky softly runs his hands across every inch of your skin he can touch and you bask in the affection. You card your fingers through his sweaty hair, smiling when he hums happily. It takes only a minute for you to notice the way his hands migrate to your stomach, and when you do you kiss his shoulder.

“Maybe we should go again later,” you suggest faintly.

Bucky grins. “We can do it a hundred more times if you want.”

“Guess I better enjoy it while I can.”

His smile goes soft at the edges.

It’s not lost on you how incredibly crazy all of this is. There will undoubtedly be a conversation, a much needed one that isn’t going to be simple or easy, but it’s necessary.

For now, though, you bask in Bucky’s warmth and loving embrace.

***

Keys jingle as they unlock the door and you perk up where you’re sprawled on the couch. Bucky enters, arms laden with bags from the convenience store.

“They didn’t have the banana ice cream you asked for,” he announces, continuing before your pout fully forms, “but they did have the double chocolate brownie kind you love so much, so I got that, as well as the sour gummy worms, beef jerky, and fried pickles from the deli on your list of demands.”

“What about—”

“And your strawberry Fanta,” he adds with a fond, slightly exasperated smile.

You’re unable to stop your expression from going soft and dreamy.

Ever since you and Bucky figured out where to go with your relationship, he’s been even more attentive and accommodating (and that’s saying something).

You expressed your worry about the possibility of something going wrong, that one or both of you would get bored and leave, or there’d be a big fight that neither of you could forgive. He was quick to reassure you of his commitment, told you there was no way he would ever get bored of you, and that as long as you both promise to talk things out in a calm, mature way, then you’d be alright.

It all sounded so easy when it was put like that. The more you thought about it, though, the more you realized he was right. It wasn’t fair to either of you to already give up before you’d even started. So you’d taken a deep breath and leaped.

Now, you’re five and a half months in, your belly steadily growing and making everyday life increasingly uncomfortable. The changes to your body were physically and emotionally draining, to say the least. Moreso the emotional side. You’d hoped you wouldn’t be one of those pregnant women with strange cravings, and for the most part they were pretty tame, but you do like to dip your sour gummy worms in banana ice cream. Bucky didn’t attempt to hide his disgust over that.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you ask on a pleased sigh.

He places your small cornucopia of goods on the coffee table. You sit up, huffing for breath during the struggle. You go to reach for the ice cream first, but Bucky catches your hand, lacing his fingers with yours and kissing your knuckles as he kneels in front of you.

“You were yourself. Smart, kind, selfless, unbelievably sexy.” You snort at that, but he’s undeterred. “And you’re giving me the best gift I could ever dream of. A family.”

Instantly, you’re crying. He’s grown accustomed to the mood swings by now, taking it in stride as he wipes away the tears with gentle hands.

“Stop being so disgusting,” you blubber through your hiccuping cries. “You’re such an asshole.”

Bucky laughs. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You sniffle, kissing him. “Love you,” you grumble.

He leans down and plants the softest of kisses to your belly. “And I love you, little lady.”

The idea of you having a child one day always seemed foreign and unlikely, but life has a way of turning out exactly how it’s supposed to… And you wouldn’t change a thing.

[justagalwhowrites]

Bane of My Existence - A QZ Joel Miller One Shot

You and Joel Miller have never gotten along, always at odds whether working together or avoiding each other. But when a smuggling job goes bad, you discover that there might be more to his harsh demeanor than meets the eye.

Pairing: QZ Smuggler!Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Enemies to lovers; Joel is bad with emotions; hurt/comfort; canon typical violence; injury that's probably poorly handled because I don't medicine; vague threat of SA (not by Joel, not made to reader); unprotected vaginal sex. Joel carries reader but look... My Joels are all 6'5" and strong as hell, especially in life threatening situations. Man can carry anybody. I'm in love with him because he's a big strong man. No description of reader.

Length: 8.9k (sorry)

A/N: A lil one shot gift for my beautiful bestie @dundienominee :)

Full Masterlist | AO3

“Hell no.” 

Of course Joel Miller said hell no to working with you. Of course he did. 

You weren’t surprised at Joel’s reaction when his smuggling partner, Tess, brought you to their safe house in the QZ. He’d never been the president of your fan club. 

“Joel,” she sighed. 

“Fuck no,” he said. “Not bringin’ her anywhere, she’s a goddamn liability.” 

“Joel,” she said again, sterner this time. 

You, however, just smirked, watching him pace and glare at you, his face getting flushed as he did. 

“She takes stupid fuckin’ risks,” Joel said. “She’s cocky, she’s…”

“Saved your ass from infected?” You asked, raising your eyebrows. 

You knew you were adding fuel to the fire. Tess glared at you for it. Your smirk grew. 

“Wouldn’t have been near the fuckin’ infected if it weren’t for you,” he snapped. “Not. Goin. With. Her.” 

“Well, you don’t have a choice,” Tess said, standing up a little straighter and crossing her arms, staring her partner down. “She’s the one with the contact, they agreed to two people meeting them and she has to be one of them…” 

“How the hell’d you make a contact?” Joel turned his full attention to you, his eyes molten hot and angry. “Anyone you touch ends up fuckin’ dead…” 

“Oh fuck off,” you snapped before you regained your composure. “Don’t get pissy with me because big bad Joel Miller isn’t the top of the smuggling heap in the QZ…” 

“I ain’t pissy!” 

“…Not the top of the heap in anything at all, really…” 

“That’s it!” Joel stalked over, looking like he wanted to slug you. Instead, he just put his finger in your face, a slightly unhinged look in his eyes. “You think I’m doin’ a goddamn thing with you…” 

“You don’t have a choice, Texas,” Tess came and stood beside you, her arms crossed as she looked to Joel. “You burned the bridge we had with the FEDRA officer I need to buy off to get our next round of pills inside, I can’t go on this run because I have to deal with the mess you made when you couldn’t keep your shit together. We want to actually be set before shit gets snowed in for winter? We need her connection. So. You’re going, you’re leaving tonight, and you’re not going to fuck this up. Got it?” 

His jaw tightened. 

“Got it.” 

“Good,” she looked to you. “Your contact knows you’re coming?” 

“They do,” you said, serious now and completely ignoring the wall of muscle who was still standing uncomfortably close to you. “The walk back is going to fucking suck but it should be worth it. Good with the split?” 

“Good might be a strong word for 60/40,” Tess said, shaking her head a little but grinning all the same. “But I’ll take it.” She looked between you and Joel. “Trusting you two to not kill each other out there. Don’t make me regret it. See you in a few days.” 

She left the two of you there in the threadbare apartment without another word, Joel’s glare practically drilling a hole into your skull. 

“Together again, eh Miller?” You smirked at him. 

He didn’t respond. He just went and sat heavily on the worn couch before lying down and closing his eyes. 

“What, didn’t get enough sleep?” You asked, going and standing over him. 

“Slept fine,” he said, eyes still closed. “Just would rather spend the few hours we have before we leave the QZ not listenin’ to you.” 

You rolled your eyes but took a moment to look at Joel when he wasn’t glaring at you. 

It was a rare occurrence, seeing him when he wasn’t scowling and pissed. He let himself relax down into the cushions and the lines in his face eased. As much as you hated to admit it - and you did hate it - Joel was beautiful. Frustratingly so. What’s worse, he’d somehow gotten better looking in the years you’d known him. Jerk.

You’d first met him before you came to the QZ, almost 10 years ago now. You were holed up in your own little corner of Boston, doing your best to stay out of the way of FEDRA, infected and raiders alike. 

It was basically a full-time job, even more so since you’d become the last person standing. A job that you failed at the day you met Joel Miller. 

And, as much as he liked to blame you for it, he was the one who showed up in your corner of town. You’d been napping through the worst of the afternoon heat in mid-July when you heard a clatter: someone tripped one of your alarms. 

“Fuckin’…” 

He swore loud enough that you heard him from your perch and you watched him shake glass out of the wrinkles of his shirt. 

“Someone’s here,” the second man said, much quieter. “That ain’t no accident…” 

The two men moved slowly, cautiously, their rifles raised as they searched for whoever it was who set that trap. When you thought they were far enough away, you started to move, slowly and quietly, going to sneak up on them and take them out before they could do the same to you. 

But as you drew close, you heard it. The clicking. 

You gasped, close enough to the strange men that they heard it and close enough to the clickers that they did, too. 

“Move!” The larger man snapped out of his moment of shock first, shooting forward and grabbing you and throwing you to the side before shooting at the incoming infected. You scrambled to get back up, fumbling to get the knife you’d been readying to thrust into that man’s back. 

It turned out, you didn’t need it. At least, not for the infected. The two men made quick work of the clickers and turned to you, your knife raised and ready to take at least one of them down with you. 

“The fuck are you doin’ out here?” The larger man said instead. 

“The fuck do you think?” You snapped. “Go on, do it! Kill me, take my shit, whatever it is you’re going to do…” 

“Don’t much like killing women,” he said, looking to the other man, their guns still in hand but pointed to the ground. They looked alike, these two. Like they could be related. 

“What, because I’m a woman you think I’m not a threat?” You asked, brows raised before realizing that you probably shouldn’t be egging on the large, armed men in front of you. 

“Not really, princess,” the younger man said, voice teasing, and you considered throwing your knife at him. 

“Should count yourself lucky that we don’t,” the older man said. “Why don’t you come with us, out pickin’ up just a few things and then headin’ back to the QZ…” 

“Right,” you scoffed. “Because I really wanna live under fucking FEDRA.” 

“Guessing you want to live,” he said. “Got news for you, princess. Even we’re steerin’ clear of this area of Boston after this. Lot more infected than we bargained for. Your little hideout ain’t gonna be safe much longer. Assuming you want to keep on living, QZ’s your best bet.” 

“And you’re just, what, inviting me along out of the goodness of your heart?” You scoffed. “Please.” 

“Don’t much like killing women and don’t much like leaving people to die, either,” the other man said. “Seem capable enough. Come with us, at least out of this part of the city. Would rather not have you added to the infected population.” 

You ground your teeth for a moment, considering. They could easily over power you. You were out numbered, out gunned and they were both large and strong. 

But… you had been noticing more and more infected lately. You hadn’t left your hideout in almost two weeks and you were low on supplies. Part of the reason you hadn’t dared venture out in so long was the seemingly constant press of infected you could see from the best vantage points in your building. You’d been starting to worry that you wouldn’t have a good opportunity to leave for supplies again. And, if you did, you were starting to worry your home would be overrun when you got back. 

These two were the closest thing you had to a safe option out. 

So, you took it. The pair introduced themselves and you were right, they were related. Joel and Tommy Miller, smugglers who lived inside the Boston QZ. They were strong, smart, capable. Handsome, too, not that it really mattered. What mattered much more was your ability to keep each other alive. 

And, it turned out, you were useful to them. Enough that they wanted you around as help for other runs outside the QZ. It made sense, you knew certain corners of the QZ better than anyone else seemed to. It had been your territory - at least, in some way - for a long time. 

Then, it happened. You’d taken to calling it ‘the incident’ for lack of any better word. You were out on a smuggling run with Joel and another man, Harvey. In spite of the fact that you’d been working together for years, Joel had never really warmed up to you. He tolerated you at best and it seemed like growling was his preferred form of communication where you were involved but you always made it back to the QZ in one piece when you went out together. You watched each other’s backs - you were proud that your kill count was higher than his and that you were almost positive he’d be dead by now if it weren’t for you. 

The three of you were at the edge of the city, heading to rendezvous with someone from a small settlement in New York State when you heard it, the first, distinctive shriek of infected. 

Suddenly, there were dozens of them, maybe more than 100, far more than you were capable of handling even if you had unlimited ammunition. 

And, like a fool, you froze. 

You’d scouted ahead and saw no signs of them, no indication of anything more than one or two strays that had been ambling around. You had no idea where they’d come from or how they’d come to be here but that didn’t matter. They were here, they were bearing down on you and you couldn’t seem to make your body move, the shock of the sight making you completely shut down. 

It was Joel who saved you. 

“Move!” He’d grabbed you by the collar of your shirt and thrown you behind him as he fired at the infected, pressing back as quickly as he could while laying down cover fire. Harvey joined him, their guns up and blazing as you tried to force your body to listen to you. “Fucking run!” 

Your limbs decided to obey then and you moved as quickly as you could, turning and firing behind you when it felt like you had a moment to spare. 

But you misjudged that moment once. Just once, but that’s all it took. Infected were closer behind you than you realized and Joel dove in between you and the reaching, groping thing. 

“Joel!” You shrieked, desperately trying to get a shot off that wouldn’t hit Joel as he strained to hold back the runner who was snarling near his throat. You were about to shoot when Harvey tackled the creature, knocking it off of Joel but into the mass of infected that was closing in quickly. 

They swarmed him and he screamed and you took aim as Joel scrambled to his feet. He shoved you on before you could fire and you stretched to shoot around him but he nearly threw you away from the swarming monsters and your screaming companion. 

“He’s gone!” Joel yelled as you stared at him, aghast. “He’s gone, we have to fucking move, now go!” 

You kept turning, looking back toward the sound of the snarling and the screams. 

“We have to go back!” you said. “We can’t just leave him like that, we have to at least shoot him we can’t just leave him, we…” 

“You should’ve thought of that before you fucked up!” He kept pushing you forward, toward the QZ. “No point in gettin’ us killed to save a man who’s already dead.” 

Joel had gone from seemingly finding you to be a nuisance to hating you then. He refused to even be in the same room as you let alone leave the QZ with you again. 

It took you a long time, after that split, to figure out how to survive. You’d become dependent on the cards you got from smuggling to get by but you couldn’t leave the QZ on your own and expect to make it back in one piece, not with how things had devolved with raiders and infected in recent years. You found a small group who was going out from time to time - which is how you met Tess - and you cobbled together a living. 

You never worked with Joel again. 

At least, not until now. 

You sighed and perched in the window, watching the QZ go by and thinking of the best way out of the city once the sun went down. You tried not to think about the likelihood that Joel would kill you while you were outside. 

It was a long walk ahead of the both of you, 30 miles each way through infected no man’s land, not that raiders hadn’t been trying their damndest to get a foothold. But you had a connection there who had been growing marijuana and had a hell of a crop they were willing to trade for plenty of ammunition and antibiotics. You’d been orchestrating this trade with Tess for weeks, both of you carefully avoiding the sore subject of Joel. The initial plan had been you and her heading out but then Joel beat the shit out of a FEDRA guard for some imagined offense and they were suddenly without the connections they needed and suddenly, Joel became part of the plan. Lucky you. 

Once darkness started to fall, you picked up a little stone that was stuck in the frame of the cracked window. You took careful aim and flicked it, watching it sail to hit Joel square on the forehead. He twitched in his sleep, grimacing, but he didn’t wake. 

You looked around a moment, searching for something else to use against him. You found it in the form of a wad of paper that you had to stretch to reach but you did. You tightened the ball and aimed, throwing it. It didn’t make it quite as far, bouncing off his hands as they sat folded at the base of his chest. He didn’t even flinch at that. 

“Dammit,” you muttered, looking around again. You found a rubber band then, perking up a little as you picked it up. You arranged it carefully on your fingers, pulling it back and aiming it like a gun, targeting Joel’s nose. His oddly beautiful nose. Not that you ever really thought that way about him, of course. You shot the rubber band and it flew, snapping right where you’d aimed it. He jerked awake and you turned quickly so it seemed like you were just looking outside into the night. 

“Wha…” He mumbled. 

You turned your head to look at him as he sat up, seemingly disoriented. 

“You hit me with somethin’?” He asked. 

“What would I hit you with, Joel?” You asked. “I was about to come wake you up, though. Can’t get a late start because of your lazy ass…” 

“Show you lazy…” he muttered, hefting himself up off the sofa. “Let’s move.” 

You gave Joel this much, the man was efficient. You’d forgotten just how efficient in the years it had been since you’d last worked together. He cut through the QZ quickly and smoothly, the knowledge of routes run by FEDRA guards seemingly innate as he knew exactly when and where to avoid and how to do it. In what seemed like no time at all, you were outside the walls and starting into the ruins of the city. 

“Got a safe house about an hour’s walk,” he said, setting an almost punishing pace as you moved alongside him. “We get there, wait for daylight, press on in the morning.” 

“Oh, because you’re the decision maker?” You asked, brows raised, even though you agreed with him. “Just expect me to fall in line…” 

“You know what, princess?” He rounded on you, forcing you back into the wall of a building you were passing. “You’re lucky I came out here with you after the shit you’ve pulled…” 

“Shit I pulled? I fucked up!” You all but yelled at him. “I know it! I think about that all the fucking time, that he’d still be alive if it weren’t for me! I don’t need you to fucking remind me, I know what I did and I’m sure you’re fucking perfect and that no one’s ever died because you fucked up…” 

“You don’t know a goddamn thing,” he growled, pressing closer to you for a moment and his eyes were dark and dangerous. For a moment, you thought he might kill you. Or kiss you. He didn’t do either. Instead, he just stepped back, looking you up and down once. “Keep your shit together this time. Don’t want to die because of you.” 

Tears burned your throat and eyes and you swallowed them and walked a few steps behind Joel, trying to keep an eye out for signs of infected and raiders and trying to make sure that Joel didn’t die. Even if it was just out of spite. 

The next day was easier than you expected, too. You made it quickly out of the safe house in the morning and dodged a hoard of infected, skirting around the writhing mass of them lying on the street. You didn’t really feel like you could breathe until you were outside the city, where the air was cleaner and you didn’t feel the specter of what happened years ago looming over you. 

You and Joel mostly ignored each other, watching the tree line as you kept an eye out for whatever might be lurking for you there. But, every now and then, you thought you caught Joel looking at you out of the corner of your eye, his head snapping around the moment you seemed to take notice. 

After walking for most of the day and covering 20 miles, the two of you stopped and made camp, Joel deeming it safe enough to make a small fire. You watched him after the two of you had eaten and settled, the light casting flickering shadows on his face. 

Joel, you were almost loathe to admit, was an incredibly good looking man. There was a roughness to him that you found almost comforting in the world you were both trapped in but there was beauty to him, too. The symmetry of his features, the plush of his lips, the cut of his jaw. You wondered what he was like before all this, not just when he was younger but before this world had a chance to sink its teeth into him. Maybe you would have been friends then. Maybe something more than friends. 

“How’d you end up smuggling?” You asked, not able to keep sitting here in silence any more. 

“What?” He asked, looking up from where he was cleaning his gun. 

“Smuggling,” you said. “Doubt you were born a smuggler and you don’t seem like you were a drug mule or something in the before times. How’d you end up doing it?” 

“How does anyone end up doin’ anything?” He asked. “Needed cards, people needed drugs. If people want to pay me for ‘em, I’m not about to argue.” 

“So that’s it,” you said. “You woke up one morning and thought to yourself ‘I think I’m going to tell FEDRA to fuck off today by running drugs’ and started a whole new career.” 

He sighed but didn’t say anything. 

“I don’t buy it,” you continued, sitting back against the tree you were propped against. “There’s something else…” 

“Not your business if there is.” 

“So there is something else!” You said, almost smug. “I’m on the right track, excellent.” 

“You always this nosy?” 

“Usually,” you said. “Let’s see… Maybe Joel Miller just likes an excuse to hit things.” He scoffed but didn’t say anything. “Not that? Interesting… Maybe Joel Miller gets off on breaking the rules. Is that it? You have authority issues?” 

“Can we go back to not fuckin’ talking?” He asked. 

“Not authority issues then,” you nodded, ignoring him. “Well, that leaves just one other theory.” 

You were quiet, looking away from Joel and fighting the urge to smirk as you did. It only took a minute of silence before he sighed. 

“Goddammit,” he said. “What. What’s your theory.” 

You let the smirk happen then, looking back at him. 

“That Joel Miller doesn’t feel alive unless he’s about to die,” you said. “And that Joel Miller needs to feel something so he decides to do the thing that almost kills him because what else is there to have?” 

He watched you for a moment, his eyes hot and angry, before he looked back at his gun. 

You laughed once. 

“So predictable…” 

“And why do you do it?” He asked, looking up at you, the rage barely contained on his features. “Must have a reason, right? Livin’ outside the QZ as long as you did, fuckin’ around outside it now, what is it? You got some kind of death wish?” 

“Yes,” you said, looping your arms around your knees. He blinked at you in surprise for a moment and you laughed a little. “I’m not nearly as mysterious as you, it’s not some secret…” 

“Why?” He cut you off, gun set aside now. You frowned but he pressed on. “You got a life, why do you want to just throw it away…” 

“You call what I have a life?” You asked, brows raised. “Never thought you’d be so generous in regards to anything related to me…” 

“Ain’t it?” He asked. “Sure, it’s not what it was before, can’t just do what we did then but…” 

“You think that’s it?” You gaped at him. “That I miss being able to go to fucking happy hour with my coworkers or grab dinner at Chili’s so I might as well drop dead?” 

“That’s not…” 

“I lost people, Joel,” you snapped. “I know everybody did but when I say I lost people, I mean I lost everyone. By the time you and Tommy found me, there wasn’t a single person left on Earth I knew. My parents turned in the outbreak, they bit my brother and his wife and their daughter. I survived with my fiance for a while but he got shot by a FEDRA officer when we were trying to make our way to the fucking QZ and then I was alone. I stayed out there because, what, was I supposed to go live with the people who killed him? No thanks. What the fuck is there? So yeah, you know what? I smuggle shit. I like the risk. I like telling FEDRA to fuck off. I like being able to handle myself because I’m the only thing I can count on. Don’t act so fucking surprised that I’m not thrilled with life in the QZ just because you brought me there.” 

Joel was quiet for a moment and you just squared your jaw and looked away, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You knew you shouldn’t let Joel get to you the way he did - especially not after you’d picked at him and pushed him here - but he got under your skin the way no one else left alive really seemed to. You hadn’t spoken to anyone about your fiance, not in years. It was a wound you’d long set aside, a casualty in the war on humanity that had hollowed you out so much that it seemed like you couldn’t really feel anything unless you were on the edge of your own destruction. Or, apparently, picking a fight with Joel fucking Miller.

“Could be worse,” he said eventually. 

“Yeah, well.” 

“M’sorry.” 

You looked at him then, brows knitted together. 

“What?” 

“Said I’m sorry,” he said, voice a little gruff. “Didn’t… didn’t know. Wasn’t trying to… I’m sorry.” 

You blinked for a moment, trying to get your bearings. Of everything you’d expected to hear out of Joel Miller’s mouth, I’m sorry wasn’t it. 

“I’m sorry, too,” you said eventually. “If you want to talk…” 

“I don’t.” 

“Right,” you nodded. “Well…” 

“I got first watch,” he said, picking his gun back up. “Get some sleep.” 

The next day, you reached the trade you’d arranged, the woman you’d run into a few times when outside the QZ there with her partner. They hauled so much marijuana out - wrapped tightly in old newspaper - that they had to use wagons to carry it all. You unloaded your haul and the trade went smoothly, Joel lurking toward the back and standing guard, keeping a surly watch over the whole proceeding the entire time. It took some doing to pack all the pot into your bags but you managed it, thanking the couple and starting back toward the QZ. 

You were close to where you’d stopped the night before when it happened, the snarl of infected crawling over your skin. 

“Fuck,” you slung your rifle down from its place over your shoulder and turned to where the sound was coming from, seeing a cluster of at least a dozen infected moving for you. You shot, catching the first in the head and you watched it drop. 

“Go!” Joel yelled, planting his feet and taking aim. 

“Fuck you!” You snapped, ignoring him and shooting. “I can handle myself.” 

He growled at that but didn’t say anything else. Instead you stood with him, side by side, trying to pick off the group that was charging for you. For a moment, you thought you’d done it, that you were in the clear. 

And then, Joel’s gun jammed. 

You realized it when you didn’t hear any more gunfire coming from beside you as the remaining infected drew closer. 

“Joel!” Your eyes darted his way and you saw him trying to force the lever back, to no avail. He looked to you and the infected and back to you, his jaw squared. 

“Get back to the QZ,” he said, not giving you a chance to respond. Instead, he charged forward, gun held not like a firearm but a staff and he swung it, hard, so the butt of it slammed into the skull of an infected as three others dove for him. 

“Fuck!” You yelled, ignoring him again. Like hell he was going down out here like this, like fuck you were letting this asshole die for you. You took careful aim, taking down infected that you were confident you could headshot without putting Joel at risk, just one bullet going wide and exploding on the bark of a nearby tree, the rest finding their mark. And then he was on the ground, just one infected left, too close to him for you to be able to shoot and it wasn’t that you chose to do it, not really. It was more like instinct, flying forward, shedding your backpack and dropping your gun as you did, wrenching your knife from its place at your hip and jumping onto the back of the creature, your arms going around its neck as you yanked back on it, hard. 

Your weight threw it off balance and it shrieked, starting to claw at you, twisting in your hold to see if it could sink its teeth into your skin. It bit as best it could at your arms but the thick of your coat kept it from getting any further and you struggled to adjust your knife to drive it into the thing’s neck but you couldn’t get it, not without letting it go.

“Goddammit!” Joel was panting for breath and you could barely see him out of the corner of your eye as he scrambled to his feet. You tightened your grip on the infected, the stink of the rot of it from the inside out making you gag, and it slammed you back into a tree, catching you off guard. You barely registered the sound of your skull hitting the wood before you passed out. 

***

You didn’t listen. You never fucking listened, why could you never fucking listen? 

You were the single most infuriating person Joel had ever met. Stubborn as hell, independent to a fault, seemingly desperate to pick every fight you could find. Of course you didn’t fucking listen to him. You never had before, why would you start now? 

Seeing you that close to infected - again - was terrifying. 

This was why he didn’t want to go out like this with you. This, right here. Because he knew you wouldn’t listen, he knew you’d wind up in this situation, knew he’d have to deal with the fear and the pain of you dying when it was his fucking fault why couldn’t you just fucking listen?

He’d thrown himself at the infected to give you a chance. One of you was probably going to die out here and he wasn’t about to let it be you. Not when he’d already done so much, gone so far to try to make sure you fucking survived. Because dammit, if he couldn’t make sure one of the few people he actually cared about actually lived, what was the damn point? 

But did you take the chance he was giving you? No. Of course you didn’t. 

And all he could do was watch in horror as the thing you’d jumped on top of slammed you into a tree with a sickening thud, one he could hear above the snarling and snapping of jaws. Your body went limp and you slid from its back to the earth, landing in an unnatural looking way. No one who was in control of their limbs fell like that. His blood was ice and he moved without considering, roaring as he ripped his knife from his belt and tackled the infected who was turning to go after your throat. He hit it so hard he rolled with it, the creature’s mouth reaching for him as he held it back. They came to rest on the ground, that thing on top of him and Joel slammed his knife into its neck again and again, until it went quiet and still and Joel was bloodied and panting for breath. 

He shoved it off him and he half crawled to you as he got to his feet, not willing to wait until he was standing to start moving. You were still when he reached you, your head thrown back, half on your side, mouth open. 

“No, no, c’mon,” he pulled your coat open to get at your chest to try to do what he thought was CPR - not like there were fucking certifications for it in the QZ - but, when he did, he realized you were breathing. He lowered his head near your mouth and could hear the soft, shallow sound of your life and he sat back on his heels, taking a deep breath. 

So he hadn’t gotten you killed. Not yet, anyway. At least there was that. He let himself sit with the relief for a moment before checking you over, looking at your throat and wrists for signs of a bite but didn’t find any. Another lucky moment. 

“Alright princess,” he said, tapping your cheek lightly. “C’mon. We gotta get movin’, let’s go.” You stayed still. His stomach twisted. “Know you like to fuck with me but now ain’t the time, we need to get out of here, time to wake up…” 

He half expected you to respond then. You’d love this, the fact that he was damn near panicking because you were hurt. He knew you’d want to draw it out. 

But you wouldn’t be stupid about it. You wouldn’t put them at risk, not really. 

“Fuck,” he swore, adjusting your limp body as best he could before lifting you to his chest. The hair at the back of your head was matted with blood. He tried not to think about what that might mean. “S’alright. You’re gonna be fine, just… You’ll be OK.” 

He kept thinking that, over and over, as he carried you, looking for somewhere he could protect you for a while. 

It took him time to find it, a farmhouse with overgrown fields that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. The door was hanging open, creaking on its hinges, and Joel brought you to the kitchen island, setting you gently on the dust-covered formica. 

“Stay there for a minute,” he said, leaning against the counter to recover his strength and his breath for a moment. “Gotta… gotta make sure we don’t got company.” 

He went through the house room by room, barricading the doors on the ground floor and pleasantly surprised to find most of the top floor intact, no holes in the roof or broken windows. He gathered some blankets from the main bedroom and carried them down to where he’d left you. He propped your head up gently, pouring some water on a cloth and cleaning the cut there with care before covering you with a quilt and pulling a kitchen chair up beside you. He checked to make sure you were still breathing before sitting down, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, hands folded almost in prayer. 

He should have told Tess to fuck off. He knew better, when it came to you. There was a reason he’d avoided you ever since that day everything had gone wrong. Hell, he’d been avoiding you before that, too. 

From the moment he’d met you, he liked you a little too much. You were the exact kind of woman he’d gone for before, one who was capable and strong and a total fucking smart ass. He liked a woman who challenged him, one who made him think. You did those things, you did those things like it was second fucking nature, all while being one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, before the outbreak or after. 

He knew he had to keep his distance from the beginning, that he’d get too attached if he let himself. But you were a valuable partner, so he did his best to keep you at arm’s reach while going on runs with you and his brother. He thought that had been enough, that he’d done a good job of protecting himself from the disaster that waited at the end of any form of attachment in the life he led now. 

And then he saw you freeze in the face of infected. 

He was so afraid in that moment that it shocked him how fast he made the call. The decision to put his body between you and the infected was an easy one. He wanted to make it back to the QZ, to his brother he’d found some reason to live for over the last few years, but he wouldn’t want that if you didn’t come back, too. But you didn’t fucking listen then, either, too busy trying to do the same damn thing he’d have done in your position. If you hadn’t been with him, he’d have tried to save Harvey. He was a good man, he’d watched Joel’s back plenty, Tommy’s too. He deserved a better end than the one he got. 

Joel just couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk you. 

He let himself rage at you about it. Even though it wasn’t your fault, none of it had been. He’d known it then but even more so after. Years later, outside the QZ, he watched as a large hoard worked its way south for the winter, just passing through. You couldn’t have seen them coming, no one could have. 

He never told you that. Because, after the day you froze, he was far enough away from you that he wasn’t going to have to watch you die and he wasn’t going to have to carry the blame if you did. He couldn’t do that again. He knew that much of himself, he knew what he wasn’t capable of surviving. If you were out of reach, he’d have room to breathe. 

But you were still leaving the QZ. He hadn’t known that, at first. He’d just assumed you’d stay put and take the shitty jobs FEDRA offered to get by. He hadn’t even known that Tess knew you, not for years. It wasn’t even her that told him you were still smuggling, it had been a FEDRA guard. He’d overheard your name when Tess was handling a trade and put two and two together. He damn near marched over to your apartment that second and demanded to know what the fuck you were thinking. But he didn’t. He kept it together, he kept listening for news of you, kept waiting for the day that he knew was waiting for him, the one where you didn’t come back and he’d find out about it from some other smuggler or some asshole guard who found out when you didn’t show up with his supply of pills.

And then your name came up when he was trading with a FEDRA guard. It was a small deal, some pills for cigarettes and liquor, just enough for one guy. He was a new client of Joel’s, one he was happy to have. His demand was low and he was good leverage for bringing shit through the gates, turning a blind eye for a good deal on drugs. He just hadn’t seemed to learn quite yet that Joel wasn’t a friend. 

“You know other smugglers, right?” He asked, glancing at Joel as he counted the pills out in his palm. As though Joel was stupid enough to short change a fucking FEDRA officer. 

“Suppose,” Joel shrugged. “Why?” 

“There’s this one…” he talked about a woman who was coming and going, one who was cocky and beautiful and hadn’t caved to his demands for sex the last time she came through and he tried to blackmail her. Joel ground his teeth but kept quiet as he prattled on, eventually pocketing the pills and handing over the cigarettes and booze. “Anyway, wondering if you think she’s the type who’ll give in or should I stop wasting my time and just take it?” 

Joel’s hands curled into fists. 

“Take it?” Joel asked. “Take what, exactly.” 

He looked at Joel, incredulous. 

“C’mon,” he said. “You know. They never fight too hard against a uniform but it’s more fun when they’re at least a little willing.” 

Joel’s punch came so quickly the man didn’t have time to put his hands up. He took him to the ground fast, blow after blow raining down on the man’s face until the air smelled like copper and his knuckles were split. The man gargled on his own blood below him, desperate gasps that sounded something like “please” but he couldn’t be sure. Joel grabbed him by the collar, his head lolling limply to the side as he tried to breathe. One of his teeth was hanging on my a thread.

“Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself,” Joel panted. “Tell your fuckin’ friends. I hear about any of you messing with women around here? I’ll kill you.” 

Joel dropped him back to the ground and flexed his fingers. He thought he might have broken part of his hand. Wouldn’t be the first time. At least this one was worth it. 

“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” he said, fishing around in the man’s pocket and taking a pill from him. He popped it in his mouth, chalky and bitter on his tongue. “For my trouble.” 

He left the man there in the alley, knowing full well that he’d just shot his whole team in the foot. He didn’t much care. 

The irony that it had landed him here, outside the QZ with you unconscious and your haul on the forest floor was almost too biting. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he’d been doing this wrong all along. 

You groaned and Joel’s head shot up as you started stirring on the counter, your hand going to the injured part of your skull. 

“Easy,” he said gently, getting up slowly so he wouldn’t startle you. “Took a nasty hit to the head, you were out for a while.” 

“Ow.” 

Joel laughed a little at that. 

“Glad you think it’s funny,” you said, sitting up. He rushed to help you and you gave him an incredulous look as his hands found your back and your hand. “Jesus, I feel like I got put through a meat grinder…” 

“Well, s’long as you ain’t bitten, think we can handle that,” he said, taking his hands back now that you were sitting up. 

“Amen to that,” you said, stretching a bit before looking him over and then looking around, a small frown on your face. “Where are we?” 

“Farmhouse,” Joel said, shoving his hands in his pockets just to give them something to do. “Think about a mile from where we were. Can find our way back OK. I’ll have to, your pack is still out there.” 

“Shit,” you said. “Yeah, we can’t afford to come back without it, I traded my entire stash for my share of the pot…” 

“We’ll find it,” he said. “Don’t think anyone else is comin’ through here any time too soon.” 

You nodded slowly before looking back to him, your eyebrows knitting together before you flinched, your hand going to the back of your head again. 

“Will you actually listen for a change and take it easy?” He asked, going to check the wound. “Jesus, bane of my fuckin’ existence, not doing a goddamn thing I tell you…” 

“Why are you still here?” You asked, ignoring him yet again, fingers finding the gash on your head and tugging at it until it started bleeding again. Joel sighed before pulling your hand away. “Hell, why’d you bring me here at all? You just said I’m the bane of your existence, why the fuck did you go through this much trouble? You could have just left me there, taken my pack, kept all the haul for yourself…” 

“You really think I’m capable of that?” He asked, brows raised. He knew he hadn’t exactly been kind to you over the years but fuck, he didn’t think it was that bad. He pressed the wet cloth to your head again, watching as the red filtered over it. 

You shrugged. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Yeah, alright, you piss me off more than… shit, about anyone else I’ve ever met. You’re the bane of my existence…” 

“So…” 

“Will you let me talk?” He snapped. “Fuck, woman, always gotta be right, always gotta have the last damn word, always gotta do whatever’s gonna get you into the most trouble…” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry that I managed to save your fucking life today,” you snapped back. “Please forgive me!” 

“I don’t want you saving my life if it costs you yours!” He yelled. 

You pulled back from him sharply, eyes wide as you blinked at him in shock. He shook his head and pulled the cloth away from your skin. At least the bleeding had stopped again. 

“Don’t fuck with it anymore,” he said, dropping the bloody fabric to the counter. “Gotta leave it alone so it can start to heal, head wounds bleed like a motherfucker…” 

“Joel,” you said quietly, watching him. 

“What.” 

“Joel,” you said again, eyes still on him. “You… What did you mean you don’t want me saving your life if it costs…” 

“I don’t…” He cut you off before he took a deep, centering breath. “I don’t want anybody dying for me but… Christ, it can’t be you. Yeah, you’re the bane of my existence, you piss me off so much sometimes I swear it’s like you got a goddamn degree in just how to do it but you make me feel more alive than anything else left and I can’t…” His heart was pounding so hard it felt like a bruise. “I can’t lose you, especially not when I could stop it. Not when I could save you. I need you to stay alive, OK? I don’t want anyone else to piss me off the way you do, I want you to be the one getting under my skin every goddamn day…” 

“Joel…” 

“Still not gonna let me finish?” He gaped at you. “Fuck, I’m tryin’ to…” 

You didn’t let him finish that time, either. Instead, you kissed him, your arms going around his neck and pulling him roughly against you, your lips so soft and warm and demanding on his that it felt like you were trying to swallow him whole. 

It was like the logical part of his mind only worked for half a second after that. He knew, in that moment, that he should probably hold you back. Talk things out, make sure you didn’t hurt yourself - you’d just had a head injury for fuck’s sake - but that part of him vanished, consumed by you and the way you kissed him like you were trying to climb inside his skin. 

His arms went around you, pulling you to the very edge of the island so your pussy was pressed tight against his quickly hardening cock. 

He couldn’t help but grind himself against you, the zipper of his jeans harsh contrast to just how soft he knew your pussy would be and the last bit of resolve he should have held snapped. Your fingers fumbled at the snaps on his coat, pulling it open before going to the buttons on his shirt and he did the same, desperate to get at your skin and suddenly not caring that it was nearly freezing or that the two of you had nearly died not all that long ago.

His hands found your breasts, sliding inside the cups of your bra to cradle the soft warmth of them and you moaned into his mouth when his thumbs found your nipples, gently brushing them before working them in little circles as they pricked against his skin. 

Joel had tried to not think about this with you. It was tempting, always tempting, but he knew better. He tried to limit his thoughts of you to frustration and anger but he often failed at that. He had failed at it often enough that he had an idea of how you would feel in his hands, how you would taste on his tongue. He thought he would have known enough to be prepared for it if it ever happened. 

He wasn’t. 

You were, somehow, so much better than he’d ever let himself imagine. You were so goddamn soft, like the whole of you had been spun out of silk, tenuous and tender. There was something almost inherently wrong in how he was touching something as soft as you but he shoved that nagging guilt aside, too obsessed with feeling more of you. If this was how your tits felt in his hands, how your lips felt on his, how your hands felt in his hair, he had to feel inside you. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to think about anything else if he didn’t get to be inside of you, his mind would always be trying to create the way you would feel, to know how warm you would be, how safe he would feel in you and how calming it would be to know that you were safe, too, because nothing could reach you if he was there inside you, nothing. 

His hands reluctantly left your breasts and slid down to your waist, finding the button on your jeans. You quickly, clumsily kicked off your boots and lifted your ass from the countertop so he could slide your jeans and panties down, leaving you all wet and swollen and bared for him. 

“Fuck,” he panted, looking down at you for a moment before reaching one callused finger forward and almost reverently tracing your dripping slit. You groaned, your head going back in pleasure, your hips almost jumping toward him. 

“Joel,” you whispered, voice so goddamn needy. The sound went straight to his cock, skin stretched tight and balls aching. “Please…” 

“I’ve got you baby,” he said, opening his pants and tucking his jeans and underwear below his throbbing sex. “Make you feel so good, just…” 

He took his cock and brushed the head against you and you looked down to where he was about to push inside you and gasped. 

“Holy fuck,” you panted, looking at him, your eyes wide. “Joel, you’re… Are you going to fit?” 

“I’ll fit, baby,” he said, looking down again and notching the head of him inside your wet heat. You groaned as you stretched around him, fingers digging into the skin at his nape. He pushed the first inch of himself inside and stopped, looking back to you. He took your face his hand and your eyes searched his, desperate longing written there. “Just watch me, I’ve got you.” 

You didn’t say anything, you, just nodded quickly. His other hand went to the small of your back, angling you just so as he started to thrust into you, pushing in a little and then pulling back before going again, claiming more and more of you with each stroke until he was fully within you. He stilled inside you and pressed his forehead to yours, your eyes on his own, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath on his skin. 

He’d been right. Inside, you were fucking perfection. He could feel how you stretched over him, how your body perfectly took and held his own. You were so soft there it seemed impossible, like the world should have destroyed anything this delicate and supple. But you felt so like you, too. The heat of you was almost overwhelming, the strength of you sharp and clear when your cunt fluttered over him, already nearing your orgasm with telltale little spasms holding him tight.  He wanted to consume you and be consumed, devour and be devoured and he needed to fuck you deep and hard and leave part of himself inside of you or he might never think of anything else ever again. 

“Fuck, Joel,” your breaths were sharp and shaky. “I’m so… you’re so big, I’m so full, I… You have to move, I need you to fuck me, please fuck me, please, I need…” 

“I’ve got you, baby,” he said, gently angling your head just so. “Give you just what you need.” 

He kissed you as he started fucking into you, setting an almost punishing pace as he moved inside you. He drank down your desperate groans, savored the way your fingers scrabbled over his shoulders and neck and back, got lost in the spread of your thighs as you kept trying to take him somehow deeper. As if there was more of you for him to take, as if there was more of himself to give. 

Your channel grew tight over him and he knew he wasn’t going to last once you came but he was afraid he wasn’t going to even make it that far. He’d already given up on pulling out, he’d deal with the whatever fallout came from filling you up, but he had to feel you come when he was inside you. He was desperate for it, needed to feel how you’d draw so tight over him and pull his come from his body into yours, he needed it. He drove deep and found the spot inside you that made your legs clench a little tighter, fingers clutch a little harder. He pressed into it and held himself there, more rocking into you than fucking into you, grinding the head of him into the very softest part of you as your cunt drew tighter and tighter over him and you pulled away from his lips to cry out as you came. You throbbed around him and he could feel every part of you there, the pulsing of your body and the satisfaction of your cries damn near ripping his own orgasm from him. 

He pulled you close and tight as he came, feeling like his whole being was pulled down low and sharp inside him as he spilled deep into you. Your arms loosened on him but you still held him gently as he all but collapsed into you, his head on your shoulder as he panted for breath. 

“Fuck,” he managed after a moment, still deep inside you. 

“Yeah,” you laughed a little. 

He sat back from you, eyes searching yours again now that you’d both started coming back down to Earth. You reached up and ran your fingers through his curls, brushing them back from his face as he started to notice the cold air again for the first time. 

“Bane of your existence, huh?” You asked, teasing lightly. 

“Yeah,” he said, smiling a little. “My whole damn existence.” 

You smiled a little back. 

“Think I can work with that.” 

[yelena-bellova]

Heartfirst: A Ted Lasso Story - Chapter One

Chapter One: A Chance Meeting

Plot: Fresh off a sudden sacking, Y/n unexpectedly encounters salvation in the form of the kindness of two strangers. (Takes place between s2 and s3)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: language

A/N: Hihellowelcome. I had no intention to write anything for Ted Lasso, but this idea came to me as a migraine-induced dream and I figured I’d give it a go. I’ll leave it up for a day or so to see if anyone’s remotely interested and if so, I’ll do a full series.

I’m tagging it under the characters who will play central parts in the series, so no one come for me if I’m “tagging it wrong.” If anybody wants to be added to the (potential) taglist, just drop a comment.

Seriously, I don’t know what this is. I’m just following the Writing Fairy where she takes me. Enjoy!

————

There was no better place to be sad than at a bar.

Y/n swirled her second glass of white wine, watching the liquid spin and bubble slightly. She was in that comfortable space of numbness where the alcohol was mixing with her sorrow and diluting it enough that she didn’t know one from the other. Though she suspected that she felt she could have three more glasses and it still wouldn’t fully take away the pain.

This was the third job - the third job - she’d been fired from in the last two years. Where one might start to question if they were the problem, Y/n didn’t have to venture there. Either the companies had faced budget cuts and her position had been deemed unnecessary or they’d gone under. This time it was the latter. She hadn’t felt particularly passionate about the work, but that had never bothered her. Work wasn’t supposed to do anything more than keep the lights on and the fridge stocked.

And yet, at 5:02, as she packed up her bag and readied herself to head home, her boss had called her into his office and told her that her position was being eliminated. The world that had seemingly just settled back down was spinning once again.

Y/n sighed, pressing the rim of her glass to her forehead. She’d been walking London in a haze since 5:03 until she found her way into some posh restaurant. She’d managed to order her drink and not much else, too wrapped up in shame and confusion. Why was seemingly nothing working out? Why did she keep getting placed in these inevitably temporary positions? Was a business degree some cruel joke the universe had led her to and the punchline was repeatedly playing out?

Throwing back the last of the white, she figured it was worth a go to see if her answers lay at the bottom of another glass.

“Can I get one more?” Y/n asked the bartender, shaking the stemware a little to signal them.

A few feet and a world away, sat at a table were two blonde women, engrossed in their own conversation. During one of their natural pauses, both their eyes caught on the hunched figure sitting alone at the bar.

“That’s a picture worth a thousand words,” Rebecca mused.

“Right?” Keeley replied, “She’s been here since before you got here. Hasn’t moved.”

Rebecca hummed in agreement, there was some part of the woman’s sadness that was palpable. Her arms were crossed over the bar as if the shield herself. She was in no rush to finish her drink indicating that she had nowhere to be. This was shame and heartbreak and all other emotions that, while men were entirely capable of feeling, typically landed only on the heads of women.

Rebecca and Keeley turned to one another at the same time with the same idea.

Keeley slid out of the booth, the more extroverted of the two, and carried her drink with her to the bar. She approached the woman carefully, coming into her peripheral vision slowly as not to startle her. Though Keeley suspected the restaurant could spontaneously burst into flames and the girl would have barely moved an inch.

“Hi,” Keeley said softly, her voice’s cheery pitch raising slightly, “Can I buy your next glass?”

Y/n turned her head to the petite blonde woman smiling at her. It had easily been an hour since she’d had to say anything to anyone other than the bartender. She had to try and remember how to speak.

“Oh,” she started, slightly confused, “Um…I, uh-“

Keeley quickly held up a hand, “Oh, I’m not, like, hitting on you or trying to recruit you for a cult. Me and my friend, Rebecca,” she pointed back towards her and Rebecca’s table, “Saw that you’d been here a while and you looked sad and we just wanted to see if we could lift your spirits is all.”

Y/n looked over her shoulder towards where the woman was pointing, her finger aimed towards a taller and older blonde who gave a polite wave.

“Oh,” Y/n said again, unable to tell if the depression or the wine was making her feel so tired, “That’s very kind of you.”

Keeley raised an expectant eyebrow, “So can we?”

Y/n gestured to her glass that had yet to be refilled, “I suppose so.”

With ease, Keeley slid onto the barstool beside Y/n. When the bartender came around with the bottle, she patted the counter. “This round’s on our bill,” she informed the employee, pointing out their booth.

“Thank you,” Y/n said in as warm a tone as she could manage.

“We’ve gotta look out for each other, yeah?” Keeley replied with a smile, “Can I ask why you’re drinking alone?”

The whole point of not calling any of her friends or now former co-workers was to not have to talk about being let go. And yet there was something about the woman that Y/n trusted, that she felt drawn to even. Like she could tell her all her secrets and she wouldn’t bat an eye, but rather make her feel better about them.

“It wasn’t a guy, was it?” Keeley asked, “‘Cause if it was, you need something way more expensive that’ll get you drunk way faster.”

Y/n unexpectedly chuckled, “No, I got sacked today.”

“Oh, shit,” Keeley adjusted her tone to match the disappointment, “I’m sorry.”

“I wish I could say it was my fault,” Y/n continued, the wine stripping away a layer of self-consciousness, “Then there’d be a good reason at least, something I can fix. But this,” she tapped her pointer finger against the counter, “Is the third job in two years I’ve been let go from.”

Keeley’s eyebrows furrowed in shock, “Who the fuck are you working for?”

Another laugh escaped Y/n’s chest, “No one extraordinary,” she caught herself, “No one at all, at the moment. It’s not even exciting or anything, just boring business shit. They all go under or they all just implode,” Y/n lowered her voice, “And, for some God only knows reason, I’m always caught in the crossfire.”

“Hang on,” Keeley grabbed her drink and hopped off the stool, “You’re going to come and join us.”

“What?” Y/n looked to the woman, “No, I’m not interrupting your night with my bad luck. At this point, it might be contagious.”

“Absolutely not,” Keeley pushed back, wrapping her hand around Y/n’s wrist and practically pulling her off her stool, “You’re going to come and drink with us and you can bitch and moan as much as you’d like.”

The absurdity of it was tripping Y/n up and also drawing her further in. Strangers were never this kind and yet, the woman and her friend were both gesturing her towards their table and into their evening.

Relenting, Y/n grabbed her purse, her fresh white wine and followed the small blonde back to the booth.

“Success,” the older woman cheered as Keeley and Y/n arrived, “Rebecca.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I bought you a drink and didn’t even tell you my name,” Keeley laughed, sliding into the booth seat, “I’m Keeley.”

“Rebecca, Keeley,” Y/n repeated the names as she sat down, trying to put a polite amount of space between them, “I’m Y/n.”

“Y/n here’s been sacked today,” Keeley hit the highlights before Rebecca got the chance to ask, “Third time in two years.”

Rebecca’s brows furrowed in shock, “Bloody hell. What does a person do to get fired three times in two years?”

Though it was phrased accusingly, Y/n could tell there was no actual malice behind it. “Hitch your wagon to the wrong fucking horse.”

Keeley and Rebecca stared back in silence.

“Sorry,” Y/n apologized, remembering what continent she was on, “American expression.”

“That was my next question,” Rebecca replied, picking up her glass of merlot.

“I went to school here on scholarship,” Y/n explained the cultural difference, “After I graduated, I was so settled that I didn’t feel like leaving. Though I’m starting to question if that was the right choice…”

“I suppose you would,” Keeley agreed, “What is it that you do? What’d you get your degree in?”

Y/n took a sip of her chard before answering, “Business with a minor in public relations. I’m the person people pay to handle all the fine print shit they don’t want to deal with, but sometimes I’ve handled press for my companies.”

Y/n was unsure why Rebecca was nudging Keeley with her elbow, but there was clear meaning to it.

“You do PR?” Keeley asked, leaning on the table with her elbows.

“I can, yeah,” Y/n answered, feeling like what she said was under a spotlight, “I’ve been in more of a managerial capacity as of late, but yeah.”

Rebecca smiled into her own glass as she drank, as if all the magical pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t meant to solve were suddenly coming together.

“Well, shit,” Keeley exclaimed, “I think the universe brought us together tonight.”

Y/n squinted a little, “I’m sorry?”

Keeley excitedly scooted closer to the table, “I’ve just started my own PR firm. You should come and work for me.”

Now she was entirely convinced she was more buzzed than she thought. “What?” Y/n asked.

“It’s just a small start-up,” Keeley explained further, “We’re not that big yet, but it’s good work. We’ve already got some pretty big clients.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Y/n set down her wine, fully invested now in the conversation, “You just met me and you’re offering me a job?”

Keeley shrugged as if she was simply offering to buy lunch, “Yeah, why not? You seem lovely and you’re in need of work and it cannot be a coincidence that we met.”

Suddenly, it all clicked in Y/n’s mind.

“Holy fuck,” she half cried, half whispered, “You’re Keeley Jones, aren’t you? I saw you in Vanity Fair!”

Keeley’s admission was her toothy grin.

“And,” Y/n’s raised finger drifted to Rebecca, who seemed to already guess what was coming, “Shit, you own th-th-the football club!”

“AFC Richmond,” Rebecca filled in the missing title with a smile.

“Holy shit,” Y/n whispered, letting her back hit the booth. The night was taking an entirely different turn than she’d expected.

“My firm exclusively handles PR for Richmond,” Keeley explained, “Are you a football fan?”

Still in shock, Y/n managed to answer. “I mean, sort of? I don’t root for anyone, really. I dated an Arsenal fan for a while, but I don’t really watch it all that much, to be honest.”

“Oh, well,” Rebecca adjusted herself in her seat, “We’re going to have to change that.”

“But-“ Y/n brought herself back to the original topic, “How can you offer me a job? You don’t know me. I could be a terrible employee for all you know.”

“You said that the firings weren’t your fault,” Keeley stated.

Y/n shrugged, “How do you know I’m not lying?”

“Oh, please,” Rebecca mumbled over a bite of her appetizer, “You’re far too smart to be fired for a valid reason. I’ve known you ten seconds and I can already tell that.”

Y/n chuckled, this was the most she’d laughed in a long time and it was with strangers that were feeling less and less like strangers.

“Look,” Keeley spoke up, laying her hands out on the table, “You don’t have to say yes. You can forget this night ever happened…but I really don’t think you should.”

Y/n’s eyes darted back and forth between Keeley and Rebecca, weighing her options and the insanity of the proposition. These were women higher up in business than she’d ever aspired to. These were women who knew exactly what they wanted and what they were doing, and they were reaching down to offer her a helping hand.

All her life, Y/n had been adrift. Floating on a little raft that somehow managed to weather every storm. Nothing had yet to find her that felt like magic, nor had she ever sought it out. Attending school in England had been the most shocking decision she’d ever made, and thousands of people chose the same path every day. She had never taken a step fully into the unknown, and sitting across the table from Keeley Jones and Rebecca Welton was the first time she’d ever considered it.

It was that or the unemployment office.

“Y’know,” Y/n sighed and smirked, “If we were men, you’d be making me this offer over the urinals.”

The three women burst into snorts and laughter.

[jordosprout]

And With Thunder Comes Rain

Pairing: Wrecker x GN!Reader SFW

Can be read platonically/Mutual Pining

Dividers: @stars-n-spice

Word Count: 3,443

Warnings: Angst, Descriptions of storms, Nightmares, Sleep deprivation, Grief, Wrecker feels guilty

Summary: Wrecker comes to you looking for comfort after the events of Eriadu.

AN: Look at me all punctual when I'm the one making the due date? But nooo when someone else tells me I need to have something done at a certain time, that's just not possible /lh. Please note this is my first time really writing a fic for Wrecker! If need be I might make edits to this. Gender neutral pronouns are used at the end, other than that none are used. Please enjoy!!

It has been a standard week since the events of Eriadu and the capture of Omega that followed. 

There was so much uncertainty that puddled inside you and the squad—every day you spent tense and on edge, not knowing what the future would bring—having little to no sense of familiarity or consistency. You didn’t know how to adapt to the rapid changes around you—how to move around the physical and emotional wounds that persisted you during every task. Everything was going faster than you could process. But eventually, it became clear that you couldn’t just do nothing.

That was when the obsessive need to become a better pilot for the Batch started. It was the only thing you could think of that would make you useful right now. Flying like your life depended on it was the only thing that distracted you from the turmoil of such a detrimental loss. 

You started one of your runs after Hunter’s briefing, notifying you and Wrecker that Echo would be leaving with Rex later that day cycle. It must have been 3, no, 4 hours before you were commed by Hunter “Havoc 6, it’s time to come down. You’ve been at it long enough.”

You shook your head despite knowing he couldn’t see you, “No can do Sarge, I need to get this down.” you explained, using the nickname you started calling him when you first joined his squad. He wasn’t ever technically your sergeant, and you found it fun to pull his leg with that fact.

He said your name in a warning tone, “That’s an order.”

You groaned, you hated when he pulled that card. No, he wasn’t your sergeant, but you still followed and respected him as the leader, and he knew that. You probably shouldn’t continue to test him.

Turning the Marauder you made your return to the cliff you stationed yourselves at, camping out in a large cave on the side of it. You completed your landing sequence, exiting the shuttle begrudgingly with a displeased Hunter to greet you, a hand on his hip; Echo was beside him shaking his head. You simply responded putting both of your hands on your hips and childishly poking out your tongue at Hunter. You looked behind him, finding Wrecker sitting on an old crate. He had been more open about the hurt caused by the last mission. Often quiet, saying little to nothing. You felt your eyebrows press together in worry.

You moved past Hunter taking a seat beside Wrecker on a separate crate. You looked down at his hand resting next to his leg. You wanted nothing more than to hold it.

But instead, you rubbed his shoulder attempting to soothe the hurting giant next to you.

Echo’s departure wasn’t making the changes any easier for anybody. You all knew it was coming, that he wouldn’t be able to stay long. That his heart was in the fight. But you hoped all of you would have a few more days before Rex took him back. You enjoyed his presence, and even if they didn’t outright say it, so did the rest of the squad.

You stayed with Wrecker whilst Echo and Hunter awaited Rex’s arrival beside the Marauder. Wrecker had kept his gaze on the floor, his eyes carrying a sad gleam.

Once Rex’s shuttle arrived, Echo approached you and placed his hand on one of your shoulders.

“Make sure they stay outta trouble.” 

You nod, trying desperately to not let your emotions get to you.

“And quit drinking so much karking caf, it’s not good for you,” he said light-heartedly as he gave you a squeeze on your shoulder.

You gave a playful scoff, “No promises,” you responded causing him to roll his eyes.

“Just try, yeah?”

You look away from him and rub your head, mumbling, “Yeah yeah, I’ll work on it.”

Moving over to Wrecker, Echo gave him a reassuring squeeze on the bicep, “Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”

Wrecker only gives a faint nod in response, his eyes slightly wincing at the pain from moving his neck.

Echo gave you both one more nod goodbye before he turned around to head to Rex’s ship. Rex wrapped an arm around his shoulder and walked him up the ramp. Echo turned his head and gave you all a wave of his scomp before the doors closed, and the ship took him with it.

You all stood there, watching as Rex and Echo left the atmosphere. Even Wrecker lifted his head to watch the man he had come to care for leave. You couldn’t help the pang in your heart. You wanted nothing more than to keep your boys with you, so you could know they were safe. But you knew that what Echo was doing was important work that he needed to do for himself—for his brothers.

Once Rex’s shuttle was no longer visible, Wrecker stood, heading inside the Marauder, leaving only you and Hunter outside.

“What do we do now, Sarge?” you asked, unable to hide the waver of doubt in your voice. You hoped your leader would give you a plan you could hold yourself to.

Hunter sighed, you couldn’t ignore how tired he looked. “We keep searching. We… don’t let Tech’s sacrifice go to waste. That’s what we do.”

“But how?”

He turned to face you, “I don't know,

but we’ll figure it out. We always do. We have to, for all our sakes.”

It’s been only three days since Echo left, and Wrecker became that of a ghost. Spending the past few days in the gunner’s mount. The silence that came made the Marauder feel foreign; as if you walked onto the wrong ship. You wished he’d talk to you, to Hunter. You just wanted him to say something. You hated it when everything was so quiet. At least when he and Omega were making a ruckus, you knew they were okay. A loud crew was an alive one.

You had spent the entirety of the day helping Hunter take count of inventory. And with your final numbers, the pit in your stomach deepened. There were only two days worth of rations to split between the crew. And when you told Hunter he was, expectantly, just as concerned. You saw his heart sink, and the bags under his sleep-deprived eyes deepen. 

“I need to comm Rex,” he mumbled, running a hand down his face before heading to the cockpit and immediately attempting to make contact with Rex. He only patched through after his second attempt. The conversation wasn’t long, as Rex and Echo had a mission to pick up a clone wanting to leave the empire. But miraculously, they had someone in mind to help.

As soon as Rex gave him the information he needed, Hunter moved to the Navicomps and began mapping out the route you were to take. You offered to give him a hand, but he insisted he had it covered. So instead you left him with a cup of caf before you went to the cockpit.

You hoped Rex’s contact would be able to help as he said. That once you had a full inventory, everyone’s minds would be able to settle. That you’d be able to get on your feet to start searching for answers. 

The cloudy day transitioned into a stormy night on the planet you and the boys managed to station yourselves on; the drumming of rain becoming a hypnotic lullaby. You have a hot cup of caf in your hands. It makes sense to stay awake instead of disrupting your sleep later since you’d need to be awake in three standard hours to meet Rex’s contact. However, you couldn't help the calm, empty daze coming over you. It was pleasant to have an empty mind, to say the least, even if it was only for a moment—even if it was hard to maintain when the ship's silence matched that of your head.

It felt wrong trying to enjoy the calm after losing so much—after losing everything. As if, you weren't allowed to have it.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, cursing yourself for not enjoying the moment. Who knew when you’d have one like this again?

You grumbled inaudibly to yourself, finishing the last of your caf as you stared out the transparisteel. When you were about to get up to refill your cup, you could almost feel Echo’s disapproving gaze. 

So you decided that maybe one would be enough.

You rubbed your hands together, it was freezing in the Marauder. You wanted nothing more than to turn on the heating systems, but Hunter told you against it earlier; he wanted to conserve energy when possible. You tucked the old Republic-issued blanket on your lap, the thin fabric doing little to keep you warm.

“When have we ever followed orders?”

“No!”

“Tech!”

Wrecker’s body shoots up, banging his head, thunder challenging him as it crashes loudly in the distance. His body is ridden with shivers, unable to regain control as he takes in his surroundings—frantically looking for Lula. A relieved sigh escapes him once he sees her arm poking out from behind him. Wrecker immediately went to lift her to his face. The soft and familiar fabric was a nice contrast to his sweat-covered skin. He moved to sit crisscrossed, resting the tooka doll in his lap. Tears fell as he fiddled with the ears of the doll Tech had made him when they were cadets.

Nightmares have been pursuing Wrecker as their prey since they got back from their failed mission. And while Lula used to chase them away, she wasn’t able to this time. Because the nightmares were real.

They happened, they weren’t a reality he could run from.

He had always thought that he would have been the one to call out Plan 99—to go down for his vods. But here he was. Still here, still alive, while one of them wasn’t. Because he wasn’t able to reach him fast enough. 

Because he failed.

Wrecker wiped away the tears before they fell, his lip pulling to a frown as he refrained from letting out a sob. 

He was convinced that this was supposed to be easier. The Kaminoans made it seem like it would be. They all went through so much conditioning in case a vod was lost. Yet, despite that. Despite what he was told, he sat there, unable to grasp the idea of losing one of them, for as much as he knew, forever. 

He gulped hard, he needed to be around someone. He shifted in the gunner’s mount and made his way down, beloved Lula still in hand.

He looked to his side at the Navicomps, finding Hunter asleep. He hesitated in waking up his vod and decided to see if someone else was awake instead.

The silence was suddenly broken when footsteps began to thud throughout the shuttle, and you immediately recognized them as Wrecker. There was a momentary quiet before the door to the cockpit wooshed open. Wrecker, or who you assumed to be Wrecker, stood quietly at the entrance.

“Y’ up?” He finally asked, attempting to be quiet in case you weren't. His voice was more graveled than usual from the lack of use. 

“Yeah, I'm awake.” You responded, turning your seat to face him. He still had his neck brace, and had Lula in one of his hands. 

He stayed where he stood, shifting his weight again with a hand on the back of his head while the other continued to hold Lula.

“S’ okay uh… if I sit in here?”

You nodded, offering a gentle smile. He made his way to the copilot seat before easing himself down. He leaned back into the chair, eyes fixed on the sky in front of you.

“What’s Hunter up to?” you asked casually, attempting to make light conversation.

“He fell asleep at the Navi. I didn’t wanna wake 'em up.” He told you, rubbing one of Lula's arms between his pointer and thumb. 

You hummed, not surprised. You’ve found Hunter like that a few times yourself recently; only sleeping in short bursts before he was working again. And while you’ve insisted on him simply sleeping on a rack instead, he couldn’t bring himself to. The idea of not doing anything made him restless. That was clear. But some sleep is always better than no sleep.

You both stared up at the water droplets coming and going. Lightning expertly streaked the clouds like they were a canvas and it was a master painter; thunder shaking the sky above not long after. Wrecker was almost completely silent beside you. After a few moments of shared quiet, you glanced at him, his form silhouetted in darkness, the glow of navigation screens illuminating the edges of his face. You cleared your throat.

“So…How’re ya holdin’ up?” you finally prompted. You already knew that answer. But you wanted him to know you were here for him. 

Wrecker continued to face the windshield as he glanced at you with glassy eyes. He cleared his throat before he looked back to the glass as his lips tightened into a line. Only then did you notice the shake in his hands. How long have they been doing that?

“Wreck?” you called for him softly, but he didn’t give you a response. He merely put his head into his right hand, the flesh of his thumb and pointer finger covering his eyes. You shifted in your seat and leaned in, grabbing his left hand into yours. It continued to shake as his shoulders began to follow suit; Lula being left in his lap. You squeezed, and his calloused hand squeezed back. “Wrecker…” you gently pleaded.

He breathed in through his nose sharply before the thoughts that plagued him fell like an avalanche.

“I miss em’. I miss Omega I miss Crosshair- I-” he swallowed hard, before trembling out, “I miss Tech. I should’ve been able to reach him- he was right there but I couldn’t,” his lips tightened “I’m sorry I couldn’t-” was all he could get out before a sob interrupted him

You grabbed his cheek, “Wrecker, look at me…” you asked, silently begging him to oblige.

He lifted his head from his hand, looking at you with guilt-ridden eyes. You tilted your head to get a better look at him, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Wrecker you need to understand that it’s not your fault. There was nothing you or anyone could have done. Tech… did what he knew would give us the best chance to get out. If there was another solution, he would have seen it,” you explained, tears pricking your own eyes. “There was no time left.”

He leaned into the palm of your hand as it became wet with his tears.

“What if- what if he’s still out there? And we just left him behind?” Wrecker questioned, causing you to stiffen at the suggestion. You paused to think about what to say as he searched your eyes for answers. You haven't been able to accept such a permanent loss yourself. Instead, you had convinced yourself that he was out there. That you wouldn't allow yourself to admit to him being dead unless you had unshakeable proof. That's what kept you going. At Least for now. 

“Tech is a smart and strong man Wrecker. If he survived that fall… he’d find a way to get back to us- to contact us. But we can’t risk going back, Wrecker. Not yet. Not when we have so few hands. Not when we're so low on everything. But… if he’s out there… we’ll find him.” 

Wrecker nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. He had a hand on top of yours now, inaudibly pleading for touch. You leaned forward to press your forehead against his.

“M’ so scared. I don't know what I'd do- you, Hunter, and Echo are all I have left I-” 

“We know Omega and Crosshair are still out there Wrecker. We’ll find them, we’ll bring them home,” you assured, wiping away his stray tears as you spoke.

“What if-” he choked, not needing to finish his unspoken suggestion. You moved your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, holding it to your own.

“No ifs, Wrecker. There are a lot of unknowns right now, and honestly, I’m scared too. But we can’t lose hope. We will search the ends of every galaxy if we have to. If it means our family will be together again. No matter how long that takes, we'll do it together,” you promised.

He gave you a quiet ‘okay’, tears continuing to fall down his cheeks. Not a moment later you felt him leaning his body forward before pulling you into a desperate hug. You didn’t hesitate to hug him back. His body racked with bone-deep shivers as he held onto you. As if you'd vanish if he didn't anchor you down. 

You stayed there like that for a few moments. And part of it was admittedly for yourself just as much as it was for him. The hardships you've all experienced in just the past two weeks alone weighed on the depths of your soul. And now you felt you could finally permit yourself to feel them. You both needed to take a moment to cry it out. And that was easiest to do when you had Wrecker wrapped around you like this. The weight of his grip reminds you that he's real and that he's here. That you're here. 

“I’m… happy you’re with us,” he said, his voice muffled against your shoulder as he gave you another squeeze. 

You sniffled and gave a small lighthearted laugh in an attempt to ease him, “‘Course I’m still here. Who else’ll keep you boys outta trouble when Echo’s away?”

He sniffled before giving you a short chuckle at the comment. You grinned to yourself, happy that you were able to get something out of him with that.

“But in all seriousness, everything will be okay. We’ll get em’ back. Nonna’ us are giving up on them, I promise.” 

He pulled away to look at you before wiping his eyes and smiling at you, wiping your tears off your cheeks when he saw them. “Yeah…you’re probably right,” he agreed sheepishly.

You shivered when the front of your body met the cold air, earning a concerned look from Wrecker.

“You okay?”

You looked up at him confused until you realized what he was referring to.

“Oh- yeah I’m just cold,” you explained, leaning back in your seat, wishing you had a nice hot cup of caf in your hands.

Wrecker stared at the floor of the cockpit in thought before having an idea.

“C’mere,” he offered, patting his lap.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “Ya sure?”

He nodded, placing his arms on the rests to give you more room to get onto his lap. You hesitantly accepted his offer, climbing onto him and disregarding your blanket. Immediately you were met with his warmth, it only increasing when he wrapped his arms around your middle. Lula ended up between you and his arms. Wrecker placed his head on top of yours, ignoring the momentary pain in his neck.

The clouds dissipated over the next hour, the rain softening in turn. You remained with him, both of you sinking into the co-pilot seat. You found yourselves admiring the constellations of this planet together, attempting to lock away the image of them into your memory. You don't remember the moments that came before sleep cradled you both. All you could remember was the feathery kiss that was placed on your head.

Hunter awoke with a crick in his neck from the odd position he had slept in. He attempted to rub out the discomfort with a groan before giving up and meekly accepting it to be his companion for the day. He could feel the rising sun, his senses easily picking up on the wavelengths it emitted. 

He knew that if the sun was rising, that meant the time to leave and meet their contact was approaching. He stood up, rolling his shoulders before heading to the cockpit. He figured that was where you and Wrecker would be, picking up on your distinct scents.

And he was right. There you both were, sharing the copilot seat as you both slept; your hearts beating in time with one another. Wrecker held onto you like you were his Tooka doll, and you slept there comfortably. Though to Hunter's surprise, Wrecker moved his head to face him.

“Shh, they’re sleepin’,” he scolded in a loud whisper.

[angelmichelangelo]

the dad diaries for @turrondeluxe ❤️

if anybody doesn’t know, the peepaw and babies au has TOTALLY taken over my brain like. in the best way possible so of course i just had to write a lil fic for it <3 i hope u like this, amigo! i have other little ideas floating around in my head if you’d ever want more fic version of your au :) anyway enough rambling ENJOY!! everybody go check out the au i’m fairly certain everything is archived on @peepawronin for your enjoyment :-)

His coffee, as strong as it may, didn’t deter the headache that was blossoming behind his tired, weary eyes from expanding; creeping across the front of his skull with each steady pulse of his heartbeat.

He takes another sip, steels himself to see if perhaps the magic he knows does not truly exist has worked and…

“Papa!”

There’s the sound of his youngest, voice thick with babyish chub still, carrying across the lair with determination, tallying around inside his squeezing head like a brash drum cymbal.

Before he can push himself up off his stool, it goes off again, shrill and impatient,

“Papa! Papa! I’m telling!”

That was nothing new for Michelangelo these days, that familiar old phrase, minced with saccharine dramatics, he’s blinking his eyes hard to starve off the rest of the headache that threatens him; the kind that travels down the back of his skull and towards his shell and over his spine and makes him feel about a million years old.

He heaves a sigh. He already feels a million years old these days, what with the trophies of his days gone by evident across his aging body, like his trick knee and the ache he gets in his elbow when it perhaps rains a little too hard. It’s one thing to feel it physically, but the added bonus of it being emotional as well weighs just a touch too heavy for his liking.

He comes to a stop in the pit where the sounds are louder and more pitchier, and there’s two little turtles to accompany them, faces all pinched into varying degrees of annoyance.

It’s Odyn who reaches him first, as it often is, he’s a daddy’s boy at heart, little tiny legs carrying him the small distance that separates them, he goes barrelling into the larger, older turtle, face first into his pant leg. He’s gripping the edges of the fabric with three little fingers, giving it a sharp tug when he says with a rush of air,

“Papa, Uno is being mean again!” He whines, pressing his snout into Mikey’s leg. “He keeps calling me names!”

Uno has since joined their fray now, chest heaving with each stuttered breath as if the idea of being accused of such a thing is stunting each draw of air into his lungs.

“No I didn’t!” He retorts, voice all pitchy and nasally. Michelangelo groans softly to himself. “He’s just being a baby! Like he always is!”

Such a spiteful word directed towards their youngest is enough to erupt a hurtful sob from the smaller turtle. He buries his face further into his fathers leg, his voice warbled and muffled from both the tears the the mouth full of pant he has right now, but Mikey is able to carefully decipher it of something along the lines of, (in true irony),

“See! He keeps calling me a baby!”

He pries his son’s iron grip off from his leg, forcing him to look upwards with a tap of his finger beneath his damp chin. Fat tears roll down his cheeks, framing his face almost perfectly, he looks at his child sternly.

“You know not to take it to heart, hm? Do you eat baby food and wear diapers?”

Odyn sniffles, bringing a fist up to scrub away at the snot collected beneath his snout.

“No?”

Mikey hums. “And do you chew on furniture and need papa’s help to feed yourself?”

Odyn shakes his head. “No, papa.”

Michelangelo grins softly. “Then you’re not a baby. You know that, I know that.” He looks pointedly at his other son who is unmovable under his gaze. “Uno knows that. He only says it to get a rise out of you, right?”

Odyn’s bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “Yes,” he says in a rush, “but—”

Michelangelo is swift to cut in. “But I will deal with your brother. Okay?”

Odyn doesn’t seem entirely swayed; Michelangelo thinks that maybe he wanted some sort of permission to perhaps say a bad word directed at his brother, or maybe to have it out in a short scrap and there as kind of emotional compensation that only siblings would believe to be a reliable source of insurance against name calling.

But the smaller turtle eventually heaves a heavy, wet sigh, and nods his head solemnly.

“Good. Go play with your sisters,” Michelangelo instructs him, tapping him gently against the ridge of his shell. “I think they’re coloring. Will you make me something pretty?”

That gets his spirits up, the smile beaming across his face so bright, it might as well evaporate his previous tears left behind on his cheeks.

“Okay!” He calls out with delight as he toddles off to join his other, much quieter siblings on the far side of the room. Mikey watches them as they scoot aside and make space for him, offering up a fresh slice of paper, he’s already making grabby hands for the brightest crayons they own.

“He’s always getting me into trouble.”

That’s Uno’s low, forbidding voice, all full of that way too early angst that he recognises from himself and his brothers in their adolescent years, and when Mikey turns to face him, he’s sullen.

He doesn’t wait to hear whatever wisdom his father might be able to offer, instead, his bottom lip is trembling like it’s heavy with the weight of all the words he wishes to say; all the woes and the hurt that comes with having little brothers, and suddenly, with his face drawn in such an expression and his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight, Michelangelo sees a glimpse of Raphael in this child.

“You know, I was the youngest of my brothers,” Michelangelo explains to him. He motions for him to follow as they leave the pit, letting the soft voices of the other children behind them as they walk back towards the kitchen from which he came. “I pulled the same tricks he pulls from time to time.”

Uno pauses his end of conversation to clamber on top of the barstool that wobbles slightly under his swaying weight. Michelangelo steadies it with a hand until his son is fully situated, and once he is, he’s swiveling around to face the older turtle, still sporting the same, sour expression across his younger face.

“Then why’d you let him get away with it?” He says, words barbed, like this was somehow his fault now. “It’s not fair, papa.”

And Michelangelo chuckles softly. There are the glimpses of Donatello that shine through, like bright sunshine filtering through curtains in the early morning in hues of gold – that sharp intellect that constantly comes with its millions of almost unanswerable questions.

“Because I also know what my older brothers were capable of,” he tells him gently. “They did all they could to push my buttons, to get me in trouble. They knew how to play the game without getting themselves a foul.”

Uno heaves a loaded sigh, his plastron rising and falling, his hardened glare seems to melt away a little as he allows his father’s words to soak in.

“I just hate him,” he says suddenly, words dark and low. “He’s so annoying.”

Michelangelo stiffens at that. And at his father’s physical reaction, Uno shrinks a little, aware of what he’d just said; how loaded his words were.

“You don’t hate him.” Michelangelo tells him, Uno’s gaze gingerly lifts to meet his. “You are annoyed by him, yes, but hate is such a strong word, musko-san.”

Uno’s dark eyes flicker across the room with nerves, caught out, he wrings his hands together, as if trying to rid himself of the nervous energy that this conversation was building within him.

“I’m sorry chichi,” he says in a small voice. “That was mean. I don’t hate Uno.”

Michelangelo hums. “I know.” Then, “You know how I know?”

Uno shakes his head.

“The time you taught him kanji,” he begins to list. “Or when he lost a tooth and you soothed him because he was hurt.” He watches with pride as a small smile ghosts across his child’s face. “Or whenever you read to him before bed, even when it’s the stories you have already heard before.”

Uno rubs tiredly at his eyes; all of these emotions are a lot to bear for such a small boy.

“I know you love your brother, Uno,” Michelangelo tells him, tapping a green finger beneath his chin to gather his focus. “I know because I see so much of your oji in your soul.” He smiles warmly at his son. “Each one of them,” he adds, moving his finger down from his face to rest across his plastron, right over where his heart lies. “Right here, hm?”

Uno shifts in his seat, the old, worn barstool groans under his growing weight, he pitches himself as far forward as he can go without toppling off, looking up at his father with big, round curious eyes.

“Really?” He says, voice clinging to an awed whisper.

“Really.” Mikey tells him with a stern nod. “Now go play,” he says quickly, flapping him away with a dismissive hand.

“Papa hasn’t had enough coffee this morning,” he mutters, pinching his eyes narrowly to try and avoid the impending headache that’s crawling back across his skull. “Try not to have anymore arguments until at least late afternoon, yes?”

Uno hops off his seat, almost tripping in the process, he stands tall when he tells him,

“That’s okay!” He’s smiling now. A sight Mikey is sure he’ll never truly tire of, no matter how many headaches life brings. “Maybe I can ask the others if I can draw too, and we’ll make you something nice to make you feel better, hm?”

Michelangelo reaches across the countertops for his discarded beverage from earlier. Curling his fingers around the mug, he finds with welcomed surprise that it’s still warm. “You better,” he tells him with an entirely serious tone surrounding his words, raising one brow ridge for emphasis. “I didn’t spend hours scavenging those crayons for nothing.”

And with that, Uno is padding off in the direction of where his other children are gathered; straining an ear he can hear their excitable chatter and babble as they continue to work together.

And when their eldest sibling joins in, there doesn’t seem to be any lasting animosity; Odyn shows off what he’s already made, pride and excitement swelling over whatever leftover hurt from their spat, and Michelangelo chuckles to himself as he listens to Uno’s gentle encouragement that floats through front the other room.

He brings the coffee mug to his lips, steam curls itself around his snout, and a smile touches at his face, the slightest of turns. He awards himself with another mouthful, and whilst it doesn’t do much to quell his migraine, it does feel deserved.

And later that night, when he has all four of his children growing heavy in his arms, fighting a battle against fatigue that they are bound to lose against, as it is most nights, he watches his as Uno shuffles in closer to his brother, his pudgy little arm draped across the slope of his shell, and Odyn, his jaw slack, drool dried across his chin, his soft snores only just about disturbing the silence that falls across the room, he seems to curl into his brother’s offered warmth and Michelangelo smiles softly to himself.

Here in his lap are his children – the little turtles that call him papa and rush to him to settle disputes and disagreements, and to kiss scraped knees and to devote each of their wobbly crayon drawings to him that end up covering the fridge and the kitchen walls in a decoration of color and love and he knows that even with coffee, even with the best coffee in the world, all of this is worth a thousand bad headaches. Tomorrow might bring peace and tranquility and ease, or perhaps it shall be Yi and Moja that decide to scrap and fight or maybe all four will fall out of love momentarily, as siblings often do.

Michelangelo should know, he’s been one his entire life, even if his brothers are no longer here to push his buttons or fight him or argue over petty, useless things, he knows with great ease, that despite it all, they always found their way back together, whether it was over something big or small – that was the love between brothers and family.

He presses his sleeping turtles closer to him, curling his arms around them, they melt around his warmth and he knows that much like his group of siblings, these four here, were no exception to the same rules.

He closes his eyes and basks in the moment, acutely aware in the moment of quiet, of the headache that has finally shrunk itself away.

[2996-sana]

lost in japan

loosely based on lost in japan by shawn mendes :D

being a soloist in the industry is a bit like riding a rollercoaster of emotions. while it brings creative freedom and a chance to shape your own journey, it comes with its share of loneliness. unlike being in a group, where you share every step of the journey, as a soloist, you navigate the entire process – from making albums, promotions, gigs, to tours and interviews – all by yourself. sure, you have your crew and team, your chosen family, but seeing groups together makes you a bit envious. they get to share the highs and lows, the crazy moments, and the struggles. it's a camaraderie you sometimes wanted.

but being a soloist has its perks. you get to pour your soul into your music, writing and producing most of your songs. music isn't just a job; it's a deeply personal expression. every note and lyric carries a piece of your story, every emotion, and experience that left a mark on your heart.

and then there's the subject of love.

in the vast expanse of the industry, finding love can be a challenge. all eyes are on you, not just in korea but globally, and being an idol only adds to the scrutiny. but that hasn't stopped idols from dating, and who can blame them? when love comes knocking, it's hard to resist.

for you, love arrived unexpectedly in the form of a blind date, set up by mutual connections. specifically, yeri from red velvet, who passed down the idea to nayeon from twice. and believe it or not, love turned out to be a member of the renowned girl group twice.

love felt like magic, and at this moment, love happened to be right beside you on the couch in the recording studio.

"baby, i'm gonna miss you like crazy," sana pouted.

"i know, baby, but it's only gonna be a few weeks, right?" you ask, trying to offer comfort.

"three weeks, yeah, but i hate being away from you," she replies, eyes still a bit teary.

turning to your girlfriend, you put down your guitar and scoot closer to sana. "i understand, baby. if i didn't have schedules lined up for the next few weeks, i'd come with you guys," you say, your voice carrying a tinge of sadness.

sana sighed in defeat and planted a playful kiss on your cheek. "you should write a song about me while i'm away," she teased.

you rolled your eyes. "they're all about you, i don't know what you're on about."

sana giggled, fully aware that it was true. despite this knowledge, hearing every new song you wrote about her never got old and it never failed to make her swoon. your love story held a special place in both your hearts, and having it immortalized in your music felt special. especially since the general public remained oblivious to the fact that the songs were about her or your relationship. it was like a secret world that only the two of you shared, untouched, and safe from the prying eyes of the public.

as much as sana wanted to shout about your love from the rooftops, she found solace in the fact that you both hadn't given anybody the power to take what you had away. having your close circle and family know felt like enough for now.

"i adore you so much, baby. i feel incredibly lucky," sana confessed, locking eyes with you.

"i love you, baby. we're both really lucky," you replied. "are you excited to be home and visit family?"

sana's eyes lit up. "yes! mom and dad wanted to see you, though. but yeah, it's been a while, so i'm excited."

the joy on her face brought warmth to your heart. "i'm excited for you, baby. send me lots of pictures, okay? and don't worry, i'll give you a call when you're together with your parents."

that night, you had to take sana and the rest of twice to the airport. well, technically, you were in the same car they were dropped off in, but you couldn't get off due to the swarm of reporters and fansites. now, that would be a headline.

you gave sana one last kiss and waved goodbye to tzuyu, dahyun, mina, and jihyo, who were sharing the same car.

"be safe, you guys," you said.

"we'll miss you, unnie!" tzuyu exclaimed, and the rest of the girls echoed her sentiment.

"i'll miss you the most, though," sana said sadly.

you reached for her hand and gave it a soft kiss. "i'll see you real soon, baby."

"y/n, you better pay me extra to keep sana from talking everyone's ears off about missing you this whole trip," jihyo joked, earning laughs from the group.

"bank transfer?" you suggested playfully.

"yah!" sana feigned annoyance.

"alright, alright, you guys go. the rest of the girls are already outside."

as the car door closed, you sighed. a busy week awaited you with recording sessions, and on top of that, you didn't have a girlfriend to come home to for the next few weeks. *+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

a week drifted by, and there you were, sprawled out on the cushy couch in a hotel in taiwan, peering through the grand glass windows that framed the city's glowing lights. the sun descended gracefully, painting the sky with warm hues. you wished sana was there with you. memories flooded in — of quiet evenings cocooned on the couch, watching anime after demanding days, and lively moments in the kitchen, dancing and singing together.

"it's cool. just two more weeks," you mumbled.

suddenly, a soft buzz broke the silence.

m.by__sana tagged you in a post

you tapped the notification, revealing snapshots from a dinner a week past, capturing the comically overcooked steak you had made.

당신은 여전히 최고입니다, 셰프님! ♡´ (you're still the best, chef! ♡´)

a gentle chuckle escaped you.

당신은 미친 듯이 나를 그리워하고 있을 것입니다, you playfully commented. (you must be missing me like crazy)

almost instantly, you got a reply.

당신은 모르고 있어요 (you have no idea)

you released a resigned sigh, well-acquainted with the sacrifices that came with being idols. both of you knew the drill — the inevitable stretches of separation that, despite understanding, never got easier.

you knew sana was currently holed up in her hotel with the other girls, having just gotten off a facetime call with her. it didn't make the distance any more bearable, and resisting the urge to fly over and be with her required more self-control than you cared to admit.

wait…

with a swift move, you grabbed your phone and opened up the voice memo app. "na na na na, do you got plans tonight, baby? something something, lost in your paradise. the only thing i’m thinking ‘bout is you and i, i can’t get you off my mind," you sang, a mix of determination and confusion in your voice as you attempted to untangle the tune in your head. recording the snippets, you couldn't help but hope that this spontaneous burst could turn into something.

as a musician and songwriter, you know that when inspiration hits - seize it and craft it into art. luckily for you, sana was the kind of girl who could fuel a billion songs, and the thought of writing about her never got old.

fueled by the sudden inspiration, you reached for your guitar.

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

"sana, you okay?" mina inquired, concern etching her features as she observed sana lost in thought, brows furrowed.

"she's fine. just being dramatic because y/n hasn't replied," nayeon chuckled, finding the situation amusing.

"you don't get it; she never takes this long to reply, even when we're both busy," sana whined, her frustration evident.

"unnie, isn't she in the middle of preparing for a comeback?" chaeyoung suggested. "maybe she's stuck in a meeting or recording something."

despite chaeyoung's rationality, sana's irritation persisted. she wasn't worried; she was just plain mad that you weren't responding.

the day dragged on with your replies limited to one-word responses, fueling sana's growing annoyance.

"who does she think she is?" sana slammed the door of her and momo's hotel room. "she didn't even pick up when i called her at my parents' house, and she specifically told me to!"

momo racked her brain, knowing sana's penchant for needing attention. she silently cursed you for leaving her with a moody sana.

"sana, it's okay. she'll eventually reply. i'm sure she has her reasons," momo sighed, offering a reassuring smile.

sana, across the room, sprinted to momo, shoving her phone in her friend's face. "what is this, then?"

momo squinted at your instagram story, revealing a tiktok of you and jennie doing a dance. momo silently cursed you again.

"uhh, scheduled post? maybe it's a new challenge," momo suggested, attempting to ease the tension.

sana rolled her eyes and threw her phone on the bed. "i don't care anymore."

"we can go out tonight, satang!" momo encouraged. "you'll get your mind off y/n."

sana shook her head defiantly. "i'm not going out! i'm staying in."

"nope, you can't," momo declared, standing up and joining sana. "you promised, remember?"

sana groaned. "fine, whatever, but i won't like it." *+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

sana and the group entered mina's cousin's newly opened restaurant, exclusively reserved for the night. despite the collective effort to lighten sana's mood, she remained unusually gloomy, a stark contrast to her typically bubbly self.

"sana, you look ugly when you’re frowning," jeongyeon teased, eliciting laughter from the group. sana responded by sticking her tongue out playfully. just as sana was about to retaliate, their food arrived, and the delightful aroma of the ramen momentarily diverted her attention. she was clearly hungry.

the dinner unfolded with vibrant conversations about their promotions, and even sana couldn't resist breaking into a smile and sharing a few laughs. after finishing her ramen, sana reached for a napkin on the table and discovered something tucked underneath — a small note?

do you have plans tonight?

suddenly, the lights dimmed, causing gasps from everyone. a soft strumming of a guitar filled the air.

"all it'd take is one flight,

we'd be in the same time zone."

sana could recognize that voice anywhere. her eyes shifted across the room, finding her girlfriend perched on a high stool with a guitar, singing just for her. sana could barely wrap her head around what was happening. she glanced at the girls, who were all smiling with their phones up.

as you sang, it dawned on sana what the song meant. her eyes widened as she listened.

“do you got plans tonight?

i'm a couple hundred miles from japan, and i

i was thinkin' i could fly to your hotel tonight

'cause i can't get you off my mind.”

you smiled and threw her a wink. sana couldn't help but cover her blushing face with her hands.

“do you got plans tonight, baby?

i was hopin' i could get lost in your paradise (paradise)

the only thing i'm thinkin' 'bout is you and i,

and i can't get you off my mind.”

sana should've probably known you were up to something. you wouldn't have left her hanging like that. but who would've thought you were crazy enough to leave in the middle of your schedules and fly to japan for her?

“let's get lost tonight,

let's get lost tonight,

baby, you and,

i can't seem to get you off my mind.”

the guitar strumming gradually faded, and the girls were howling and clapping. you walked toward sana with a single flower in your hand, wearing a big grin.

"hi," you said, still grinning.

sana got up, playfully shoving you before throwing her arms around you. "you are crazy!"

"crazy in love, apparently," dahyun giggled.

"are you complaining, though?" you laughed, ruffling her hair. then, you whispered in her ear, "if love doesn't make you do crazy things, then are you really doing it right?" *+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

"lost in japan is trending," sana giggled from the couch.

you joined her, tossing a blanket over both of you. "you think they're putting two and two together?" you laughed.

sana laughed, sharing a message from a fan on the bubble app.

"that new song from y/n is definitely about you and i'm taking no arguments."

[audi0med1c]

”Is It Over Now?” -Air bnb scene preview (Clexa celebrity AU)

Giving tumblr a little blurbo that bloomed on its own while driving yesterday, an hour+ highway drive and my Taylor Swift playlist found me listening to some of her older songs and one that I honestly haven’t heard in years hit me so hard bc I had been looking for the perfect nostalgic-type country song for Lexa to be dancing to while she’s cooking when Clarke walks in at the address that was sent at the end of my last chapter.

(Clarke’s POV chapters will start off going back through the earlier parts of summer before picking up at where Lexa’s POV left off, with the address that was sent... but given my current real-life emotional struggle I honestly don’t know when I will have it in me to jump back into writing because it is truly painful to step into either of their shoes with what I’m currently going through.)

This scene though was only vaguely imagined/loosely planned, however listening to this song caused the whole thing to form and play out fully and perfectly in my mind so much so that my eyes were LEAKING while driving at the soft, simple domesticity and sillyness of the moment between these girls (seeing as thing were starting to get a bit snippy and tense the deeper they got into summer), and I think I’ve been clinging to this specific scene, this specific moment nonstop since my drive yesterday just trying to keep my head above water emotionally, so today I threw together a quick little visual for it as well (basically so I can just keep re-watching it for my own mental health I think)

🚨 Basically, Lexa has sent Clarke the address to an air bnb, an attempt to step into a different kind of bubble (a more domestic one🥹) ….a bubble away from any and all associations either of their homes carry to all the ghosts and memories of hurt and pain of their past… (and other people)…

Lexa’s got music blasting, so she doesn’t hear Clarke come in. Clarke watches Lexa swaying and bouncing while singing along to “I want Crazy” by Hunter Hayes

- and just by the choice of music, this old-school country already has Clarke feeling nostalgic, reminded of those early months when they first started dating.

Lexa had fallen away from her country roots after their first year or so of dating, but even moreso than that, she hasn’t heard Lexa SING in years.

"No I don't want good and I don't want good enough

I want can't sleep, can't breath without your love.

Front porch and one more kiss

it doesn't make sense to anybody else..."

Even though she’s doing so in an overly theatrical tone moreso than her true singing voice, warmth blooms in Clarke’s chest watching silently from the door at the way the brunette’s whole body moves in such a loose and carefree way to the bouncy country beat - the quick plucky timbre of the banjo, the upbeat drums, and the rising and falling clash of the crash cymbals.

"Who cares if you're all I think about

I've searched the world and I know now

It ain't right if you ain't lost your miiiiiind....

Yeah I don't want eaaaasy, I want craaaaaazyyyy..."

The small air bnb itself was reminiscent of Lexa’s childhood home a little bit, at least the way it felt in Clarke's memory, from back when she first started going over to the house on Cornelia Street almost a decade ago - with its modest, homey feel and slightly outdated furniture and decor.

Lexa herself seemed lighter, completely relaxed and unburdened the way she sautées whatever was sizzling and smelling of garlic as if she did this every single night of her life. She did used to cook often for Clarke, until it became too easy to get a last-minute reservation anywhere they wanted with just a quick text or phone call. That and the habit of grabbing take-out from their handful of favorite spots was always quicker, and easier after Lexa’s long work days.

The actress' body stills for only a moment when the music ends, until the next song comes on, even MORE upbeat than the last.

It's a song by one of both Lexa and Clarke's all-time favorite artists, the kind of song that you know so well that you could go years without listening to it and still remember every single word.

[[song is 'Holy Ground' - but Taylor Swift is the only celebrity that does NOT exist in this universe lol]]

Without hesitation Lexa’s leg is tapping along to the punchy beat of the intro, head bopping side to side as she sang the opening lines, wooden spoon still stirring in her hand:

“I was reminiscing just the other day,

while having coffee all alone and lord it took me away,

back to a first glance feeling on New York time,

back when you fit my poems like a perfect rhyme…”

Clarke finally pushes off the doorframe into the kitchen, jumping in at the next line,

“Took off faster than a green light go

yeah you skip the conversation when you already know”

Once Lexa hears her voice and turns, her eyes are bright and her smile wide as she greets Clarke by pulling her in close to bounce along with her, twirling her as they both sing along together, smiling.

“I left a note on the door with a joke we’d made,

and that was the first daaaaay…”

Lexa tugs Clarke even closer for a kiss, her amped up energy surging through their lips as they swayed, still liplocked to the next lines that slowed down, dragging out in longer, softer notes.

[playing in background]

((“and darling iiiiiit waaaassss gooood,

neeeeverrr loooookiiiinnnn downnn

and riiiight theeereee wheeeere we stooood

was holy ground”))

They break apart and Lexa’s back to bouncing and dancing playfully when the beat picks back up, unable to contain her giggles and the kick drum thumps so strong through the speakers Clarke can feel the vibration in her ribcage.

The blonde laughs sheepishly, feeling a bit awkward at the entirely un-coordinated bouncing they were doing while holding hands.

“You know I don’t dance….” Clarke chuckled over the music.

She was perfectly enjoying watching Lexa, seeing a joy radiating off of her that immediately took her back to their earliest days together, when she was still just the girl who followed her off the bus one day.

But Lexa, starting to get out of breath from so much jumping around, shakes her head without losing the beat and her smile somehow grows impossibly wider.

“So? Dance with me anyway…..”

It was as if no time had passed.

Like they'd never even been apart.

Her grip tightens on Clarke’s hands, as she spins her again as the second verse starts, which Lexa sings by herself as Clarke smiles on with growing endearment:

“Spinning like a girl in a brand new dress,

we had this big wide city all to ourselves,

we block the noise with the sound of ‘I need you’

and for the first time I had something to looooose”

Clarke joins in again, as they bellow into each other's faces with even more vigor at the pitch jump:

"And I guess we fell apaaaart in the usual way,

and the story's got duuuuust on every page.

But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now,

And I see your face in every crowd."

The meaning of the words seems to sober them both just a little, as their smiles falter...

[in background]

(("Cause daaaarliiiing iiiiit waaaaas gooooood...."))

And perhaps it's the overall rush of the moment or a mutual need to stave off any more reminiscence, but no matter, both lean into another hard kiss. as the chorus repeats.

((Neverrr looooookinnngg downnnn....))

The kiss deepens and the girls grip tighter onto each other, barely able to heave breaths in the split seconds at a time their lips part, their hunger for each other now peaked.

((And riiiiight there wheeeerreee we stooood, was holy ground.))

Their hands scramble for skin or hair - whichever they can grasp as they bump into a wall, which seems to break the heat of the moment, at least for Lexa. She chuckles at their frenzied state, opening her eyes to search those pools of crystal blue, searching for the home in them she used to know, and takes Clarke's hand again and tugs her back to the middle of the kitchen to resume dancing again, and the blonde lets herself be spun again as Lexa sings the next lines with a dangerous amount of sincerity:

"Tonight I'm gonna daaaaance

For all that we've been throouuughhh..."

Clarke cuts in for the next line, raising their joined arms up to now spin Lexa around and then back again as she sings:

"But I don't wanna daaaaance, if i'm not dancing wiiiith youuuuu."

They embrace, losing the rhythm a little as they slow down to just swaying back and forth, and Lexa braces Clarke's face in her hands as they sing together, both still softly smiling:

"Tonight I'm gonna daaaance,

Like you were in thiiiiis roooooom..."

But I don't wanna daaaaance

If I'm not dancing wiiiith yoouuuu..."

They're kissing again fervidly as the rest of the song plays, and Clarke maneuvers them towards the room just off the kitchen. It's a tiny bedroom the size of an office, and she pushes Lexa onto the small bed along the far wall, atop a blue and red plaid quilt blanket.

Climbing on top of her ex, the blonde presses down onto the body beneath her as they work themselves up even more, little moans beginning to slip out between their tongues.

All the tiniest mundane moments that make up a lifetime, all the quiet nights in sweats and messy buns that you won’t ever find on social media or in a magazine….years worth of moments that were just them began playing back in Clarke’s mind. Just them and their unfiltered longing to be in each other’s presence.

Sometimes it hurt how simple it felt, that this was all she ever really needed to feel happy.

Lexa's just begun tugging Clarke's white shirt up when the music comes to an end, and in the few seconds of silence between songs, the sharp beeping of the smoke detector begins blaring.

"Ohmygod, dinner!" Lexa laughs, having completely forgotten she was cooking when Clarke arrived.

_________________________________

**(Any of this is subject to change whenever I finally get to this scene in the actual story...somewhere in the middle/second half of Clarke's cruel summer chapters))

[idkwhyimhere5462]

It is not uncommon for Zane to repress or lock away memories. We see it many times such as Decoded, The Quest for Lost Powers, Virtues of Spinjitzu (I’ll get into that later). Zane does not like processing the traumatic things that happen to him and it’s very prevalent. Also, yes I’m talking about Zane again, shut up.

The first time we see it is in season four where he does not seem to understand that he died. He knows that he is not in the same body but he does not want to connect himself to White Ninja. He does not want to accept that he died. He gives himself an entirely new identity, the Titanium Ninja, to avoid those thoughts, and he locked the memories away. We see them again in Decoded in the form of the Ninjigma.

At first, we are led to believe whatever is hacking Zane created it and then the others learn that Zane himself created it. This is foreshadowed with Nya telling Zane he has gaps in his memory. Zane simply tells her his memory bank is damaged, but seeing what’s inside the Ninjigma, we know that isn’t true. He didn’t create that to hide away the virus, it was to hide the memories. He doesn’t even remember creating it, wanting his future self to never find it.

Next, the Ice Emperor. Sixty years of being someone you aren’t, being a cruel tyrant to innocent people, tearing apart families as you desecrate an entire ecosystem by placing it under an eternal winter. Zane, who’s entire purpose is to protect those who cannot protect themselves, did all of that. He had to live with those memories, until he doesn’t. He locked them away, refusing to let himself even think of it. That is why he “recovered” so quickly next season. No one speaks of it, and Zane does the same. If he pretends it never happened, it he locks the memories away deep enough, maybe he can convince himself that it didn’t. The next time we see them is in “The Quest for Lost Powers”. (I literally love this book so much. Farmer Cole my beloved.) Pixal tells him that maybe his lost memories are the key to getting his powers back.

Zane is afraid, he does not want to look at them, afraid to face himself as the Ice Emperor again. He carried these around for years, not allowing himself to face the facts. They aren’t gone though, only shoved into the recesses of his mind. Finally he accepts, he faces himself as the Ice Emperor and finally learns to forgive himself.

Virtues of Spinjitzu is the next time. Wu asks the Ninja if they remember the Six Virtues of Spinjitzu. None of them remember. Wu asks Zane how he doesn’t remember, he has a perfect digital memory after all.

Zane claims he had to put some of his memories offline to clean them up. We know that in “The Quest for Lost Powers” his memories are still all messed up. He probably accidentally threw that memory in with some of the Ice Emperor ones and didn’t want to rifle through them to find it again.

And finally, season fifteen. After realizing locking away memories has consequences where he had trouble remembering things he did not mean to lock away, he needed a more reliable way to avoid processing his emotions. Hence, the emotion meter.

This is something everyone finally saw. Zane couldn’t hide this from anybody. Nobody liked it, but what could they do? They could only stand and watch as their brother, pupil, and lover, take away any humanity he had. Even after Nya became human again, he kept it off, still wanting to avoid any future negative emotions. He learned from Sally that he needed emotions, even bad ones. He turned them back on and allowed himself to process his feelings again and then later forgiving himself in “The Quest for Lost Powers” and finally truly being a fully developed character.

Some people say Zane was already developed in season four, but I wanted to highlight the behind the scenes development that I’ve never really seen people talk about. Zane was never a developed character until “The Quest for Lost Powers”. He hid away memories and avoided confrontation with himself. He wanted to be there for his siblings and that only led to him barring himself off from helping himself. He believed if he had his own problems he couldn’t help them.

At least, this is how I see it. I wanna know other’s opinions on the behind the scenes development with him. See ya.

[lefaystrent]

Me, Myself, and These Guys Who Kinda Look Like Me Ch. 6

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: Thomas/The Sides

Summary: It starts with dreams. Then Thomas starts seeing the dream people in the waking world.

Thomas doesn't know how to bring it up to anybody or if he even should at this point.

AKA, Thomas has to acknowledge the six colorful characters in the room, much to their long-awaited delight.

Ao3 Link: click here

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

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

The food goes in the microwave and the others sit in the living room. Logan sits leg over knee on one end of the couch. On the opposite end, Roman has both feet planted on the ground, forearms on knees. Patton folds himself on the ground and uses Roman's leg as a backrest. Virgil scales the back of the couch and sits above everyone, back to the wall.

Thomas takes a deep breath. He can do this.

He doesn't want to just stand before them. That'd feel too much like lecturing. Besides, this could take a while. He positions himself in the middle of the couch, situated in the corner of the L where he has a good view of everyone.

"First things first," he says, clearing his throat. "How do we get the others here?"

Roman shifts, mouth set in a serious line. He looks around the tv area as if they'll pop up there. "Remus? Can you come out?"

"We need you to come out," Patton chimes in. "Both of you? Please."

"Can they hear?" Thomas asks.

"Yes, with enough intent, we can hear each other from our rooms," Logan explains. "Whether they choose to respond is up to them."

"Don't you mean whether Remus has the choice to respond?"

To that, Logan doesn't answer. It's for the best. Thomas, usually so patient, struggles to find a happy medium amongst his roiling emotions. Thomas didn't have to sound so spiteful just then. He's not really proud of it. He doesn't want to keep going in that direction.

Virgil runs his hands through his hair, suddenly very aggravated. "Dude, he's right, let's just talk about this already and stop being super shady. Thomas isn't fragile and this is literally his life we're invading. He deserves to know."

"I wouldn't say invading, kiddo."

"Yeah? What would you say then?"

"Keeping him company? Look, I know this probably could have been handled better-"

"You think?"

"Stormcloud, please take a moment. You're lashing out."

"I wasn't even on board with it in the first place!" Virgil emphasizes, but he puts in the effort to pace his breathing and lessen the venom in his words. He pushes the agitated energy into bouncing his foot against the cushion. "He was the one who said it was for the best, and I said it was stupid, but I didn't want to push when all of this-" he gestures at everything and everyone, "is not a situation anyone can prepare for, so who the hell knows what's best? We don't, and we shouldn't pretend to know, and carrying on like that will just make Thomas hate us."

"While your concerns are valid, saying that Thomas will hate us falls under a cognitive distortion known as catastrophizing. Perhaps Thomas would not agree and feel frustrated; however, that does not mean he will figuratively jump straight to hate. In fact, I think his endeavor to discuss this with us now is a testament to his willingness to improve communication between us."

"That's exactly it," Thomas concedes, and he shares a look with Logan. Logan gives a nod, acknowledging his want for a truce. "It's not easy, but we need to talk and establish some boundaries. This... this doesn't seem to be going away. I'm still seeing you, and if we're going to live together, we can't be stepping on each other's toes or shutting each other out."

Roman nods along with his words. He laces his fingers together. "Yeah, okay. I'm on board."

"Me too," Patton says. "We want to show you more consideration, Thomas."

"Not just me, Patton," and if Thomas lets frustration seep into his voice, that just goes to show how much they're missing the point. "With each other too. I'm not the only person here. You're people too, you guys. You're real. I don't know how you're here, but you're real, and you're just as important. Which also means that I'll need to be considerate of you guys too."

"You don't owe us anything," Virgil rebuffs, and it's the way that it sounds stifled and stressed and self-deprecating, that it gets to Thomas.

"And you don't owe me anything either," Thomas urges. "Not beyond like, roommate courtesy. Because that's what we are now. Roommates in my one-bedroom apartment. Roommates that are stuck with each other whether we like it or not."

There are a couple of winces and Thomas backtracks.

"Okay, I shouldn't have said 'stuck with'. I don't like the connotations of that."

"Doesn't make it any less true," Roman says, but he smiles in sympathy.

Thomas shrugs. "Either way, no one got a choice in this. But the choices on how we handle it after? That's what matters. And while I understand where Bowler Hat is coming from, I don't think it's healthy for him to feel like he has to avoid me when we're going to have to learn how to live together. Whatever he looks like, he shouldn't have to be ashamed or scared of how I'll react. And as for Remus, he uh, okay he's exuberant and maybe got a little ahead of himself. But that's the kind of thing we need to talk about after, not just shove it away. Or shove him away."

"Aww, you do care!"

Thomas blinks and glances over. Behind the couch by Logan, Remus's top half if visible, his arms folded over the top of the couch. He appears completely unruffled by whatever treatment he received from Bowler Hat.

"Took you long enough," Roman snorts.

"Sorry, I had a little reptile dysfunction issue."

"Never mind, you can go back to the hole you crawled out of."

"No, no, no, we just talked about this," Thomas says. He turns to Remus. "Thank you for joining us."

Remus beams and hops over the back of the couch effortlessly to plop beside Thomas. Like right beside him. He slides an arm over Thomas's shoulders and presses up against the full-length of his side.

"Thank you for missing me," Remus purrs, eyes at half-mast, and a big part of Thomas's brain traffic jams. Remus is about as tall as Thomas is, maybe taller with his heeled boots. And his build isn't that much larger than Thomas's, and yet it feels like he's towering over him.

Thomas gulps and loses all ability to speak.

"Remus, you shouldn't-" Patton begins, but he never finishes. Likely, he's torn between reprimanding Remus and bearing in mind how upset Thomas was at Remus being pushed away.

This though? This is too much. Thomas can't think. What were they talking about?

"Remus, we were just having a conversation about personal boundaries," Logan says from somewhere far, far off from faraway land. He tugs on Remus's arm, not harshly, just pointed. "We would like you to join the conversation, after you remove yourself from Thomas. Consent is an important part of communication."

Remus's playful smirk diminishes. He gives Thomas a considering once over.

"Do you want me to remove myself?" Remus asks lowly, staring with rapt attention.

Did Thomas?

Okay, sue him for a moment's hesitation. Yes, yes he did want Remus to move. This is way too intimate and tossing his thoughts in a spin cycle.

Thomas nods his head vigorously.

"Then remove I shall," Remus says, sounding unbothered but slowly untangles himself. He scooches over closer to Logan, and Thomas feels like he can breathe again.

"Okay, um," Thomas starts eloquently. He feels himself blushing and curses himself internally. He's frazzled enough to blurt out, "I just want to put out there that I don't mind touch, but Logan's right, consent is important."

"Consent is sexy."

"Yes, Remus. Thank you. We shall all endeavor to be sexy- I mean important! I mean- Communication! We're communicating, damn it!"

"I don't endeavor to be sexy. I achieve," Roman says suavely because of course he does.

"More like overachiever," Virgil snarks.

"Are you calling me more than sexy?"

Virgil thinks back over his own words carefully and promptly shuts the fuck up. He throws his hood up over his head and the material swallows up his embarrassment. It's pretty adorable actually.

Thomas slaps lightly at his cheek as if that will suppress the gay inside him.

"We're getting off track," he notes. "What about Bowler Hat?"

"Oh, he's still in my room," Remus supplies. He stretches his long legs out and crosses them at the ankles. "He said we could carry on without him. He just wants us to give you the dirty deets beforehand. He'll pop up after."

"Oh, okay. Wait, you guys can go to each other's rooms?"

"Nah, just him."

The interdimensional pocket planes that Logan said were specific to each of them? That only they could go to? If Bowler Hat can move freely between all of them while the others can't, what does that mean?

Patton explains, "The rest of us can't, but J- I mean, Bowler Hat is the only one of us who has managed to come into our rooms. We're not sure how he does it, and he's not able to explain it well either. It's something he's always been able to do. We've tried before, but it's never worked."

The rest of them more or less nod to support the point. Thomas stows that knowledge away in a bin for later. He's not sure what he'll do with that information, but it seems noteworthy.

"So, what's his deal then?" Thomas asks. "Respectfully. What does he look like that you guys think he'll scare me?"

"He looks like part snake," comes Virgil's muffled voice. He's tightened his hoodie strings to the point that he looks a little ridiculous. "There, I said it."

"Part...snake?"

"It's um, this part of his face?" Patton trails his fingers over the left half of his face. "There are scales, and his eye is a different color."

"Ask how far the scales go," Remus challenges.

Thomas does not ask how far the scales go.

"Like legit scales?" Thomas asks for clarification. "Like a naga or something?"

Logan nods. "Vaguely similar to some depictions, just sans the snake tail bottom. He has fangs as well."

Fangs?

Thomas imagines Bowler Hat smiling.

Nope, not helping. Stop it.

"He's not like, evil or a monster or anything," Patton tells Thomas, mistaking his furrowed brows for apprehension. "He's a good person."

"He's just a snake boy," Roman agrees.

Thomas slaps his forehead. "Oh my gosh, that's why you guys kept making snake jokes about him! That's why you called him Bananaconda, oh my gosh, it makes so much sense now."

Roman preens. "Thank you, I'm quite proud of that one."

"Okay, he's a snake man. Part snake man. Why not?"

Virgil peers out skeptically from the hole of his hood. "That's it?"

"Why not? At this point, you guys could tell me pretty much anything and I'd probably believe you."

"I can fart fire."

Thomas points at Remus. "See there? Like that. Totally believable."

"Well this was terribly anticlimactic," Roman mutters. "You might as well get out here now, Fangilicious!"

"Who's she? Never heard of her," Bowler Hat announces, walking down the stairs. One hand glides down the banister in an unhurried motion. He carefully doesn't look in Thomas's direction.

"The gang's all here!" Patton cheers. Thomas wonders if he's trying to lighten the mood.

"I've never heard of gangs in my life," Bowler Hat says with an utmost grave expression that Thomas cannot take seriously. Not that Thomas is paying much attention to his words.

As they banter, Thomas watches enraptured. Because standing before them is very much a part snake man. His eyes trace over the left side of Bowler Hat's face, and his brain tries to tell him it must be make-up, and the slitted eye could be a contact lens. Also, Thomas could wake up any minute and this would all be a dream.

It's not a dream. It's scales cascading from temple to jaw and disappearing into his neckline. Green blends into yellow in a iridescent ombre, and the colors shimmer in the ceiling light. The line of his mouth extends further than it should on the left side, and as he talks, Thomas catches a glint of fang.

It's a compelling exhibit of fine jewelry that beckons him closer. Thomas rises to his feet and walks over. Bowler Hat is good at keeping a composed facade. However, he can't ignore Thomas when the man stands directly in front of him. He glances at Thomas, and wow. The left eye really is slitted and golden with flecks of green and amber brown. He's caught half in a transformation, as if any second he'll become a true snake.

"Would you like to take a picture? It will last longer," Bowler Hat comments airily.

Thomas wants to ask if they would even show up in a picture. He thinks they should do a science experiment and give it a go.

What comes out of his mouth is a string of unintelligible high-pitched trilling. Thomas flaps his hands and bounces up and down and finally shapes words in his vocalizations. "That's so cool!"

Bowler Hat flinches and stares at him critically. He looks either constipated or like he thinks Thomas has lost his mind. "I....totally knew you were going to say that. Please keep gawking like I'm an animal on display at the zoo."

"No, no, it's really cool," Thomas tries again. He doesn't know how to assure the man that he isn't trying to gawk, he's just excited. "That's so cool. You're cool!"

"What's cooler than being cool?" Patton asks.

"Ice cold!" Roman and Remus holler.

"Actually, we are most likely room temperature due to not being able to produce body heat."

Bowler Hat tuts at Logan. "You heard the man, I'm cool. The coolest. How does it feel to be less than in my presence?"

Virgil calls him a dork and Remus says something about whale anatomy, but Thomas is still too busy making star eyes at Bowler Hat.

"They're so pretty," Thomas coos, and by sheer impulse he reaches up and cups the side of his scaled face.

In hindsight, they literally just had a conversation about the importance of consent. But a possessed fascination grips Thomas and draws him in. It isn't a conscious decision. His hand is suddenly there, and Thomas is transfixed at the smooth slide of scales under his fingertips. The cheekbone juts out a bit more than the other side, more angular like the jaw. There's much less of an eyebrow on this side too. It doesn't detract in the slightest. It's so pretty and lovely and feels nice.

"Oh."

Thomas comes back to himself enough that he takes in Bowler Hat's expression. His mouth hangs gently open and the composure from before is gone. He's looking back into Thomas's eyes, lost and yet like he's realized something of infinite importance.

The rest of the room melts away. The filter of thoughts running through Thomas's brain disconnects. He thinks he should step back, but physically he cannot move his hand. Strangely, it doesn't worry him as much as it should. He's more inclined to drink in the unreserved reverence in the other's eyes. A flush rises in the more human side. A flash of interest passes, an idea that maybe Thomas has seen him somewhere before. A familiarity that can't be placed.

Thomas's thumb caresses over the scales and brushes over the corner of his lips. Bowler Hat's eyelids flutter, and rather suddenly his knees buckle.

"Janus!" a couple of people exclaim. Roman has thrown himself forward and is at Thomas's elbow, but Thomas has managed to mostly catch the other before he falls completely.

"I'm fine, completely fine," Bowler Hat wheezes. He's gripping at the front of Thomas's shirt to steady himself. Thomas returns the hold and observes him worriedly.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me," Thomas apologizes profusely. He appreciates when Roman helps to stabilize the dazed snake man.

"I don't know what you're talking about, nothing happened," Bowler Hat...Janus? Is that what they just called him? He snaps at them and tries to push them away.

"You looked like you were fainting!" Roman argues.

"I was not!"

"I'm sorry," Thomas says again, not knowing what else to say.

Bowler Hat Janus jerks around to him. "Shut up! Damn you, Thomas!"

Then, much to everyone's shock, he begins to cry.

He quickly swipes at his face with shaking hands and turns away from them. "This is a completely normal reaction! Stop staring!"

Thomas looks to Roman for an explanation or an answer or just support in general. Roman seems just as perplexed, if not more so.

"I've never seen him cry before. Ever," Roman whispers. He looks more than baffled. There is fear in his eyes, like his world has tilted on its axis.

"What do we do?" Thomas hisses. This is his fault. He knows it is. And he has to make it better. He'll do anything. He can't stand it when people cry around him even more than when they argue. Especially people who are crying because Thomas made them cry somehow.

Remus appears on Thomas's other side. He prods at him, trying to silently coax Thomas in Janus's direction. His arms mime a hugging motion. There's no ounce of humor in the way he does it or in his face. He's not being silly or flirtatious. He looks just as rattled as Roman does.

Thomas listens to him and his instincts and steps around Janus to face him. The other's eyes are rimmed red and he's breathing in tiny hiccups and sniffles that he attempts in vain to contain. Thomas can't compare the person he sees before him here with the placid man from last night. It's night and day.

Thomas makes sure he sees him before holding out his arms. He doesn't take that last step. He waits with a patient smile and shows that he's there if he needs, if he wants the comfort. He'll let Janus make the choice this time.

And Janus does. He takes one look at Thomas and his lip wobbles.

Thomas finds his arms very full afterwards.

***

Holding someone while crying is probably on a list of top five trauma bonding exercises.

Janus's arms are wound around Thomas's torso and the force of his embrace punches the wind right out of his lungs. It's a desperate hold that says, "Don't you dare let go," as well as, "Please God, don't let me go." Janus's face lodges in Thomas's shoulder and refuses to move, and Thomas feels wetness trickle down against his neck along with stuttered breathing. Thomas just turns their bodies a little more away from everyone's startled gazes to help Janus hide better.

For Thomas's part, it's much easier to return the hug than he thought possible. There's a need in him to shelter, to bring close. He rubs at his cloaked back where it heaves, and he places his hand over a slightly scaled neck to provide warmth and comfort. Janus shudders at the skin-to-skin contact and merely tightens his hold. At some point, Janus's hat fell off and the hair left revealed is flat in some places and wispy in others. Thomas rests his brow against his head and whispers that it's okay, that everything is going to be okay and that he's not going anywhere.

The most baffling part is that Thomas is steadily leaking tears himself. A big softie he may be, but he's never been much of a sympathetic crier. Usually, he can keep better control over his tear ducts when he needs to be the one doing the comforting. So why is he crying? What is he feeling?

Well, he feels breath against his collar, intakes of air that grow increasingly longer and less strained. He feels Janus's weight almost boneless against him. Thomas feels glad that he has been to the gym some and that his arms are strong enough to humbly hold up a pretty scaled crying man.

He feels guilty? Yeah, he feels guilty that he made Janus cry. He feels relieved that he's letting Thomas comfort him now, because he'd feel even worse if he couldn't. He feels like there's more going on in Janus's head, in all of their heads, than Thomas can imagine.

He feels like his heart is swelling and if he lets go of Janus he might die.

This connection between him and the others...how deep does it go? The way they've interacted with him... Remus especially has been handsy today. Clingy?

Thomas squeezes his arms, testing the waters. Janus sighs at the pressure and relaxes further into him and the grounding pressure. The resulting surge of rightness dazzles Thomas and a fresh bout of tears escapes him.

Scared by his own reaction, Thomas swivels to look at the others. While they have been busy crying, the others had moved around some. Patton climbed up to sit beside Virgil, head resting against his shoulder. Virgil has a hoodie string clamped in his mouth. Not chewing, just holding it there while he stares at his hands. Roman and Remus sat back down on the couch, heads close together and whispering subtly. Oddly, they're holding hands.

Logan paces quietly behind the couch, walking back and forth from table to closet door. He's the first to notice Thomas's wide-eyed plea for help. He comes to an abrupt stop, assessing before he comes to some decision and strides over to them.

He looks Thomas over clinically and understands the priority here. Logan presses his palm against Janus's shoulder.

"Janus, if you're feeling any better, perhaps you would like to sit down? We can talk, if you are comfortable with that. We're all willing to listen. And if that seems too overwhelming at the moment, we can relocate to my room?"

It takes a solid minute until Janus gives any sign that he hears them. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eases his death grip on Thomas and retracts his arms. Finally, inch by careful inch, he lifts his head, no longer leaning against Thomas.

He avoids Thomas's gaze. His eyes flicker to the side. At least he's not crying anymore.

"I'll be alright," he says in a soft tone that Thomas has to strain to here. "Thank you for your concern. That will be unneccessary."

What a silly man. Of course it's necessary.

Thomas scoops up one of his hands and holds it until Janus glances up at him. When he gets a good look at him, he gasps.

"Why on earth are you crying?!" Janus shouts. It's not accusatory. It's rife with bafflement and worry and other emotions that Thomas cannot name.

"I dunno. I've just got a lot of emotions right now," Thomas sniffles meekly, feeling more traitorous tears leak. "I don't like that I made you cry. I'm sorry. I just want you to be okay."

"You absolutely silly man," Janus huffs in an echo of Thomas's own thoughts. It startles a little laugh out of him, and he lets Janus fuss over him. Gloved fingers wipe delicately at his cheeks and eyes, the material scratchy at his sensitive skin yet soothing in their sentiment. "Even when you're bawling your eyes out you can't help but be endearing, can you? It's criminal."

Thomas giggles and feels significantly lighter.

Janus takes charge of the situation and leads Thomas back to his spot on the couch. He goes so far as to retrieve a glass of water and a throw blanket, making sure that Thomas is well taken care of. Thomas wants to protest, but he thinks this is Janus's way of showing he forgives him while getting his own bearings straight.

"Now then." Janus stands with hands on hips, haughtiness masking the previous emotional vulnerability. He looks at Thomas expectantly. "I believe you wanted a conversation? Let's talk."

[onelocket]

Words heavier than guns

Fyodor Dostoevsky + GN Reader

involves -- harm/violence, quotes from the real fyodor d., mentions of religion

kinda just sat down and started aggressively typing so yeah. might delete tomorrow

⚘

You wanted to show him the better world.

That’s all you wanted to do, all you had to live for. Neither your future nor dreams were above it. You wanted to show Fyodor Dostoevsky the better world that was already here, because he doesn’t seem to realize it himself.

"A better world?" Nikolai repeats your mumble, eyes slightly wide with amusement.

"My, what a brave one you are. Do you perhaps think similar as I? To indulge your emotions… for a guy who shows none."

Gogol’s words should be enough to eat you whole, but it failed to kill that wrecking force.

The days went on with fail to be numbered since you had your life dedicated to a guy like Dostoevsky, who you never actually knew your feelings to. Was it hatred, jealousy, or a love concerning for what he seems to show as his ideals and desires?

But even if you did find attraction to this man… to fall in love does not mean to love. One can still fall and still hate.

And you felt as if all three gutting emotions twisted you. Twisted your once logical heart — twisted your once stable mind. All twisted to melt to pure covetous.

His ideals of ‘changing’ this world to a better place left a bitter tune on your ears, disagreeing on every single word he had his beautiful voice sing out. How utterly wasteful.

"He is playing fools," You replied to Gogol, a finger of yours tapping on the table. "Dostoevsky is a fool with brains but no heart."

"Mhm? How would you define somebody who has a heart, then?" The clown in front of you smiled, his eyes near to squint with that entertained decoration.

"…Anybody but Dostoevsky is."

⚘

"I’d say you played yourself to who you call the fool," Fyodor smiled, "but to let mind realize something — If I’m what you call a fool with brains but no heart, then you are a fool with a heart but no brains."

You coughed out a pungent hatred for him, body sat on the floor with your palms supporting your heavy chest. Your eyes glare over his purple ones, never seemingly giving you a chance to find any peeked door to his true emotions.

His display was too good, even for the mind of yours.

Hand on your mouth, you slowly let it fall, eyes leaving his gaze to turn to the gun beside you. The gun you relied on to use if things got unsolvable.

It’s not even the situation that held that word at this point — Fyodor himself carried it.

You swore your own mind could kill as you can’t seem to discard that Gogol obviously told Fyodor about you and his conversation earlier this day. How else would Fyodor suddenly bring up a point you only made to the clown today?

The thought didn’t help, leading your mind to keep this… rather tense conversation going.

"Then that just makes the both of us fools, doesn’t it? We’re both unhappy, and we both suffer." You say.

"Knowing that, you’d still live in a fool’s paradise?" Fyodor replied, a smirk contorting on his face as if finding your reply entertaining.

"But never in yours, that’s for sure."

You asserted, lifting your hand up as a familiar sound of clicking comes out from the gun — now aimed at the man in front of you. Fyodor’s now faint smile remains untouched by your threat, his eyes narrowing down to examine yours. "Being shot in a church isn’t really in my ideal." Fyodor hummed out, as if situation was but a small talk for you and him.

"I’ve been trying to get rid - to burn those thoughts of yours that only bring death and punishment to this world. I fail to see the ‘better’ in there, yet you don’t think the same." You explained, as if trying to deny you were aiming a gun at his chest. Of course, you never plan to shoot him right now, but you can’t afford him to move either, so excuses are ought to be made.

"I wouldn’t just shoot the guy I’ve been trying to change his view even after so long, would I?" You finished with a chuckle, as if all was just a playful banter.

Yet to Fyodor — it played like a tinkle of bells with roses being thrown to a wedding aisle, but accompanied to thorns that could send even the angels from above bleeding.

Your voice and noise, words and mien was always patterned like the Devil instructed you itself, but with God planning every breath you took with it.

And as if you couldn’t get any better, your dedication to change his unmoved mind was nothing but entertainment. You disliked his side of beliefs, but you clearly had a reason to all be pressing onto this manner as if you were an ability user in threat.

You challenged the embodiment God and the Devil both sculpted for this world; now gotten sucked up by it. First committed to change his mind, being human second.

And to Fyodor, that was nothing but beautiful. A beautiful that isn’t boring for once. A beautiful that he didn’t need to change — a beautiful he can both consume or get destroyed in; depending on his desire.

Fyodor gifts you a low hum, "Ah, but of course. Love in action is harsh and dreadful compared to love in dreams, isn’t it?" peppering that sense with another question that leaves your stare more intense.

Love? Dreams?

"Tell me, milaya. What am I to you?"

What is he to you — that makes you want to even betray your own soul to make me see the world the way you see it?

You left him unanswered, your fingers gripping tighter on the metal while you look at him intently. For once, you didn’t think of an immediate reply to fight back. Not that you could — with you leaving your conflicted thoughts untainted, it was hard to reply calmly; no matter how collected you acted yourself out.

Lover, acquaintance and enemy — he was like all at once.

But Fyodor doesn’t wear any disappointed anticipation in his face as he just stares at you, to which… you weren’t sure if you could’ve done the same.

Instead, your eyes meet the overly large window behind him, lighting the whole church with an amethyst dark and elegant. Nothing was behind him but the window illuminating light, however you couldn’t help but feel as if God Himself was behind Fyodor, glaring at you with contempt Fyodor couldn’t show himself.

It accompanied Fyodor’s figure all too well — that irritating gaze of beauty making your mind twitch as you huffed out a soft noise, fixing your eyes back at him.

"What you want isn’t better. Killing others that have an ability like you isn’t going to bring forth any better." You cut the uncharacteristic silence, your body copying it in the process as you brought your knees to stand, gun still aimed at him.

"Being told so by a non-ability user brings me different." He spoke calmly, albeit his action turns otherwise as Fyodor steps forward to you, making your actions pause while your ears register that harsh, loud step on the wooden flooring of the empty church.

"All I want you is to follow what I see in this world. You just need to let me show it to you."

"And so do I want a better world to be seen… to be understood by all." He replied like your words were a question.

As if finding no acknowledgement to the gun aimed at him, you soon see Fyodor reach down, his fingers all gliding up to rest delicately on your forehead — feeling them tighten its grip on your hair in the process.

Your breath hitches, your intense stare on the guy in front of you creaking into something unfamiliar instead as his eyes follow your lips instead. The light fails to support you, your vision unable to see the true emotion in his eyes as your body froze, unresponsive to anything.

"But if a begging rat like you wants it so bad to be bringing guns to me," Fyodor rasped before properly speaking; the words sharpening themselves while he gently pulls your hair for you to look up, "Then destroy my desires. Eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and only then will I follow you."

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

The guest PT 13

Masterlist

Jack Dawkins x fem reader.

"Did you mean to walk into a cupboard?" Jack asked having shit the door behind them

Belle looked back at him.

" Obviously not!" She says.

" Gosh. You are incredibly irritating." Jack stepped up to her.

"So are you. 'Cause you won't listen to anyone else's point of view. All I'm saying is it is not clear-cut." Belle fought.

"Look, you either want to be a doctor, who cares for everybody, no matter how spotty their soul may be, or you are "milady," who gives six of the best to the peasants when we get uppity."

" Uppity? I know you had your past indiscretions, but these were bushrangers who killed three men, one a father." Belle almost shouted.

"Some people need to thieve in order to eat."

" And that can lead to death, too." Belle scoffed.

" Have you ever seen anybody dead on the streets from hunger? No! Have you ever paid for anything you've eaten? Or worn, or lived in?"

She thought for a moment.

"That's a false syllogism." Belle grumbled and rushed for the door.

" Whatever that is, it is not.If you can't see what is happening here, Belle, then you and I have big problems. This puts a wall between us." Jack rounded her stopping her from opening the door

" You climbed it fine when you kissed me in the surgery."

"That. That was..."

"For y/n?" Belle whispers.

"she says you and I should..." Jack furrows his brows in thought.

"She says the same to me, but I-"

"Me either." They agree.

"You love her?" Belle asks. Jack swallows down the emotions that threaten to spill over. His eyes searched hers.

"So do you." He whispers. Belle casts her eyes down, "So does Sneed."

"Where is she?" Belle asks.

"I haven't seen her in a while." He admits. They nod to each other and leave the cupboard, both set on finding you. Belle darts off in one direction as Jack starts in the other. A hand grabs his shoulder pulling him back.

"Gaines has got Red."

*_*_*_*

You weren't sure why you had come up to Jack's room. You had needed a moment to gather your thoughts. Or maybe you needed to breathe. Was there a reason? Your feet had moved you without much thought from your mind. Looking around yourself it felt different, like recalling it from a dream.

A dream.

The dreams.

Was this a dream?

Was your body sitting on the side of the road somewhere?

Alone.

You're alone now.

Maybe you could just lie down.

Just for a moment.

*_*_*_*

Jack threw his coat onto the end of the bed, wraps open his closet and begins to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. The opens once more letting Fagin inside.

"Oh, good, the day improves." Jack quips.

"Hurtful." Fagin crossed the room sitting down in a wooden chair. His eyes briefly graze over your sleeping form, but not enough to acknowledge you therem, "Listen, that booze robbery of ours."

" Yes. The one I told you not to do." Jack asked.

" Wise insight on your part, but it appears Flashbang's still in a crate." Fagin answered

"Get him out." Jack laughed.

"Thank you, admirable solution. The thing is, Flashy's hid in a crate of top-shelf cognac, which the kitchen lad said is still in the Governor's study." Fagin explained.

"I don't have time. Y/n is missing and Red's having a baby. I'm trying to keep her alive." Both men look to the bed for a moment as if their minds knew something more than they did.

"What do you wanna do that for? Save the kid. It's not their fault. I'll take it under me wing. But she has been a blight on every single job we've ever done and she can't meddle if she's dead." Fagin grumbled.

" She's Tim's promise. She's carrying his child." Jack said.

The once more opened, "Jack? Baby's coming feet first and she's too far gone to turn it." Hetty states.

"She'll need a caesarean. And she'll die if we do that." Jack sighs.

"She might not if you did it." Hetty says hopefully.

"She won't let me touch her." Jack huffs.

"What about Princess Whatserface? If you talked her through, and I assisted?" Hetty suggested.

"She's not trained." Jack reminds her.

"What about y/n?" Hetty says pointing her hand towards you. The two men turn to the bed for the first time actually seeing you in the bed.

"was she always there?" Fagin asked. Jack couldn't be sure.

" No, hold up. Old Cheekybones is a very good notion. I'm starting to see there is a certain symmetry to our objectives here."

" Belle?"

"Booze."

" Flashbang?"

" Flashbang."

"Hetty can you look after y/n? Come on, you sack of bones!"

Hetty watched the two men leave before coming over to you, shaking your shoulder lightly until you woke.

"I visited my mother this morning. She gave me my uncle's journal. I'm worried for you." She says. You sit up

"What does it say?" You ask.

Hetty sighs.

"After the dreams started Lulu didn't have long. She started drifting even when she was awake. Like her body was between worlds. My uncle said there were times he knew she was with him but he couldn't see her or hear her..other times he could hear her but not see her." She paused for a moment looking to the door. " just now, Fagin and Jack were in here and they couldn't see you until I pointed you out."

You let out a shaky breath.

"My uncle wrote that Lulu would talk about a tether, needing something that would tie her to this world over all the others. A real connection to it." She reached out for your hand, "if you want to stay here then we can find one for you. A real tether."

"Thank you Hetty. I'd be lost if it wasn't for you." You say pulling her into a hug.

Downstairs in the main part of the hospital Red was chained to a bed her baby's life at risk.

"Do you know anything about childbirth?" Hetty asked.

"I'm not a midwife, but I know the fundamentals." You reply.

"okay that's better than none at all." Hetty grabs your hand and drags you down the stairs.

@fandomfan-102 @deanstolemydragon @mydeputyghostwagon

[specialagentlokitty]

Carol Danvers x reader - a lifetime

Part three:

A few weeks had passed, and there still wasn’t any activity on the console, and Carol frowned heavily, turning around to look at you laying across the beanbag.

“Are you sure this’ll work?”

“Yes, stop questioning my own knowledge of my people.”

She raised her hands.

“Alright moody.”

She walked away, and she dropped herself next to the beanbag.

You turned your head to look at her, setting your book down.

“What’s wrong?” You asked.

“I just feel like we could be doing more, instead of sitting around.”

“Danvers, there’s thousands of dying stars and suns out there, we don’t know where the next one will be. At least this way we can get there quick enough so I can see who it was. Then we map out the previous ones to hopefully find the next.”

“But why do they need all this power? For what?” She asked.

You sat up, sitting yourself next to her on the floor.

“My best guess is probably to try carry on what they started, or, to end every planet in those universe, and create a new one.”

She looked at you.

“You guys can do that?”

“Not without sacrifice or extreme power. Do you know what happens to a star when it dies?”

“Yeah, it implodes.”

You turned yourself to look at her.

“That’s not all. It turns into a supernova, but, if there is enough mass there, it will create a black hole which will destroy everything.”

She looked confused.

“Then how do they create a new universe?”

“The creator will create a new one on the other side of that black hole, everything that goes into will be used to create new life on the other side.”

You sighed, running a hand over your head.

“I don’t think that’s the goal here, it’s either to finish trying to take over the universe, or, it’s to get back at me.”

“Wouldn’t they think you died?”

You shook your head.

“No, they would know I’m still alive. My guess is with all this power, they’re going to try and gain rule over every planet known to this universe. It’s about power. It’s always about power.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

You titled your head a little.

“Question.”

She looked at you and smiled.

“Shoot.”

“Why do you not return to earth if it’s your home?”

Her smile fell.

“I.. have some things I need to work out there, I guess.. I don’t really have much left anymore, not after all these years…”

You furrowed your brows.

“You have family and friends, no?”

“Yeah, yeah of course.”

“Then you can return for them?”

Carol gave a sad smile.

“I wish it were that easy, but there’s planets out there that need somebody to protect them, and I realised that’s my job. I can protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

“Very noble indeed.”

Carol looked spun herself so she was facing you fully.

“You don’t agree with it?”

“Well, I know nothing about friends, or family, or love, or happiness, but I can see this life makes you lonely, wears you down. Perhaps getting answers isn’t something to pursue, but something to put behind you, and move on with your life, for those waiting for your return.”

“I don’t mind it, plus I’ve got you to keep me company.” She smiled.

You laughed slightly.

“Ah yes, the space criminal wanted by most civilisations.”

“That’s why you won’t leave the ship ever?”

“I have no need, my job is in this ship not outside.”

She gestured to the window.

“So… you don’t miss exploring all of that?”

You climbed back on the beanbag and laid down, picking your book up again.

“I have seen it millions of times, nothings changed.”

Carol stayed quiet for a moment.

“Seriously though, never experienced love? You’ve never dated anybody? Fallen in love? Stole a kiss from someone when nobody was looking?”

“My line of work wasn’t exactly made for people with those emotions Danvers.”

“Wow, we really need to get you outside more.” She laughed.

You shook your head a little bit, turning your attention back to the book in hand.

“Can you dance?” Carol asked.

“No.”

“Do you have any talents?”

You sighed, sitting the book down again, turning your attention to her.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, play an instrument, draw, sing, that kinda stuff.”

You thought for a moment.

“I can play what you call a guitar, however I won’t play a song for you.”

“I can dance.” She grinned a little.

You gestured to the large empty space nearby.

“Go on then.”

“Hey, if you’re not gonna show me yours I won’t show you mine.”

“Fine. Why the curiosity in me?”

“Well, if I’m going to be travelling who knows how long with you we’re going to have to be friends at some point.” Carol grinned.

You rolled your eyes at her and reached for your book only to hear the console beep.

Leaping up, you rushed over and wrote down the coordinates, rushing to Carol who was getting ready head there.

“We don’t have long, go now!”

You sat down, and you anxiously waited for the pair of you to arrive at the remnants of the star.

It took a few hours to get there, and you ran to the back of the ship, sliding down the ramp into the open space.

Carol grabbed you from under your arms, and she took you to the now dead star.

You narrowed your eyes, gesturing for Carol to go around it, so she did, giving you a view of all angles.

You tapped her hand, telling her to stop, and you looked at the star, watching as small ribbons of green and yellow seeped out of what was left.

“Can you see anything?” Carol asked.

“A little bit, but I don’t recognise the colours.”

You tapped her hand and she let you go, watching as you just seemed to effortlessly stand there in the middle of space.

There was no use of powers from what she could see, you just stood there.

Taking something from your pocket, you held it up to Carol.

“I need you to hold this for me.”

“Sure.”

She moved over, and took it from your hand.

You held out your hand, watching as the small wisps of colour moved over, and you carefully guided them into the vile Carol was holding.

You shoved the lid on and took it back, stuffing it back into your pocket.

“That’s all we need.”

“Let’s go then.”

She took hold of you and guided you back to the ship, dropping your feet in the ship, and she landed on her feet as well, heading to the front.

“I need a place to work.”

“Take the table, I don’t use it anyway.”

You nodded, walking over and you grabbed your bag, taking a few things out.

Sitting down, you narrowed your eyes as you stared at the ever moving wisps.

You held them up to the light and slowly set it back down in the table.

“Can it tell us anything?” She asked.

“Not much, I don’t recognise the colours, but there is a chance I may have forgotten them it’s been that long.”

“Hold that thought.”

She walked away and came back a few minutes later, holding up two headset looking devices.

“Will these work?”

“I’m not diving into my own memories, no.”

“What other choice do we have? This is just going to keep getting worse.”

You ran a hand over your hair.

“I know, okay? I know. But I can’t go into my own memories, please Danvers, I’m asking you to respect that.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But what else can we do?”

“I can use this to change your algorithm, instead of focusing on power like mine we can set it so it focuses on this for whatever it may be used for. When they use their powers you’ll know.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

She watched as you walked over to the console, and when your back was turned to her she walked around the table.

A few droplets of blood, she noticed it when you were talking.

Carol furrowed her brows, and she looked at you before walking over to a different console.

For now she wasn’t going to say anything, she didn’t know how to approach the subject, she was just hoping you would tell her if it was serious

[mikhailwrites]

Waiting for Connection 4 / Ghost x Soap NerdAU

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

Previous chapter | AO3

Soap seems to be a busy man, only playing for an hour or two in the evening a couple of days a week if he’s lucky. Sometimes, he doesn’t play for a week. Or two. Ghost understands, of course. He knows how it is, which doesn’t mean he’s not feeling a little sorry every time he starts Steam, looks at his very short Friendslist and sees CallMeSoap in the “Offline” section of it.

Truth be told, it took one week for Ghost to get used to Soap; to finetune his own playstyle to Soap’s, to count on him having his six or be wherever Ghost needs him to be. To do a good job. Even though they are still playing with random people, the two of them usually carry the brunt of the mission due to their sheer efficiency, teamwork and skill.

On days Ghost plays without Soap, he notices the skill gap even more than before. And has even less patience for it, too. Until, one evening, he actually argues full-on with his teammates. Ghost is not petty or anything; he just… wants a taste of his old life, not to educate sixteen-year-old airsoft enthusiasts on the importance of clear and concise communication. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a sixteen-year-old airsoft enthusiast. Ghost simply has no patience for it.

After a few very not-fun games, he decides to give it a rest and only plays solo. Unfortunately, there is a reason why he started with multiplayer in the first place. The only advantage of AI teammates is that they’re not as chaotic. However, they are as daft as they come.

Ghost quits the game after the third death that evening. However, he pauses over the Quit the game button. Instead, Ghost shifts his hand, and the cursor selects “Editor”. Despite all the hours spent in the game, he’s never tried to create his own scenario. Who would he play it with, anyway?

Only now, he actually has a mate to play with. He could prepare something interesting for when Soap gets back from whatever hellhole he is currently deployed to. If there’s something Ghost has an abundance of, it’s combat experience, particularly in special operations.

Ghost smiles as the mission editor opens. Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

“I’ve created some custom missions for two players; wanna try it out?” Ghost says, trying to sound like he didn’t spend about twenty hours recreating one of his oldest missions. There are enough changes to allow for plausible deniability, but it’s been about twenty years. He can’t imagine anybody giving a shit now.

“What kind of question is that? Bring it on, old man!” Soap exclaims, clearly excited. Ghost doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s been called old. It’s a provocation to get him to admit how old he really is, and Simon is not falling for it.

“Eager, Soap?” Ghost smirks. “Equip some explosives with remotes and an SMG with a silencer.”

“We going dark, Ghost? And in close quarters? Oh, I like it already,” Soap’s voice gains a darker, grittier quality.

“Let’s see how good you really are,” Simon smiles, watching as the game drops their avatars to an unknown terrain in the middle of the night -unknown to Soap, at least. They’re in a small clearing in the middle of a dense tropical forest.

“Five Ks away is a small settlement. A local drug cartel has a heavy presence in the village. Our target is a VIP hostage.”

“So we will need a diversion,” Soap notes, and Ghost can only imagine the devious grin on his face. Face he’s never seen. Soap sounds like someone who is open about their emotions. He has no issue laughing, and when he’s pissed, his voice drops and gains a gravelly quality to it that Ghost admits he rather likes. “What will be your job?”

“I’ll be covering you from a distance,” Ghost says as he equips his favourite sniper rifle. There’s a pistol in his thigh holster, too, just in case.

Soap’s avatar lowers their night vision. “You know, I have yet to meet someone in this game who is a decent sniper. People think it’s so bloody easy, just lay in the grass, scope and shoot,” Soap complains.

“I’d be very careful about what you want to imply. Soap, wouldn’t want any friendly fire happening, would we?” Ghost smirks, clicking the magazine back into the rifle.

“Absolutely not, sir.”

Watching Soap work through the scope of the sniper rifle is something else. Especially since it’s just a game. There are no stakes, so Ghost can simply watch and marvel. He would never admit just how impressed he is when he watches Soap sneak around enemy patrols or wait until they come to them, only to jump them with a knife and dispose of them quickly.

Ghost is doing his part, of course. Whenever anyone could come close to surprising Soap, Ghost takes care of them. In one instance, it’s a very close call. Soap is about to open the door to one of the small, single-story houses in search of their VIP hostage when Ghost notices there’s an armed man standing right behind them. It’s too late to warn Soap. Ghost makes a judgement call and shoots the Tango through the window.

It causes noise, of course, and noise attracts attention.

“Alright, let’s bring in some light, shall we?” Ghost asks as he sees multiple hostiles closing in on Soap’s position.

“And there shall be light,” Soap says as he activates the charges he’s set earlier under the car at the edge of the village.

The explosion is spectacular by military standards. It’s no Hollywood fireworks, but it’s big, bright and loud—more than enough to divert attention from Soap.

Ghost checks the surrounding area. “Clear, let’s finish this up, Soap.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Ghost,” Soap agrees as he sweeps the house for the hostage. This is the last house they haven’t checked, so the VIP must be there. Somewhere.

Ghost is doing his best to check the inside of the house through the windows, but there are still a lot of blind spots.

The moment he catches a glimpse of movement, he knows it’s too late. “Soap!”

He hears a series of silenced shots, then an audible exhale. “That was close, Ghost. I thought you had my six. I did, however, find our package. Heading out now.”

Ghost watches as Soap exits the building, cautiously looking around before he gestures for the hostage to follow. Simon is keeping a close eye on the burning car, the sizeable crowd that gathered around it, and any possible complications. The AI is, however, not that good at improvising and Soap’s retreat is as smooth as it can get.

They venture back into the forest and to the exfil point at a safe distance from the settlement.

“I’d say this is at least worth a first-name basis, Ghost,” Soap says, clearly cheerful. And Ghost? Well, Ghost has to admit he’s actually happy as well. This was his first custom mission, one he actually did in real life, and not only could he revisit it, but he could do it with a friend, a skilled one at that. It’s been the most thrilling thing he’s experienced in a year, maybe even longer. Perhaps he could indulge Soap a little.

“Alright,” Ghost relents. “On one condition. You go first.”

“Obviously,” Soap laughs but quietens fast. “I’m John.”

“Simon.”

There are a few seconds of silence. “Simon? Not what I expected.”

Ghost chuckles. “And what, pray tell, did you expect?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me how old you are,” Soap doesn’t miss a beat.

“Trying to gauge whether I’m old enough to play this game, John?”

“You guessed it!” Soap laughs.

“I’m feeling generous tonight. I’m thirty-eight.”

“Huh,” Soap huffs, and it sounds genuinely surprised. However, he doesn’t say anything about Ghost being an old man, which is good. “Okay, that’s fair. As for the name… I expected something… harder, I guess? Maybe Craig? Or Robert?”

“Fuckin’ hell…, I sound like a Craig to you, do I?” Simon groans. He never felt strongly about his name. It’s okay. It's not horrible, but it's nothing to get too excited about. When he thinks about it, he feels the same about John. It’s… fine. Ordinary in the same way a quaint little house in the countryside is.

“Well, no, I guess you don’t. But… Simon is actually nice. I like Simon. Simon,” Soap repeats the name several times as if to get used to its taste and sound.

Ghost actually sits back, frowning as he realises he’s got goosebumps. What the hell?

[yolowritter]

Anybody order an Evil Emilie Au?

Hello there everyone, and welcome! I'm back on my bullshit and 99% sure I talked about this before, but who cares? This, this wonderful thing is the Games of Innocence Au! Did you ever want a world where Emilie is a psychopath? Did you ever imagine her being as morally grey as they come yet still trying to be a mother to her son? What about if it was Gabriel who used the Peacock instead? What if she's replaced him as Hawkmoth? Empress actually, but still! And what somewhere down the line, she tries to manipulate Nathalie into helping her?

What if Emilie accidentally falls in love with her best friend? This absolute masterpiece is one of my favorite show re-write ideas of all time, and I've got some sweet 9.5k words for you guys to enjoy right here! Thing is, since I already have an Au that's over 300k words long, and rapidly approaching 400k...not to mention the next huge project on my list (a conservative estimate of 500k words)...I will not be writing the Evil Emilie Au in it's entirety. Most of it is a show rewrite anyway, and I simply don't have the time go through each individual episode and change it so that psycho!Emilie is there instead of mr Mothballs. I'm currently trying to write the finale, since it is the single best part and my personal favorite scene, hopefully to post it both here and on the Archive when I'm done.

However! I can and will rant about it until the end of time, assuming someone asks! And since the voices in my head did, here's an entire analysis about this version of Emilie! It's right below the cutoff, but I'd highly recommend to first read the fic! So here's the Ao3 link, hope you enjoy!

Alright then, welcome back! I hope it was a good read! Now as a disclaimer, I am not a mental health specialist, and might be confusing the terms "sociopath" and "psychopath" here, but I did read that sociopaths often struggle to control their emotions and act erratically (which Emilie doesn't, she has great self-control), where psychopaths have difficultly forming any emotional connections, so I feel like the latter term describes this Au's Emilie much better. Let's get right down to business, and explore (this) Emilie Agreste's mind, shall we! Obvious spoiler warning for the above fic.

Firstly, I'd like to make sure we're all on the same page with what kind of person Emilie is! Whenever I refer to her I'm obviously talking about this Emilie, so don't confuse it with canon. I have another upcoming post abt that. Her main attribute is that life as a concept is permeated by a general sense of boredom. Wake up, do tasks that only matter because she's told they do, sleep, repeat. Emilie was born into a rich family, which immediately means expectations. I'm assuming that she was kept pretty isolated aside from eventually starting school, so the only emotional connection Emilie formed in her early life was her sister, Amelie. She does genuinely care about her sister in a way that Emilie just can't bring herself to for her parents or staff, though she is nice to the latter and appreciates the work they do for her. Her parents are just stuck-up snobs but who cares? And so, Emilie shows this care the only way she knows how. Being perfect. Excelling at everything she does, getting the top grades in class, you all know the drill. The only thing she doesn't have is friends, and hangs out mostly with her sister. But even with Amelie, who she feels very strongly for...Emilie has a hard time expressing these feelings. For an example, see this flashback when they are sitting together in the garden:

“Sister…do you love me?” Amelie asks in a soft tone, her voice barely loud enough not to be carried away by the wind. Emilie recalls that she must have been... ten, maybe closer to eleven? And in all her admittedly few years, she never felt her heart stop beating as suddenly as when she registered Amelie’s words. “It’s- it’s just- …m’ sorry, Em. I… I don’t know, but whenever you smile at me...” the girl lets out a tiny sigh, nervously fidgeting with a stray strand of platinum-blonde hair. “It’s the same smile mum has when people are coming over…”

Emilie remembers it as clear as day—the way that the soft blades of gray grass between her fingers felt as if they’d been sharpened enough to draw out blood. Why…why would Am ever think she didn’t love her? Emile had done everything she was expected to do! She kept up her good grades like father wanted, always smiled and politely socialized with mum’s friends and family whenever they came over, and- …and she’d been nice to Amelie. Her twin sister, the constant presence in her life that truly felt like family…did not seem to think so. Or, maybe, Emilie had messed up somehow and given her the same bland niceness that the world would present her with day in and day out. But what else could she do? Wasn’t this what family meant? Just... be nice to one another and keep up with what was asked?

And over here, notice the way Emilie thinks of herself as a corpse, as not alive, even at such a young age:

“I- I’m sorry, Am,” she manages to whisper, even as confusion washes over Emilie’s mind. But…this is her sister. The one person who might understand how she feels about all of this, how the world itself registers only in dull shades of gray, how she can barely tell cold and hot apart, or how her heart sometimes feels like it’s stopped beating for hours at a time. “It’s hard for me to feel,” Emilie says, in the same reserved tone that’s always marked her sister’s voice.

And yes, obviously I know I'm the writer of the whole Au. I'm not patting myself on the back with these scenes, I'm just trying to get the point across. Emilie's life has always been that same dull grey, and the only people who can make it go away are Amelie, Adrien, Nathalie, and (to a lesser extent) Gabriel. She's been wearings masks her whole life, trying to be accepted by others but knowing that nobody would ever like who she truly is. And when she's alone...the thoughts come back, she can't tell if she is alive to begin with. Quote from the fic:

"Oftentimes, Emilie isn’t even able to feel her own heartbeat, never mind registering the expanding and collapsing of her lungs with every breath. When left alone and with nothing to catch her eye, Emilie could easily fool herself into thinking she’s some kind of undead or a ghost haunting the manor’s halls with twisted, quickly-fading memories."

Just to be clear here, Emilie suffers from deep depression. She feels isolated and alone, depending on the very few people who are perceptive enough to see even a tiny bit under her many masks, and she gets extremely attached very quickly. She isn't unable to love, since she (at the timeframe of the fic) has started to fall for Nathalie despite actively trying to manipulate her, but it's an extremely difficult mental situation to even begin dealing with. Emilie has hyperfocused on her family, and especially Adrien, her son. She isn't possessive and does genuinely love him, but there are obvious complications with their relationship. I'll get to that in a bit, but let's backtrack to her childhood one last time.

Emilie has absolutely no moral qualms with murder. Wow, that is a special combination of sentences right there! But in all seriousness, she thinks in a purely black-and-white kind of way. Emilie's #1 priority are her people, and for them she would burn the world to cinders. If anybody even looks at Amelie wrong, they will be wiped off the map for no reason other than the fact that this person was percieved as a danger. Emilie is that level of extreme in her protective streak. To give a few examples related to her sister, right after that flashback between the two of them, Emily recalls finding out that a slightly older girl was bullying her sister at school. And in a move that would make Ashley Graves proud, she straight up murders that child. No hesitation, no grievances, no regret. That girl was a threat to Amelie, and got swiftly eliminated. No questions asked, even at the grand-old age of 11.

Furthermore, Colt Fathom is straight-up dead in this Au. Emilie killed him when she came to visit her sister and nephew, staging a company emergency and sabotaging both his car engine and breaks, just to make sure. Can't take any chances with Colt of all people. Again, another threat to her sister eliminated, with Amelie's (implied) knowledge and support. The only reason she didn't kill him before the wedding is because Amelie personally convinced Emilie that she was willing to take on the burden for their family's sake. And also to use Colt's connections behind his back. Who doesn't love a good scheme?

Now...Gabriel and Nathalie never realized who exactly they were dealing with. It's worth mentioning here that Nathalie was actually Emilie's college roomate, and Gabriel was studying in the same university. Little detail, but I wanted to add it because Emilie canonically went to France to further her education. And Amelie got to work making friends in high places while Colt was busy in the 'murican bars downtown or something. Listen, all my homies hate Colt Fathom, and all you need to know is that the police didn't find enough of him to put in a casket. Anyway, Nathalie was studying business and finance, Emilie and Gabriel studied creative arts, and they met during their college years. The thing is, Emilie did love Gabriel. Only...not exactly the way he loved her. Quote again:

"Ever since she’d met him, Gabriel had been downright lovely. Polite, bookish, and a little nerdy, but with a creative spark powerful enough to bring forth an inferno of passion for his work. And he was also very loyal, most of all to the pretty popular girl who’d taken an interest in him and decided to befriend him in their first few days of college. Gabriel Agreste had turned out to be far more than just an interesting critter, and he was admittedly one of the extremely few people in this world Emilie had ever felt for, even if she was not fully able to reciprocate his feelings. Well…not in the way that Gabriel wanted, at least. Of course she loved him, hence why she obviously married him later on in life, but the man was…more of a cute, adorable puppy than a husband. If she were to put it crudely, Gabriel was far too easy when it came to matters of the heart."

Yeah...poor guy didn't notice the Yandere even after he married her. Also, another detail is that the reason why Emilie even took interest in Gabriel is because he saw through almost all her masks, believe it or not. Aside from the rampant psychopathy and slightly murderous tendencies, Emilie Graham De Vanily was an open book to him. Oh well, sometimes she ends up being crazy! What can you do? But anyway, worth mentioning that this Gabriel is far closer to his Reverse!Gabriel counterpart in terms of personality, and never acts in the callous, cold way we see in canon. Granted, we don't see what he was like before Emilie's canonical demise, but I don't like leaving room for implications on this matter. So you get your Good Parent Gabriel Agreste tag and you'll like it too!

As for Nathalie...there's an entire four and half posts' worth of ranting to do, so I'll just leave you with what the fic already has for now. Suffice it to say, she's very much into Emilie but knows she shouldn't be. I'm sure that with Empress trying to emotionally manipulate her into keeping the basement fridge life support pod thing a secret, that's going to go very well! Especially when the villainess herself is accidentally falling in love with Mayura! The Eminath is extremely strong with this one...

But anyway, about Adrien! Considering that even in canon, Emilie still wore his Amok-ring inside her sleeping pod, it's obvious that this Emilie will be wearing it too, right? Absolutely! And guess what? Thanks to a little help from an Akumatized Nathalie (prior to Origins in this Au), she magically enchanted the ring to make it literally impossible to unwillingly remove from her finger for as long as she's alive. Control issues, much? Seriously though, she does love Adrien very deeply, and does her best to be a mother. Emilie knows that he loves her back, and absorbs that love the same way a starved wolf devours fresh meat. She isn't oppressive and does her best to give him certain freedoms...but Adrien also never went to school in this Au. In her defense, she'd have little issue with it normally, but Emilie also wants to start her supervillainess career on the same year...and the thought of Adrien being caught in the crossfire genuinely terrifies her. Plus, in canon he does get involved in several Akuma attacks because of Gabriel, so... He still manages to get out of the house long enough to bump into Fu, hence Chat Noir, but doesn't ever meet Marinette and co. Not even for the Gum Incident.

In that case...hello Marichat! But again, that's for another Games of Innocence post. Today we focus on our resident Yandere! Believe me, it will become extremely evident why I call Emilie that once I post about her relationship with Nathalie/Mayura. Just trust me on this one. Back to Adrien, his dearly beloved mother is very much that. Beloved. But he is slowly starting to understand that something might be wrong with his home life, and tries to talk to Emilie about it.

This, I think, is an excellent time to talk about the color-coding in this Au. In a lot of my works I incorporate color theory and those meanings into stuff like aura colors, presences, Luka Vision™ (listen my hc is he has Synesthesia), etc. Obviously Adrien is supposed to be a vibrant green. Fresh start, new life, we've heard this all before. And Emilie...as Empress, she is a dark purple, because she's embracing her mystic side, and going absolutely wild with any and all magic shenanigans involving the Miraculous. But like I said above...in those moments where she's alone, not clinging to Adrien's side, or talking to Nathalie, or spending time with Nooroo...she's a dull, dead grey. The same tone that's haunted her since childhood. As a side note, Emilie doesn't abuse her Kwami. Nooroo actually thinks they could be good friends. You know, if she'd drop the quest for ultimate power and all.

Speaking of that, as far as Nathalie knows, this is all for the sake of bringing Gabriel back to life. Which...is true, yes. He's Adrien's father and Emilie did marry him, even if as "just a friend". She did actually have feelings for him by the way, just supressed them to avoid hurting herself when she realized he wasn't seeing her psycho side and then convinced herself that said emotions were better off locked up in the back of her mind. Never again...until Nathalie. But anyway! Emilie's main goal is Unlimited Power!!! Why? Shits and giggles, of course! She can do it, it's really fun to play this game with Ladybug and Chat Noir, and Akumatizing people just feels so intimate!

Do not get me wrong here! The reason why Emilie is obsessed with Akumatizations is because she loves going into people's heads and manipulating them! It's not weird, just the only coping mechanism she had in her entire childhood! Bless Amelie for giving her at least that... But yeah, Emilie basically treats the whole Akuma Shenanigans™ is her personal reality tv show, coupled with as much drama and action as anyone could ask for! And she gets to control the narrative! Plus, there's times where Emilie lets the Akuma do their thing just to see what might happen. Evillustrator is a prime example here, but that's part of the Marichat post so I won't get into it here.

Okay, okay. This rant is getting way too long. TL;DR: Emilie Agreste is kinda insane but still a better parent that canon Gabriel! I am currently working on the finale for this fic, because the ending is the best part and I want to share it with you all! In the meantime, feel free to send me as many asks abt this Au as you want! I'll be more than happy to have an excuse for more ranting! Anyway, I'll be seeing you all soon, but until then, Stay Miraculous everyone!

[patrick-flanagan]

a lot can happen in the dark || penny & patrick

WHO: Penny Sylvester @pennysylvester & Patrick Flanagan

WHERE: Random dive bar/Patrick's apartment

WHEN: Thursday, the 24th of October

WHY: At a random bar in LA, Penny and Patrick meet, and even though she tells him that she's married, it doesn't stop her from going back to Patrick's place.

WARNINGS: Implications of NSFW, Fade to black x2

PENNY SYLVESTER:

Following the earthquake, being locked down without Logan for a week and not knowing for sure whether he was safe or not, Penny thought she had a new perspective on their relationship; she thought that maybe the problems she'd felt in their marriage were all in her head. Reuniting with him was exciting, and emotional, and passionate—all of the things she hadn't felt in the longest time. It had been short-lived, though, and when she'd woken up the next morning wrapped safely in his arms, it was like the lockdown had never happened, like those negative feelings had all come flooding back. Penny found herself, that very night, sitting alone in a low-lit, quiet dive bar, perched on a stool at the bar with her elbow resting atop something sticky while she nursed a bottle of beer and, quite frankly, felt more sorry for herself than she had in years.

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick sat in the corner of the dive bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, his eyes trained on the quiet woman at the bar. He'd noticed her the moment she walked in - something about the way she carried herself, heavy with exhaustion but still holding an edge of dignity, caught his attention. He wasn’t usually one for distractions; he liked to keep his nights simple, routine. But tonight, something felt different. He leaned back in his chair, the rough leather of the booth squeaking slightly beneath him, and studied her without staring. He’d been a professor long enough to know when someone’s mind was preoccupied - students lost in thought were easy to spot. But this was different. This was personal. Patrick had no business getting involved. His life was already complicated enough, with shadows of old decisions still clinging to his heels. But watching her now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was sitting on the edge of something. He took a slow sip, savoring the burn of the whiskey as he debated his next move. He had no intention of being her savior, no interest in getting tangled up in someone else’s life. But something in him pulled him towards her - like a magnet. He stood up, slipping his hands into the pockets of pants as he walked over to the bar, settling beside her with just enough distance to seem casual but close enough to catch her attention. “You know,” he said, his voice low but smooth, “there are better places to be miserable than this one.” His eyes flicked to hers, careful, assessing. He wasn’t offering sympathy; he wasn’t offering anything really. Just an observation, something to break the quiet tension that surrounded her like a heavy cloak.

PENNY SYLVESTER:

Save for the two bartenders who seemed to have nothing much to do, Penny hadn't taken much notice of anybody else in the room. It was quiet enough that she noticed when another patron approached the bar, and she looked at him from the corner of her eye, but the thought of making conversation never even entered her mind. When he spoke, though, she wasn't annoyed; she'd come here to be alone, but she found immediately that she didn't mind the company. "I'm not miserable." She responded in a tone that definitely betrayed her words. A quiet, self-deprecating chuckle followed. "I'm also not a very good liar." Sitting up slightly straighter, she twisted her body to better face him. "This place is kinda miserable, I feel like it's as good a place as any. You have to be feeling shitty to be here, too."

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick let her words settle between them, facing towards the woman next to him. Her attempt at humor was a thin veil, transparent enough to let him see the edges of the cracks beneath. He’d met people who lied to survive, to protect themselves - he’d been one of them - but she wasn’t. He finally gave in, cracking a smile though, and shook his head. “No, you’re not,” He had to agree with her, and watched her correct her posture, seeming more interested in having a conversation with him. “They have good whiskey,” He said, nodding to the bartender to pour him another drink of that exact beverage. “Name’s Patrick,” he offered, his voice steady and unassuming. He didn’t bother with any unnecessary small talk - he’d learned that when people were in this kind of mood, they didn’t need empty words. They needed an excuse to speak, to unload the weight a little. “Seems we’ve both found the same miserable hole to drown whatever’s eating at us,” he continued, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “But you’re right - places like these tend to collect people with something in common.” He tilted his head, his voice growing softer, as if letting her in on a secret. “Doesn’t mean we have to be honest about what it is, though.” It was a subtle invitation; no pressure to share more than she wanted, no expectation beyond what she was comfortable revealing. He lifted his glass, a quiet toast to the irony of their shared silence.

PENNY SYLVESTER:

"Whiskey's....whiskey, right?" Penny asked with a subtle look of amusement. She was more a beer and wine girl herself, something she could get anywhere; she'd picked this specific bar for its relative quiet, and could only assume anybody else who found themselves here did so for the same reason. There was something almost mysterious about this guy, something that made him intriguing, and for reasons she couldn't fully explain, she found herself wanting to know more. "Penny," she said with a small nod, appreciative of having a name to put to the face. Maybe it sounded stupid, or even selfish, but there was something almost comforting about knowing she wasn't the only one stewing in her misery, and as Patrick lowered his volume, like he was inviting her to spill her sorrows, she couldn't deny feeling inexplicably like she was safe to do so. "Do you smoke, Patrick?" She asked rather than a response at first. "Or have a seat somewhere that isn't right here at the bar?" Although the bartenders were keeping to themselves, the idea of privacy was appealing to her.

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

"You'd think so, but some are better than others. I'll take a Glenlivet over a Crown Royal anyday," Patrick's Scottish accent came through, and a small smirk rested on his lips, as his blue eyes remained on hers. He could so easily get into the huge differences between a scotch, a bourbon and a proper Scottish whiskey, but he wasn't about to the torture the poor girl; she seemed like she was in enough misery as it was. If anything, he was going to do his best to distract her from whatever was on her mind, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve. "Penny? It's nice to meet you," he extended his hand, so he could shake hers. He didn't think too much of it when she asked if he smoked, but only dug into the inner pocket of his blazer, and pulled out a half-smoked pack of cigarettes, as well as a lighter, and placed them on the wooden bar in front of Penny, so she could take what she needed. "Let's go over here," Patrick motioned, grabbing his glass and getting off of his seat to head to the corner booth, where he'd sat before coming over. He hadn't come here to talk to strangers, but there was almost a gravitational pull to Penny that Patrick felt the need to explore. So as he slid into the booth, his eyes took her properly in. Blonde, accentuated features like her jawline and curves instantly had her stand out, and those smokey green eyes of hers stood out in the dimmed setting of the bar. She was gorgeous. "You're not a whiskey girl yourself, I take it?" Patrick motioned to the bottle of beer, and smirked. "Or maybe you've just never tried a good kind of whiskey?"

PENNY SYLVESTER:

Penny blinked a couple of times. "That's basically a whole other language to me," she said with a small chuckle, despite the fact that she hadn't felt very much like laughing all day. She reached out to shake his hand, the formality something she'd usually lift a brow at, but for some reason she found it endearing. She also couldn't deny enjoying the feeling of somebody, anybody else's touch, even in such an innocent manner. "Likewise." She watched as he produced the cigarettes from his pocket, offering him a grateful nod of her head, though she didn't actually want them, so as he stood to lead the way to the booth, she simply picked them up along with her beer and followed. Although she wasn't exactly studying him, she could feel his eyes on her, and she had to admit if only to herself, she liked it. She liked feeling desirable, or whatever he might've thought she was. "Mm, no, not a whiskey girl." She shook her head, setting the cigarettes and lighter down on the table as she made herself comfortable. "Also not a smoker... I don't even know why I asked." Her cheeks heated up slightly, and she let out another quiet, this time almost embarrassed chuckle. "I think I just wanted to, I don't know, feel something?" It was a statement but sounded more like a question. Penny scrunched her nose. "That came out deeper than I meant it to." Now seated, she finally allowed herself to look at him—to really look at him, and she was sure it was clear from her expression that she didn't dislike what she saw. "I feel like I should tell you I'm married, Patrick." Penny gently shrugged a shoulder. "Just so you know."

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick gave her a slow, contemplative smile as he settled into the booth. Her awkward confession about smoking had him intrigued - people usually masked their deeper intentions with rehearsed smiles and casual lies. But not Penny, it seemed. She was raw, and it interested him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. “Feeling something,” he echoed, his tone carrying an undercurrent of understanding. He met her gaze, holding it for just a beat longer than necessary before glancing down, feigning a bit of thoughtfulness. “Honesty suits you,” he said finally, leaning back slightly and resting his arm along the back of the booth. He made the gesture open, inviting, though the look in his eyes was more calculated than friendly. “And trust me, I’ve heard deeper. You’re in the right company for that.” He paused, watching her closely as he lifted his glass and took a sip. It wasn’t that he ignored the mention of her marriage - he acknowledged it with a subtle lift of his brow, a small nod - but didn’t give it more weight than she seemed to want it to have. A lot of people who mentioned being married did it out of guilt, like a confession they weren’t sure they should be making. But Penny didn’t seem to be seeking absolution, just... clarification. “You know,” he said, shifting the conversation to give her a way out if she wanted it, “you’re not the first person I’ve met in this bar tonight with a wedding ring and a drink in hand. It’s not as rare as you’d think.” He paused for a bit, his thumb tracing patterns on his whiskey glass. “Married or not,” he continued softly, his tone almost teasing, “if you want to feel something, there are easier ways than pretending to smoke.” He glanced at the unlit cigarettes on the table, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “So,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes steady on hers, “what do you want to feel?” It was a direct question, but his tone was light, almost daring her to answer honestly.

PENNY SYLVESTER:

It said something that, until last night, the way he held her stare was probably the most intimacy she'd experienced in a long time. It sent a distinct shiver throughout her body, and the slight curl to the corner of her mouth wasn't intentional, but she felt almost smug, knowing she could still hold someone's attention like that. "I feel like you're baiting me, Patrick," Penny said with that same subtle smirk playing on her lips. Then again, she didn't know him, but from what she could glean from their brief time together so far, he didn't seem like the subtle type. "Don't worry, I won't bore you with the details. And they really are boring, so I promise I'm not baiting you." The admission about her marital status was for nothing more than making sure he know. She didn't know for sure what was happening here, but in her experience, people didn't usually hang out with strangers in bars without some kind of end goal. If Patrick had one in mind, so did she, and she wanted to make sure he had all of the information. It didn't seem to deter him, and the realization caused a tension to leave Penny's shoulders that she didn't quite know she'd been holding. Again, she didn't know him, didn't have to keep talking to him, but she also knew she didn't want to stop, so as he spoke, she felt that familiar shiver again. Excitement? Anticipation? She didn't know, she just knew she liked it, much like the tone of his voice and the implication behind his question. "Mm, something." Penny hummed, leaning back in her seat as he leaned forward, all the while keeping her gaze locked on his. Beneath the table, her foot rose to experimentally touch his ankle, a test to see if she was corretly picking up what he was putting down and vice versa. "I'm open to suggestions."

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick felt the light pressure of her foot against his ankle, and a slow, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips. The gesture was small, but it spoke volumes - a confirmation of what he’d suspected, a shared understanding of the dance they were starting. “Baiting you?” he repeated, his voice a quiet murmur. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a spark that suggested he was enjoying this as much as she seemed to be. He kept his posture relaxed, his fingers tracing idle circles on the edge of his glass, making no sudden moves. He didn’t need to; the tension between them was doing all the heavy lifting. “I don’t think I need to bait you, Penny,” he continued, his words careful and deliberate, like each one was chosen with a purpose. “You’re already here, and you’re still talking to me. That tells me you’re not looking for an escape - not yet, anyway.” He let that hang in the air for a moment, watching her reaction. When she said she was open to suggestions, Patrick took his time responding, as if weighing his options. He could feel the slight pressure of her foot against his, the lightest of touches that spoke of hesitation mixed with daring. It would have been easy to push further, to test how far she was willing to go. But he wasn’t interested in easy; he wanted to see what she’d choose if he left the door open. “Well,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, “if I’m being honest, my suggestions depend entirely on what you’re hoping to feel. Are you looking to forget, or to remember?” The way he said it made it clear he wasn’t asking for the details - he didn’t need them. It was a question of intent, of purpose. He let his knee press back lightly against hers, a subtle signal that he’d picked up on her cue and was willing to play along. But he didn’t push beyond that - didn’t lean closer or crowd her space. “Or maybe,” he added with a small, almost conspiratorial smile, “you’re just here to see what happens next.”

PENNY SYLVESTER:

She carefully watched his expression, the light touch of her foot to his ankle eliciting the exact reaction she’d hoped for. She chose not to move it away, and instead proceeded to push slightly further, now softly grazing where her foot rested. In spite of her small smirk, her eyes shifted to an almost teasing glare as he called her out—he was right, she certainly wasn’t looking for an escape. Not from Patrick, anyway. “Oh, you’re good. You’re not a shrink, right?” Not that she couldn’t use one of those… just not right then. His question caused a slight twitch to her lip, because fuck, it was a good one. What was she looking for? She contemplated for a moment, eyes shifting from his only to glance down at the bottle that’d gone forgotten since they’d taken their seats. Penny wrapped her fingers around it, allowing the cool feeling against her skin to ground her some, bring her back to the present. “I was looking for quiet, maybe to forget.” She responded with a small shrug. Her gaze drifted back up to meet his. “I kinda think I want to get out of here now, though.” Her subtle smirk twitched back into place as she allowed her eyes to track down his torso until the table blocked her view, then rose back up to meet his. “What do you say?”

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick held her stare, the brief flicker of a smirk barely shifting his expression, but enough to reveal he understood exactly what she was doing. He hadn’t needed to be a shrink to read Penny; just observant enough to see the signals she wasn’t bothering to mask. Her teasing glare, her lingering touch, the way she tested his reactions - it was all a game, one he was more than comfortable playing. “Not a shrink,” he replied smoothly, letting his eyes crinkle slightly with amusement. “But I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” He didn’t elaborate; the implication was left hanging between them, the weight of what she didn’t need to explain adding layers to the tension. As she shifted her gaze and spoke, Patrick listened without interrupting, giving her the room to choose her words carefully. Then she said it: she wanted to leave. And with that, the dance changed its rhythm. But instead of rushing, instead of letting the pulse of the moment dictate his actions, he stayed where he was for just a second longer, giving her the chance to see him consider her words. He let his gaze linger on hers, searching for any flicker of doubt, any sign that she might be second-guessing her choice. When he saw none, he gave a small nod, as if confirming something to himself. “You’re not as bored as you think you are.” He said, the slightest tilt to his head suggesting a hint of playfulness, and he let the corner of his mouth curve into a knowing smile, motioning for them to get out of their seats. “My place is just around the corner from here.” Patrick revealed and knew that the night was full of possibilities, and he didn’t need to control the pace - Penny had already shown she was willing to follow the current, and he was more than ready to see where it led.

LATER

PENNY SYLVESTER:

Unclothed and tangled in somebody else’s bedsheets might’ve been the perfect time for Penny to finally freak out, to realize that what she’d just done was wrong. Then again, she had the walk over here to come to that realization, or the time they’d spent eye-fucking each other in the bar before that. Hell, maybe even when they were haphazardly undressing one another could’ve been a good time to put a stop to whatever this was, but she hadn’t, because there was no shock realization to come to; Penny had walked this path with full awareness right from the start, so as she propped herself up against Patrick’s pillows, her bottom half covered by the sheets but her top half entirely exposed, she saw no reason to freak out, nor to cover up. He’d seen everything now anyway. She flashed him a smile, soft and warm. “I hope you know I didn’t go looking for this tonight,” she said, her voice slightly raspy thanks to the way she hadn’t held back, volume included. It was the first time in a long time she hadn’t censored herself—or had to fake anything—in fact. “I’m not—I don’t know. It’s complicated...” She leaned in Patrick’s direction, resting her fingers beneath his chin and pressing a light yet lingering kiss to his cheek. “So thank you. You definitely helped me remember.”

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick lay beside her, head turned just enough to watch the rise and fall of her chest in the dimly lit room. He didn't bother to cover up either, resting his arm comfortably behind his head as if this was just another night, another calculated decision made in the midst of a long string of choices. But that wasn’t quite the truth - not this time. Penny wasn’t just another impulsive fling, and the moment he’d noticed the way her eyes had changed during their conversation at the bar, he knew he wasn’t dealing with someone who sought him out of convenience. When she spoke, her raspy voice breaking the quiet, Patrick caught the weight in her words. Her candidness, her lack of regret. The blue-eyed man turned slightly, his gaze drifting from her face to the point where his fingers brushed hers under the sheets, just on her hip. He felt the warmth of her skin against his, she was so soft. Her admission that she hadn’t been looking for this made him raise an eyebrow, the smallest sign of acknowledgment. When she leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, he felt her fingers under his chin, guiding him with a softness that contrasted sharply with the edge she’d shown earlier. “Complicated is good,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “Means you’re not settling for simple answers.” He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, an uncharacteristically gentle gesture from a man who rarely showed tenderness outside of carefully constructed moments. But this wasn’t about calculated charm now; this was about showing her that he’d listened, that he’d understood what she wasn’t saying as much as what she had. He moved slightly, turning more towards her, as his hand cupped her cheek and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss against her lips; a sharp contrast to the activity they’d just spent the night doing.

PENNY SYLVESTER:

It spoke to the poor state of her relationship that Penny wasn't in any hurry to leave, and that she knew it didn't matter how late she showed up back at home, Logan wouldn't question it, because there was nothing to question. There was nothing left to fight for anymore, so they never fought at all. Their house was calm, quiet, yet lying here with someone who wasn't her husband, in the kind of state only her husband should see her, this was the calmest she'd felt in the longest time. There was something so soothing about the way Patrick's fingers stroked her skin, his presence all consuming. As he leaned in, she easily reciprocated, their lips pressing in a very natural way to one another's. Penny eventually pulled back with a small, contented smile. "You don't say much, do you?" She rasped, tilting her face into the touch of his hand, her eyes up on his. Her gaze wasn't suggestive anymore, just calm, comfortable. Almost like she was talking to someone, a friend, she'd known her whole life. "Talk to me. Tell me something. What are you thinking?"

PATRICK FLANAGAN:

Patrick’s fingers continued their slow, rhythmic path along Penny’s cheek, a casual intimacy that seemed more deliberate than most might notice. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward or heavy - it was something they both seemed to find a measure of solace in. He wasn’t the type to fill silences with idle words; there was always something to be said for letting the silence breathe, for letting actions speak louder. Her small smile caught his attention though, and when she broke the silence, he tilted his head, watching her as if weighing her words. Talk to me. Tell me something. Patrick wasn’t the type to lay all his cards on the table. But he also understood when someone needed more than the surface level. He held her gaze, letting the moment stretch out just long enough to feel intentional before he responded. “You want to know what I'm thinking?” he murmured, his voice carrying that same understated confidence. Leaning in again, Patrick started sprinkling kisses along Penny's jawline, to the soft velvet-like skin of her earlobe and down her neck. "I'm thinking about how strange it is that people can feel like strangers and something else entirely at the same time," he muttered against the safety of her neck, the Scottish accent strong, before giving it a light nibble, and bringing his head back up to catch her reaction. He let his gaze linger on hers, giving her space to respond, not just with words but with whatever she chose to offer next. Patrick wasn’t in a hurry, and he sensed she wasn’t either. They’d found this unexpected connection, and for now, that was enough.

PENNY SYLVESTER:

Her question was more an observation, the vibe she’d gotten from him all evening. He didn’t talk much, while Penny, given the opportunity, could talk the ear off even the quietest of people. She didn’t necessarily feel the need to, though. She was happy in the comfortable quiet, the air thick with their actions over the last little while. A part of her wanted in his head, though, at least a little bit. Plus, there was no denying the accent was really hot… even more so as he leaned in closer, his lips moving against her neck and his words humming into her ear. That familiar shiver shot instantly through her core, and her eyes fluttered shut as she gave into the feeling of him touching her, kissing her, giving her the attention she’d craved for so long now. Her head tilted to give him as much space to work with as possible, and she almost whined when he pulled back. She stopped herself, though, and instead sucked a steadying breath through her nose as her eyes slowly opened again to meet his. She quietly watched him for a moment, her skin prickling with that distinct feeling of want. Need. “Mm, I’m thinking you’re gonna be bad news, Patrick.” She eventually murmured back, her lip twitching upward again. She twisted her body until she could reach up and rest her hand on the back of his neck, her fingers curling and tightening to draw her body into his. Penny arched upward to graze her lips to Patrick’s again, heat immediately rushing to all of the right places. “I’m also thinking I’m not done with you yet,” she whispered against his lips, before effortlessly closing the gap between them. Penny didn’t know what this was, but it wasn’t going to be the one time thing she’d initially assumed, she could just tell.

[hopesandmountains]

Healing when you don’t exactly have a safe place at home takes extra steps.

Healing can require you to open old wounds in order to heal and nurture them, and some wounds take time to heal.

And sometimes you have to escape home life otherwise the wounds will only grow but then it’s also a bit scary walking out into the world carrying an emotional wound.

It takes time to build up boundaries and to learn how to protect yourself, and when it comes to emotional wounds, people can hurt you emotional (intentionally or not) in ways that aren’t immediately noticiable or recognizable.

And I try to spend my time in safe places like volunteering or club activities, but that still took learning how to internally monitor my feelings and to take my feelings of being unsafe seriously even when I couldn’t figure out why I felt that way.

And typing that out sounds obvious, but people with rough childhoods learn to tune out that feeling of being unsafe (when parents are arguing or fighting, you feel unsafe as a child, and as a child there’s not much you can do about feeling unsafe so you learn to ignore that feeling) and as an adult you have to learn how to listen to that feeling and to teach your past childhood self that you no longer just have to sit with that feeling of being unsafe, but that as an adult there are actionable ways you can work to make yourself feel safe again.

Sometimes that means just changing the topic of conversations, sometimes that means taking some time to breath and calm yourself, and if you are with friends you can trust sometimes all it takes is telling people how you feel.

Really as you learn, you will find that you aren’t as trapped as you may feel and that you can be creative in the ways you work to make yourself feel safe again. And really that’s what a lot of healing is about, remembering that internally you can be a creator who can think of new ways to heal and new ways to heal with feelings of overwhelm.

Walking around with wounds, sometimes you feel like a kid again and you look to other people to recognize and tend to your needs. And this can work but you also have to be careful because there really are people out there who will take advantage of vulnerable people (which is why it’s really really important to set boundaries to protect yourself and to listen to your feelings when something feels wrong or unsafe).

But really you want to also learn that you can tend to your wounds and work to feel safe by believing in yourself for a little bit, and thinking of and trying new ways of living a healthier and secure life.

With wounds I feel unsafe a lot of the time, but there are also times where I’ve had to stop and kind of realize that the feeling of being unsafe had intensified, so I’ve had to take some time to find out what was happening. Sometimes it’s old trauma wounds that are more a reflection of something that happened in the past, and sometimes I really needed to take a step back and think about ways to feel safe again.

And I don’t want discourage anybody from meeting new people or being social, actually when I’m feeling overwhelmed talking to people is what really helps.

I guess sometimes people see boundaries or being protective as ways that push people away, but when done properly, they are actually what makes me feel safe enough to be vulnerable and open with people.