#i like to think that maybe i just need to be medicated for something. probably adhd. and then ill be all better and happy

[ashthesalamipiece]

👉👈 This is going to be an embarrassing request please don’t feel pressured to do this if it’s uncomfortable.

I’d like to ask for smut(or lead up to smut) of Bakugo with a female reader where reader has a inspection kink. Reader might be admitting to having the kink and being embarrassed by it, Reader might be asking or they are doing medical roleplay inspection kink, or maybe they are doing a degradation kink roleplay where Bakugo is inspecting to make sure they aren’t cheating only for reader to realise they are extremely turned on be the inspection.

Sorry if this is too much of an ask if you don’t feel comfortable doing it feel fine with ignoring me.

Let Me Look at You

(Bakugo x fem!reader | inspection kink, D/s vibes, emotionally charged teasing, 18+!)

You weren’t making eye contact. That was the first red flag.

Bakugo leaned back on the couch, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, watching you fiddle with the hem of your shirt like it had secrets hidden in the seams.

“…Spit it out,” he said gruffly.

You flinched, barely glancing up at him.

“It’s stupid.”

He raised a brow. “You think I care if it’s stupid?”

You hesitated. “It’s like… something I’ve never asked for before.”

Bakugo sat forward. Just enough to bring his eyes level with yours. “Something you want?”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t miss it.

“I—yeah. Kind of. It’s just…” You trailed off, burying your face in your hands with a muffled, “You’re gonna think it’s weird.”

“The fuck I will,” he muttered, standing up. “C’mere.”

You looked up just in time to see him standing in front of you, gaze heavy, arms crossed. “Tell me.”

“I…” You swallowed. “I think I have an inspection kink.”

His eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“I like the idea of… someone checking me. Like, really checking. Looking at me. Controlling the whole situation. Maybe like a medical thing or a possessive thing or—” You were rambling. “—or a jealousy roleplay thing where you’re making sure I’m not seeing someone else, I don’t know, Katsuki, it’s weird, I know it is—”

“Shut up,” he said.

You froze.

His hand tilted your chin up — gently — just enough to force your eyes to meet his.

“I’m not laughin’,” he murmured. “I’m fuckin’ interested.”

Your breath hitched.

His thumb grazed your jaw. “So you want me to look at you? Like I own you? Like you’re mine to touch and inspect and tease, just to make sure you’re bein’ good?”

You whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Bakugo grinned.

“Thought so.”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “You like the idea of sittin’ there and letting me peel your clothes off one by one, hm? Touchin’ places just to check if they’ve been used? Spreadin’ your thighs so I can see if you’ve been good for me or if you need to be punished?”

You were burning. Core clenched, thighs twitching, your face probably ten shades of red.

“You’d let me do that?” he asked lowly. “You’d sit still and take it while I look you over like you’re my personal fucktoy to inspect?”

“…Y-yes.”

Bakugo’s hand slid down your neck, stopping at the collar of your shirt. “Then let me look at you.”

His voice dropped.

“Doctor, possessive bastard, jealous fuckin’ boyfriend — I don’t care what it is. I’ll play it all. Just say the word.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, lips parted in shock and need.

“Katsuki…”

His grip tightened slightly. “Say it.”

“…Look at me.”

And oh, the way he smiled then — like a wolf finally given permission.

“Good girl.”

---

You said it — the words still buzzed in the air between you.

“Look at me.”

Bakugo’s pupils blew wide like a lit fuse. His lips twitched into a grin that was far from innocent. You barely had time to blink before he grabbed your wrist and dragged you back toward the bedroom.

Not rushed — no. He moved like he owned the floor, like every step was part of something he’d already planned in his head.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered, voice low.

You obeyed, crawling up onto the mattress, nerves and heat burning under your skin like a live wire. He didn’t follow immediately. He just watched you, standing at the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, chin tilted.

“Clothes off. Slowly.”

You bit your lip, fingers trembling slightly as you tugged your shirt over your head. His eyes didn’t leave you — not for a second. They tracked everything — the rise of your breasts, the curve of your waist, the way your thighs shifted as you slid your bottoms down. You felt watched, but in the way you craved — seen, inspected, devoured without being touched.

When you were bare beneath him, his voice darkened.

“Open your legs.”

Your breath hitched, but you obeyed — laying back, spreading for him, your thighs parting with nervous tension. He exhaled slowly through his nose like he was calming himself, gaze locked between your legs.

“Good fucking girl,” he murmured, stepping closer. “So wet already. Is that from me talkin’, or just from being on display like a little slut?”

You whimpered.

“Bet it’s both,” he growled.

He sat on the edge of the bed — not touching you yet — and looked. Really looked. Like he was memorizing you. The slope of your thighs, the way your folds were slick and glistening, the twitch of your hips every time he exhaled near you.

“Don’t touch yourself,” he warned. “Not unless I say.”

You nodded, dizzy with heat.

Then you gasped as his thumb finally dragged up your inner thigh, grazing close to where you needed it — but never quite there.

“You want this kind of attention?” he said, voice rasping. “You want me to check if someone else’s fucked you, huh? Want me to make sure no one else has seen what’s mine?”

Your hips bucked.

He smirked darkly. “Thought so.”

He spread your folds with two fingers, exposing you fully, and leaned down close — inspecting like he was actually checking for evidence.

“No marks but mine,” he said, almost to himself. “Tight little pussy. Looks needy. Looks empty.”

Your breath hitched again as he brushed a finger through your slick.

“Dripping,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Then his eyes flicked up. “You that desperate for me to stuff you full, baby? Want me to make sure no one’s touched you by filling you?”

“Yes—” you gasped. “Please—Katsuki—”

“God, look at you,” he growled, finally slipping a finger inside. “Tight like you’ve been waiting all fuckin’ week.”

You moaned, thighs trembling as he slowly pumped, curling expertly.

“You want me to taste you?” he asked. “Want me to inspect you with my mouth, too?”

You nearly sobbed. “Yes, please—please—”

He chuckled darkly. “Fuck. You’re unreal.”

Without another word, he ducked his head and devoured you — licking up your folds with slow, deliberate strokes, then sucking on your clit like he meant to ruin you. One hand pinned your thigh, and the other kept working inside you, curling with wicked precision.

You were screaming for him in seconds.

“Come on,” he growled against your pussy. “Give it to me. Show me that this hole’s mine.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit hard and hot — thighs clenching, back arching, cries tumbling from your lips as you came hard on his mouth and fingers. He didn’t stop until you were panting, wrung out, twitching beneath him.

And then — he pulled back, licking his fingers clean, eyes still wild.

“I’m not done inspecting you yet,” he said hoarsely, unbuckling his belt with one sharp clack. “Now I’m gonna fuck you full. Just to make sure you remember who you belong to.”

---

Your skin was still tingling, thighs slick with the aftermath of his mouth and fingers, when you heard the soft, deadly clack of his belt hitting the floor.

Bakugo stood at the edge of the bed — shirt gone, pants shoved halfway down his thighs, his cock already hard, flushed, thick, and leaking.

And his eyes — gods, the look in them — like he was about to wreck you and you were going to thank him for it.

“You looked so fuckin’ pretty cumming for me,” he muttered, fist lazily stroking his cock. “But I’m not done inspecting this needy little pussy. Not until I’ve filled it.”

Your breath caught as he climbed onto the bed and grabbed your thighs, spreading you wide beneath him again. His cock pressed right at your entrance — hot, heavy — but he didn’t push in yet.

No. He just looked.

Again.

“You feel how open you are now?” he growled, rubbing the tip of his cock along your folds. “So ready for me. So ready to be fucked.”

Your hips twitched, desperate.

“Katsuki—please—”

“Say it right.”

“Please fuck me—please fill me—need you—”

“Atta fuckin’ girl.”

He slammed into you in one deep, punishing thrust — and you screamed, back arching, fingers scrambling for the sheets as he bottomed out inside you.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he hissed, voice ragged. “Like this pussy was fuckin’ made for me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust — not fully. Just pulled back and thrust in again, hard and deep, setting a rhythm that was brutal. Precise. Claiming.

Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs. He was everywhere — inside you, over you, gripping your hips like he owned them.

“You like me using you like this, don’t you?” he growled. “Just a needy little toy for me to fuck. Want me to fill you up and leave it there so no one else dares touch you.”

You cried out, incoherent. Lost in it.

His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight circles — pushing you faster toward the edge with every thrust.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s—fuck—it’s yours—”

“Say your pussy belongs to me.”

“It’s yours, Katsuki, it’s yours—I’m yours—!”

He growled low in his throat — then drove in harder, faster, fucking you with a raw, possessive edge that had you unraveling beneath him.

“Gonna come again?” he rasped. “Gonna cream all over my cock like a good girl?”

You were already there.

You shattered under him — back arching, clenching hard around his cock, crying out his name as your orgasm ripped through you like wildfire.

“Fuck yes,” he snarled, slamming into you once more and spilling inside you, groaning as he emptied himself deep, cock twitching, hips rolling to push it in further.

You both stayed there — panting, shaking, sweat-drenched — bodies tangled, still connected.

And then… he softened.

His arms wrapped around you, lowering you gently to the mattress. He pulled out slowly, careful, letting his release drip from you onto the sheets — and watching it with a tired, satisfied smirk.

“You really do like bein’ inspected,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “You were so fuckin’ good for me.”

You buried your face in his chest, flushed, boneless. “That was… a lot.”

“Yeah?” he asked, thumb stroking your jaw. “You okay?”

You nodded.

He leaned down and kissed your lips — slow and deep, no teasing left. Just warmth. Safety. Love.

“Next time,” he whispered, “you want the doctor version, or the jealous boyfriend again?”

You smiled sleepily. “Both.”

He grinned.

“Yeah. That’s my girl.”

[sweepingboy]

Mu Qing is meditating next to him and despite the peaceful nature of the activity gives an impression of a pissed off cat.

The swamps are a neutral territory between their borders: always humid and swarming with mosquitos and restless dead - the place is a headache and even a greedy control freak like Mu Qing prefers "co-owning" to dealing with it alone. Or he just want Feng Xin to suffer too. He would never agree smelling the turf monsters on his own.

So here they are in an old inn sharing a room since apparently the place is extremely popular not only among ghouls. Or maybe the owner is a ghost himself and has an evil plan to choke them with the dust and mold in that casket. To his surprise ever so squirmish Mu Qing sighs heavily and walks inside. Feng Xin thinks that he must be really drained and feels a bit bad knowing that the man probably won't be able to rest properly after the mission.

Nights drag forever when you don't sleep, especially the summer ones. Drained in sweat after the long day of scorching sun at first you're relived when the it hides behind the horizon but it hardly gets better. The thinnest blanket feels like Kiln sticking to your body as you turn and twist trying to settle down.

"You can't do anything about it" he says when Mu Qing gives up pretending it's not bothering him and offers sleeping herbs.

"I have eight centuries of medical experience, you think I don't know how to treat insomnia?"

"I can fall asleep just fine", Feng Xin starts feeling agitated. Gods, the asshole is certainly experienced in being annoying and pulling his last nerve.

"So what's wrong?" Mu Qing sounds like he's winding up too.

"None of your business! Why the hell do you care?"

A bit of silence.

"Then suffer." the man seems to lose the remaining energy. "Just try not to make noise again" He closes his eyes and returns to meditation. Feng Xin feels a pang of frustration and somehow disappointment. Shame maybe. Mu Qing meant well it's not his fault he can't help.

He watches the man and feels his own exhaustion wash over him. He wishes he could just go to sleep but he wouldn't be able to rest when....

"I have dreams of you dying."

"Of course you do" Mu Qing responds quickly. Feng Xin can swear he managed to roll his eyes while keeping them shut.

"No I mean back then." Feng Xin turns away and focuses his gaze on the dirty curtains. He hesitates trying to come up with words to describe the endless nightmares that have been plaguing him lately.

Mu Qing falling into lava, Mu Qing bleeding to death, Mu Qing tortured to death by the Jun Wu him passing away in the medical tent he spent few weeks at. A tragedy after tragedy each night until he wakes up feeling even more tired than before.

When he turns back Mu Qing observes his face quietly.

"I don't like them." he whispers not knowing what else to say " they bother me a lot".

Words hang in silence. Somehow the confession seems bigger than it is. He's putting something into Mu Qing's hands and doesn't even know what it is.

"You did it though. You saved me. No matter how much i hate it you saved my life."

This takes Feng Xin by surprise and makes him chuckle. What an proudful ass!

"I'm not afraid to die for a good reason." Mu Qing continues calmly " And I don't need anyone to rescue me - but as long as you're around no matter what I think about it you will pull some shit and get me out. In spite of my opinion just to piss me off"

Feng Xin hums. Mu Qing being an ungrateful ass he is is surprisingly relaxing "What if I fail to do it one day?"

"Oh, you never fail to make me mad. This you can be trusted"

A wave of warmth washes over him. Mu Qing has that way of saying things indirectly Feng Xin got familiar with in the past few months. Passages of indifference are a way to hide a soft vulnerable something. But as he sits in front of him dressed only in the inner robes clinging to his body (not a look many people saw a great general Xuan Zhen in!) talking in that soft calm tone not meeting his eyes the veil of confusing statements seems a bit lighter and the outline of something is almost recognisable behind it. So Feng Xin takes his chance and makes an assumption.

"I'm glad you trust me - because I would do it again. I hope you will be mad at me forever if it means you're alive."He can swear Mu Qing's ears flush pink.

"Go sleep." He turns away pointedly. "And if you get one of those dreams again - I will wake you up" he adds quietly shooting Feng Xin a glance before finally facing away.

Feng Xin is still smiling as he makes himself comfortable on his pillow and allows himself to finally rest.

***

That night he dreams of Mount Tonglu - and it happens again: the fire, the leap but Mu Qing's in his arms as he should be. Scared then confused then angry at him and alive. And as he screams at him for getting him out, or for being too slow, or for gods know what else Feng Xin leans on and gives him a kiss on the lips to make sure he stays mad a bit longer.

[sillygoose067]

Can you write a smol fic for Joaquin Torres with younger reader (early 20s) where she got caught in the crossfire of someone else's (probably a villian) mission to retrieve potential candidates to turn into assassins and she ended up getting kidnapped to and was trained for a short while to be one

Maybe Joaquin (and Sam, maybe Bucky but thats up to you) was on a separate mission and found her, maybe like one of the few remaining assassins left, and just takes her in

Maybe she didn't think about staying and was planning to leave him and just hide and pretends she doesn't exist because she feels so guilty and feels like shes weak because of the incident and had a normal life leading up to it

Maybe she sees her mourning friends/family in the distant and doesnt go and tell them shes alive and sage because of the issue and instead just watches in the background, feeling like it'll be safer that way

Heeeey, so I'm really sorry that I take so long to reply to asks and all, but honestly, I really enjoyed this request and needed a good chunk of time to do it justice. Also sorry that it turned out being a not-so-smol fic.

I hope you like it!

———————————————————————————-

Vaporized

Joaquin Torres x Reader (but kind of more reader-centric)

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

That was the rule—your only rule, really. You moved through the world like vapor, slipping past eyes, past cameras, past consequence. That’s how you liked it. That’s how you’ve stayed alive.

But that night, something caught.

A sliver of glass beneath your boot. A breath misting too warm in the cold air. The wrong kind of silence under the warehouse floodlights. You knew before they looked up. Before the first shout broke through the quiet. Before the van doors slammed open and the boy—skinny, oblivious, earbuds in—was grabbed and gone.

You'd been watching for him. For them.

It was supposed to be your clean extraction. Quiet surveillance. In and out. Follow the trail, find the nest, tell no one. You didn’t work with SHIELD. You worked under them, around them, behind their backs when needed. You took the cases that came with no files, the ones no one wanted their names on. There was no backup. No handler whispering in your ear. No one even knew you were there.

That was the point.

But this—this was a mistake.

And you never made mistakes.

———

When you wake, the lights above you are too white. Too still. The air has that sharp, chemical chill of medical spaces—no scent, but you know it in your bones.

You're lying flat on something cold. Limbs heavy. Head full of static.

Not restrained. Not quite.

But watched.

The door opens like a sigh.

She steps in like she owns the world.

Tall, pale-suited, with a face that tells you she hasn’t had to raise her voice in years. Everything about her is tight, sharp, pristine. A blade that’s never dulled.

She doesn’t ask your name.

“You’re not one of ours,” she says, eyes flicking to the thin tablet in her hand. “No record. No origin. No heat trail.”

She looks up. “So tell me. What were you doing there?”

You stare.

She smiles, thin as a thread of wire. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve seen too much. You’ll stay.”

You manage to speak, though your throat feels like it’s wrapped in gauze. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Probably,” she murmurs. “But I make them well.”

———

They give you a name: Stray.

You let it stick.

They think you were an accident, another body swept up in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you were already hunting them before they touched you. Already building a map in your head. Already turning threads into patterns, patterns into something closer to truth.

You fall in line, because it’s easier to watch from the inside.

They train you like the others—recruits mostly young, most of them raw, confused, angry. The kind who slip through cracks and don’t get looked for. They break them down, build them up again. Clean. Sharp. Obedient.

You pretend to be one of them. You bleed just enough. Sweat just enough. Hold back just enough.

But in the dark, when the lights go out and the facility hums low like a sleeping thing, you move.

You slip past the cameras you’ve already memorized.

You mark access points, record names, time the rotation of guards. You hack into systems they think are closed. You collect data piece by piece—slow, careful, quiet. And you wait.

Because this isn’t just a training facility. It’s a hub. A pipeline.

You’ve seen the files now—lists of names flagged for recruitment, assessments marked with things like conversion potential and mental pliability. You’ve seen cities pinned on digital maps with red pulses like heartbeats. You’ve seen shipments labeled in code, moving in and out like blood in a body.

They’re not just making weapons.

They’re building an army.

———

She comes to you again one night.

No guards. Just her, a shadow slipping under the doorframe.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, reassembling a combat knife with deliberate care. Every piece placed with calm, mechanical grace. You don’t look up.

“You’re not like the others,” she says, voice soft. Thoughtful.

You keep your hands moving. “I learn fast.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

That earns a glance. You meet her gaze—still, unreadable.

“Where did you train before this?” she asks.

You let a beat hang in the air.

“I didn’t.”

A lie. But not a big one. Not in the way she means.

She studies you for a moment. “No fear. No hesitation. No questions. Most come here screaming or silent. You—” She tilts her head. “You seem like you’ve already been through something.”

You smile. Barely. “Maybe I have.”

She stands there a moment longer, the silence folding between you like cloth.

Then she nods, turns, and walks out. Her heels echo like punctuation.

———

You count the days in heartbeats. In the flicker of overhead lights. In the quiet blink of data sliding into your stolen drive.

You’ve almost got what you need.

You know now where the next base is. How they move recruits. What they plan to do with them.

But you can feel her watching you more closely now. The woman in gray.

She doesn’t know.

But she suspects.

And suspicion is dangerous.

You’ll have to move soon.

Before she confirms what you are.

Before she realizes she didn’t catch a stray.

———

You’d nearly given up on the signal.

It was a foolish hope, really—sending out fragments of Morse in the cracks of facility surveillance, hiding them in power surges and machine glitches, tapped through loose pipes and stripped wires. Just a whisper through the noise. Too faint to register. Too random to decode unless someone wanted to find it.

But you sent them anyway.

Because something inside you refused to stop trying.

Somewhere, in the fractured spaces between fear and fury, you hoped someone might still be listening.

You didn’t expect it to be them.

They were running their own mission. Quiet op. Classified enough that Sam hadn’t even told anyone at SHIELD what they were doing near a supposedly inactive zone.

Joaquin was the first to notice.

They were holed up in a safehouse—some dusty room above an auto shop outside city limits—when he paused mid-sentence and tilted his head. “You hear that?”

Bucky looked up from his weapons check. “What?”

Joaquin was already crossing to the wall, fingers brushing the old radiator. “That tapping.”

“It’s a pipe,” Bucky muttered.

“No.” Joaquin's eyes sharpened. “That’s code.”

He tapped it out against his own wrist, quiet and steady. Repeating sequences. Timed intervals. Not random.

Not noise.

Someone was sending a message.

They traced it.

Not easily. Not quickly. But enough to triangulate a source—somewhere in the industrial sector, buried beneath half-finished construction sites and false utility records. Hidden on purpose.

Sam ran it through SHIELD’s encrypted maps. “Nothing’s supposed to be there.”

Bucky just stared at the coordinates and muttered, “Then we go.”

Just the two of them and Joaquin, dropping off-grid, moving fast and quiet toward the ghost signal buried beneath the city.

———

You were pacing your cell again—routine, familiar—when the shift in power drew your attention. A flicker. A second longer than usual.

Too long.

You knelt by the vent where you’d hidden the cable. Tapped twice. Then three short bursts. A longer pause.

Static.

And then—

Three quick taps in return.

You’d tapped the code again, heart hammering in sync with the flicker of the broken vent pipe. Twice. Three short bursts. Then waited—silent, breath held, every sense straining for a sign.

Three quick taps.

Someone was listening.

You froze.

That was a response.

———

They found the compound’s outer ring just before dawn, tucked in fog and silence, masked under layers of false infrastructure.

Sam stayed high, overwatch, wings primed.

Joaquin slipped through with barely a sound, eyes scanning every wall like they could betray him.

Bucky went straight for the entry point—he’d been in places like this before. Too many. His steps were purposeful, quiet, like he’d known these halls in nightmares.

When they found the camera grid, Bucky hissed low. “Someone’s been rewriting this from the inside.”

Joaquin’s face lit up. “Then we’re not just here for recon.”

You were ready to make your move.

———

Your escape was a chain of stolen codes and rewired doors, forged access from a guard you’d blackmailed with the right silence. You didn’t know where you’d go. Just that you would.

You had to.

But then, the door hissed open ahead of schedule.

You didn’t flinch.

Bucky didn’t lower the gun.

Behind him, Joaquin leaned into the frame, gaze scanning you like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. “You’re the one who sent the signal.”

You rose slowly. “I didn’t think anyone would hear it.”

You didn’t wait for introductions.

Instead, you grabbed your stolen drive, tucked it into your jacket, and jerked your head toward the north wing.

“There’s a vault,” you said. “I haven’t cracked it yet, but everything else I’ve found? It points there. Data logs. Recruitment records. Future targets. SHIELD needs this.”

Sam’s voice crackled through Joaquin's and Bucky's comms. “Security’s lighting up. You’ve got maybe seven minutes.”

“Then we go now,” Bucky said.

You moved as one, a shadow-unit forged in urgency.

You led them through the halls you’d memorized, rerouted them through systems you’d quietly corrupted. Lights blinked in warning. Doors slammed behind you.

Alarms didn’t matter now.

You were nearly out.

———

The corridor was burning.

Not fire. Not yet. But something louder. Sharper. Mechanical screaming clawing at your skull. Warning lights flashing in fevered rhythm—panicked eyes of red and white. Steel doors groaning shut, inching closed like a tomb. Minutes left—maybe less—before the whole facility sealed you in forever.

But still, you moved.

You found them.

The children.

Dozens—lined in rows like broken dolls forgotten in a toy box. Some glassy-eyed, minds scrubbed and drugged. Others awake, but too hollow, wearing silence like armor. One—the smallest—maybe nine or ten—locked eyes with you and reached for your hand.

You took it.

They followed without question. No words, no fear. You were the first unfamiliar face they’d seen in too long.

You led them down twisted halls, bypassing surveillance you’d sabotaged, looping through tunnels and hollow ducts. Your voice low, commands clear—careful not to terrify more than they already were.

Because they were the mission.

They had been all along. This was never just data. Not to you.

They were the mission.

The truck waited in the loading bay, engine idling beneath layers of concrete and steel. Joaquin counted heads, his usual dry humor muted by urgency. Bucky paced the perimeter, a coiled wire ready to snap. Sam stood high above, wings folded tight, voice calm in your comm.

“Three minutes before lockdown. Get in now or don’t get out.”

You didn’t move.

Instead, you crossed to Joaquin and pressed the stolen drive into his vest.

He blinked. “Wait. What—”

“I’m not coming.”

Bucky stepped forward, tense. “What do you mean, not coming?”

“I have to finish this,” you said. “The woman running this—she’s still inside. She won’t get out. Not while I breathe.”

Sam offered from above, voice steady, “We can extract her later.”

You shook your head. “No. Not if she’s allowed time. She’ll wipe every trace. Every name. This is the window. You get the kids safe. You get that drive to SHIELD. I’ll take her.”

Joaquin looked to Bucky. “We don’t know who you are.”

“Good,” you said. “That’s why we're all still alive.”

They hesitated, weighing instincts and losses. Bucky’s gaze sharpened, soldier’s calculations flipping through odds and regrets.

“Do you even have an exit plan?” he demanded.

“I’ll find one.”

“You hope.”

“No,” you said. “I know. I’ve survived worse than this. I don’t need permission. I need time.”

Sam’s voice crackled, “She sounds real.”

“Damn right I am. Now move.”

Bucky didn’t shift.

You met his gaze steady and cold. “I have no one waiting for me. You do, Senator Barnes. I’m the only one here who can afford not to come back.”

Bucky turned with a swift nod, lifting a trembling girl like she was glass. Joaquin helped the others into the truck. He turned back to you, concerned, voice low.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He nodded unsurely—almost as if he was riddled with some kind of regret.

Then the truck doors slammed shut. The engine roared.

You watched it disappear beneath the tunnel, gates grinding closed behind them.

———

You never wanted this. Never wanted someone close enough to break through the walls you’d built around yourself — walls made of silence and scars, thick enough to keep the world out. You wore that silence like armor, something familiar, something safe. But then Joaquin came — bright and stubborn like sunlight pushing through a crack in a locked door — and slowly, without mercy, chipped at those walls. You wanted to pull away, you really did. But sometimes, just sometimes, his presence was the only thing that stopped the cold from swallowing you whole.

There were moments, brief and fragile, when you believed you could breathe a little easier. His laugh, warm and soft, pushed back the weight pressing down your chest. You almost forgot what it was like to feel something other than the endless ache. Almost forgot you were broken. Almost believed that maybe, just maybe, you could be normal again. But the shadows never left. They waited. Quiet and patient, they crept back in the cracks — twisting your gut with memories you’d rather drown than face. Their silence pressed down on you like a fist squeezing the last breath from your lungs. Your hands shook in the quiet, your breath caught and rattled like it might break.

Then came the call — the one you knew you weren’t ready for. Another solo mission. Dark and messy. The kind you took because no one else would. But that day, everything collapsed beneath your feet. Every move was wrong. Every step was a gamble. Like you were stumbling blind in a storm that tore at your skin and soul. Mistakes piled on mistakes until the chaos swallowed you whole, dragging you to a place where control was just a ghost you’d lost. You fought — not just the mission, but the war inside yourself. When it was over, you weren’t sure who you were anymore. The person who emerged was a stranger. Hollowed out. A shadow of the girl who believed she could do this alone.

So you made a choice — brutal and unforgiving. The kind that leaves scars deeper than any bullet wound. You reached out just once. Whispered to Fury through static, your voice cracking like broken glass. “Tell Joaquin… tell Sam and Bucky. This case... it broke me. I got lost in the fight.”

You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t ask for understanding. You vanished. Folded yourself into the shadows where no one could find you.

From a distance, you watched the wreckage you left behind. Joaquin’s light — once so bright — dimmed slowly, painfully. His shoulders curved inward, carrying a weight you’d never wanted him to bear. His laughter, once easy and full, cracked like fragile glass. You felt it, even from the distance — his grief, raw and jagged, tearing him apart piece by piece.

He mourned you in silence no one else could hear, in moments only shadows witnessed. You wanted to reach out. To tell him you were still here. But you stayed silent. Because ghosts don’t get to choose when they disappear. Because you were becoming the very absence you’d feared — the cold, empty silence you’d wrapped around yourself for so long.

You became the absence you dreaded. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. And somewhere deep inside your shattered heart, a flicker of hope lingered. Maybe, someday, the pieces could come back together.

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Thin Blue Line

Tw: overdose

It was supposed to be a simple bust. Just a hit on a suspected stash house that Narcotics and Metro had been watching for weeks. Tim Bradford had gone over the plan five times with his rookie — you — because he knew you liked to be prepared, and because lately, he’d found himself wanting to protect you more than he probably should.

When you’d pulled your vest on that morning, he’d tried not to let his eyes linger too long. Tried not to think about how your laugh made his chest tight or how he’d started looking for you in every room.

But now, none of that mattered. Not with the way your head lolled against his chest as he half-dragged, half-carried you out of the smoke-filled house.

It had gone bad so fast. One suspect tried to flush the stash, another threw a flashbang — then there was the unmistakable hiss of something aerosolized. You’d been closest when a canister hit the ground and popped. Fentanyl. Or worse — carfentanil, maybe.

“Rookie!” Tim had shouted over the commotion, but your eyes were already glassy. You’d inhaled it before you’d even realized.

Now, out on the front lawn, he lowered you to the ground, cradling your head in his lap as he tore your vest open to check your breathing.

Your eyes rolled back. Your body went rigid — then snapped into violent, uncontrolled jerks.

“Shit — no, no, no. Rookie —!” He fumbled for his radio, pressing the button so hard his knuckles whitened.

“7-Adam-19, I need a bus now — Officer down, possible overdose, she’s seizing — get me a medic here now! Now!”

Your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ground together. Foam pooled at the corner of your lips as your limbs thrashed against him. He tried to hold you steady, turning you on your side so you wouldn’t choke.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you — just breathe, just breathe — please, rookie, please—.”

The seizure broke as fast as it came, leaving you limp and barely breathing. He ripped open the Narcan kit with shaking hands, pressed the nozzle to your nostril, and squeezed.

“Come on. Come on. Come back to me…” He braced himself, watching desperately for any sign that the opioid reversal was working.

A second later, your chest bucked — and you sucked in a strangled, gasping breath before convulsing forward, retching violently.

“Hey — easy, easy, on your side, I got you—” He turned your head just in time as you threw up on the grass, coughing and choking between shallow, panicked breaths.

The paramedics were running toward him now but Tim barely noticed — his entire focus was on you, on the way you sobbed for air and grabbed for his arm like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“BP’s low, we need an IV!” one medic shouted, dropping beside you. Another slid an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

“She seized hard, we’ve got airway compromise — give her another Narcan dose IV, keep bagging if she drops,” the lead medic barked to his partner.

Tim didn’t let go of your hand, didn’t flinch when your fingers dug into his wrist like you were scared he’d disappear.

“Rookie? Hey. You hear me?” His voice cracked. He didn’t care. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe for me. Slow — right here. You’re safe. I got you.”

You coughed, lips stained with spit and vomit, but your eyes fluttered open enough to find his. A broken whisper escaped your raw throat.

“I’m s-sorry… messed up —”

“No. No, you didn’t mess up. This isn’t on you.” His thumb brushed your cheek, clearing away tears and sweat and dirt. “You did everything right. I should’ve kept you back — this is on me. Just hold on, okay? You’re not going anywhere.”

The medic squeezed more Narcan into your IV. Your chest rose and fell with shaky, ragged breaths. For a second, you thought you might seize again — your fingers twitched — but then Tim’s hand closed around yours, grounding you.

“You’re gonna be okay, rookie. You hear me? You’re gonna be okay.” His voice was low and raw, and it carried something neither of you had said out loud yet — but that you both knew was true.

The ambulance rocked as it sped through LA’s streets, sirens wailing. Tim sat wedged on the bench seat, gear pressing into his hip, but he didn’t care. His whole world had narrowed to the small space between the gurney and his clenched fists.

You were strapped to the stretcher, oxygen mask fogging with each weak breath. An IV line snaked from your arm to the drip bag swinging overhead. The paramedic was calling in vitals, adjusting your O2, but all Tim saw was you — pale, clammy, lashes fluttering as you fought to swim up through the haze.

Stay with me. Just keep breathing. That’s all you have to do

He’d said those words out loud so many times his throat burned. But now they were a chant in his head — louder than the sirens, louder than the medics, louder than the fear.

Your eyes cracked open, unfocused at first — then darted toward him.

“B-Bradford…” It came out muffled under the mask, your voice hoarse, broken.

“I’m here,” he rasped, leaning closer. He pressed his hand to your calf, squeezing through your uniform pants. A grounding touch — a promise.

Your fingers fumbled weakly until they caught his wrist. You gripped him like you were drowning.

“Stay… stay with me, please—”

God, he felt something split wide in his chest. *I’m not supposed to feel like this. Not about my rookie. Not this much.* But the rules didn’t matter now. Not when your nails dug into his skin like a lifeline.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice breaking. He squeezed your leg tighter, thumb rubbing circles into the fabric. “Eyes on me, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe. We’re almost there.”

“BP’s dropping again,” the medic said sharply. “Heart rate’s bradying — sixty, now fifty-eight — O2 sat’s falling. Damn it, she’s relapsing.”

Tim’s eyes shot to your face. Your breaths were ragged, shallow — the hiss of the oxygen mask too fast, too thin.

Your lips were turning dusky at the edges — a deepening blue creeping across them, staining the cracks in your dry skin.

No. No, no, no.

“Come on, rookie. Hey — look at me,” he demanded, voice hard now, trying to claw you back with sheer force of will. “You’re gonna breathe. You’re gonna fight. You hear me? That’s an order.”

The medic was already drawing up another dose of Narcan. “Her respirations are under eight — bag her if she drops more. We’ll push a second IV dose. Sometimes the half-life’s too short with this much fentanyl.”

Your eyelids fluttered, then drooped. A gurgling sound escaped your throat as your chest stuttered.

Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me.

Tim braced a hand on your shoulder, the other still firm on your leg — a silent anchor. If he could’ve given you his own breath, he would have.

“Push it now!” he barked at the medic, not caring that it wasn’t his place. He just needed you here.Needed that spark in your eyes. Needed the soft laugh he’d replayed in his head at 2 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep.

The Narcan went in. For a moment — an endless, horrible moment — nothing happened. The medic pressed the bag valve mask to your face, forcing air into your lungs.

Then you jerked under his hands — a deep, rasping gasp tearing out of you. You coughed violently under the mask, your chest heaving as bile and mucus dribbled onto your vest.

“That’s it — good, good — keep bagging her, we need to clear that airway,” the medic said, voice tight but steady.

Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His forehead dropped for a second to your knee. He squeezed your calf so hard he thought he’d bruise you.

You stubborn, reckless, brilliant kid. You’re not going anywhere.

He looked up at you again — your eyes half-open, glazed with tears. You weren’t fully there yet, but your fingers twitched like you were trying to reach for him again.

He bent low enough so you could see him through the mask and the blur.

“Stay with me, rookie,” he whispered, raw and hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you.”

The rig hit a bump. The medic called out for the ER on the radio, rattling off vitals and transport ETA. Tim barely heard it.

All he could do was hold on — to you, to the feel of your leg under his palm, to the silent promise echoing in his chest:

You’re gonna come back. I’m gonna make sure of it.

The ambulance jolted hard as it backed up to the hospital bay doors, tires bumping over the curb. The medic braced a hand on your shoulder, checking your pupils with a penlight as the rig rocked to a stop.

“BP’s seventy over forty — heart rate fifty-four, dropping — she’s bradying again,” the medic called out, voice tight over the squawk of the radio. “Get respiratory on standby — we may need to intubate immediately.”

Tim sat hunched on the bench seat, one hand still locked around your calf — an anchor for both of you. Your eyes were half-open, glazed, chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. He could feel how cold your skin was through the fabric of your uniform.

Stay with me. Just stay awake, rookie. Breathe.

He squeezed your leg tighter. “Hey — hey, eyes on me. You’re okay, we’re here. You hear that? You made it.”

But you didn’t respond. Instead, your whole body tensed under the straps. Your back arched off the gurney, fists clenching tight as your jaw snapped shut.

“She’s seizing again — clear the airway, roll her on her side!” the medic snapped, wrenching your shoulder just as foam and spit pooled at your lips.

Tim’s stomach dropped. He reached over, forcing your chin open so you wouldn’t bite your tongue. He didn’t care that he was probably breaking protocol — he wasn’t going to let you choke in front of him.

“Let’s go — doors open, move, move!” the driver yelled as he swung the rig doors wide. The bright ER bay lights spilled in, harsh and sterile.

“Notify trauma — we’ve got a narcotic OD with repeated seizures, status epilepticus possible — get a crash cart ready!” the medic shouted as they wheeled you down the ramp.

Your seizure hadn’t stopped — your legs were jerking against the straps, arms thrashing until Tim grabbed your wrist and pinned it gently but firmly to the stretcher.

“I got you — I got you — come on, rookie, come on—”

Nurses and techs swarmed the stretcher the moment you hit the trauma bay doors.

“BP’s tanking — sixty over thirty!”

“Bag her, bag her — we’re not moving enough air!”

“Get two milligrams lorazepam IV, stat — push it slow, watch for respiratory depression.”

“Already not breathing — we’re tubing her, we have to.”

One nurse shoved a bag valve mask over your face while another popped open an intubation tray, snapping on gloves.

“Sir, you need to step back,” a nurse barked at Tim, trying to block him from following them deeper into the trauma bay.

Tim’s eyes went wild. “The hell I am! That’s my rookie — she’s still seizing — you are not putting me out there while she’s like this!”

“Sir, we’re working on her — you can’t be in the sterile area—”

“Like hell. I’m not leaving her alone—” He pushed past the nurse’s arm, planting himself right by your side as they wheeled you into the trauma room.

A doctor barely spared him a glance. “Security—”

“No,” another nurse said quickly, recognizing Tim’s badge and the raw desperation in his eyes. “Let him stay by the wall — just stay back, sir.”

Tim flattened himself against the crash cart, one hand never leaving your ankle. He squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white.

He watched, helpless, as they tilted your head back. A doctor slid a laryngoscope into your mouth, threading the endotracheal tube past your seizing jaw.

“Tube’s in — bag her up — sats are climbing—”

“Seizure’s breaking — push that Ativan, get a second line in — we’ll start a Narcan drip to keep reversal steady.”

Tim’s chest heaved with every hiss of the bag valve. He felt like his own lungs were tied to yours — every time your chest rose, his did too.

Stay with me, rookie. Don’t you dare leave me now.

He didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to be here — that he’d practically shoved a nurse out of the way. Rules didn’t matter when you were on the table, pale and shaking and fighting for every breath.

He caught a glimpse of your hand twitching on the bed rail. He reached out and squeezed your ankle again, voice low but urgent, hoping somehow you could still hear him through the sedation and the tube.

“I’m right here. You’re not alone. Just keep fighting. That’s an order.”

The trauma bay lights were too bright, too harsh — they made everything look too real. Tim kept his hand locked around your ankle, thumb moving in frantic circles against the fabric of your uniform pants, as if his touch alone could keep your pulse steady.

The machines around your bed beeped a steady rhythm at first — until they didn’t.

A sharp alarm split the air, a flat line among the other jagged tones.

“BP’s crashing — forty over nothing—”

“V-fib — she’s in V-fib—”

“Charge the paddles — push one of epi!”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat. He heard the words — knew exactly what they meant — but his brain refused to process them.

*No, no, no. Rookie. Come on. Not like this.*

A nurse tried to push him back again. “Sir, you need to leave—”

“I’m not— I’m not leaving her—” His voice cracked, eyes wide as the trauma team swarmed you, slapping defibrillator pads onto your chest.

“Clear!”

Your body jolted violently. Tim’s knees nearly buckled. Stay with me. Stay with me.

He didn’t even notice Nolan at first — not until he felt Nolan’s hand clamp onto his shoulder.

“Tim. Hey— Tim.” Nolan’s voice cut through the panic, low but firm. “You have to let them work.”

“I can’t— I can’t leave her— Nolan, I can’t—”

“Bradford.” Nolan’s hand tightened, anchoring him. “They’re calling security, man. Let’s not make this worse. Come on — come outside. I’m right here. They’ve got her.”

“I promised— I promised I wouldn’t leave—”

“I know. I know. But right now you’re in the way. You staying here doesn’t help her fight.”

Another alarm shrieked. Someone barked for more epi, more Narcan drip. Tim felt like he was underwater — all the medical chatter blurred into noise, just one long tunnel of white static in his skull.

He didn’t fight Nolan when he felt himself being steered backward, away from the bed. His feet moved but his eyes never left you — pale on the table, tubes snaking from your mouth, chest rising only when the bag squeezed air into your lungs.

They called for the paddles again.

Stay with me, rookie. Please—

They hit the doors backward, out into the hallway. Nolan pressed him against the wall, keeping a hand braced on his chest like he might bolt back through the doors if he got the chance.

Tim’s hands shook so badly he had to press his palms flat against the wall to stop them from swinging.

Nolan pulled out his phone with his free hand, thumb fumbling on the screen.

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” Nolan said, voice low but steady. “I’m calling my wife — she’s on her way. And Lucy — did you call her?”

Tim managed a jerky nod, his chest hitching with a dry, desperate breath. “She’s coming. I told her. She— she’s her best friend. She’s gonna lose it—”

“No, she’s gonna be here. They both are. They’re gonna sit with you until this is over, you hear me?”

Nolan put the phone to his ear, stepping just far enough away to give Tim room to breathe but never letting go of his arm.

“Hey, babe — yeah, it’s me. I need you down here. Tim’s rookie — she’s fighting for her life. Bring Lucy if she’s not already halfway here. Please — yeah, just hurry. He needs you both.”

Tim’s vision blurred, throat burning like he’d swallowed acid. He pressed a fist to his chest, trying to keep his lungs working. Stay with me. Please stay with me.

Behind the doors, he could still hear the muffled orders: “Clear! Pushing one of epi. Bag her again.”

He didn’t know if he was saying it for you or himself — but he whispered it anyway, his voice cracked and raw:

“Stay with me, rookie. Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Please—.”

Tim didn’t know how long he’d been pressed to the hallway wall outside the trauma bay. Seconds felt like hours — his mind replayed every jolt of your body under the paddles, every ragged breath forced through that tube.

He barely registered Nolan’s hand on his shoulder anymore — until the double doors slammed open and a blur of dark hair and frantic footsteps rushed toward him.

“Tim!” Lucy’s voice cut through the haze. He looked up just in time to see her push past Nolan and grab his forearms, searching his face like she expected to see blood.

“Is she—? Tell me she’s okay—” Lucy’s eyes were wide, already glassy with tears. She glanced through the trauma doors but all she could see were flashes of movement — nurses in scrubs, the hum of machines, a barked order to push more epi.

Tim opened his mouth but no words came out. He just shook his head helplessly.

“Oh, God…” Lucy’s shoulders shook. Nolan’s wife appeared beside her, breathless, a big hospital coffee in each hand — she passed one to Tim automatically. He didn’t even notice it spill when his hands trembled too hard to hold it.

Lucy turned to Nolan’s wife. “Can you sit with him? I need— I need to see her. I have to—”

But a nurse blocked her when she moved for the door. “Family only. They’re working on her—”

*Family.* The word stung because Lucy was your family — more than that, really. She’d been your best friend since college. The one who’d dragged you to the academy information session when you said you weren’t cut out for the badge. The one who stayed up all night with you, reading your polygraph questions and laughing at your nerves.

They’d been inseparable. They still were.

Lucy turned back to Tim, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her voice dropped — low, raw, and sharp as a blade.

“You know she only signed up because of me, right? Because I wouldn’t shut up about how much good we could do if we wore the uniform. I swore I’d protect her — I swore,Tim.”

Tim’s chest squeezed so tight he thought he might choke. “She’s tougher than anyone I know—” he rasped. “She’s gonna make it.”

Lucy’s eyes flicked to the trauma doors again, then back to him — and for a moment, the air between them felt like it used to: raw honesty, no bullshit, no walls.

“You love her.” Lucy didn’t ask — she stated it, voice steady despite the tears. “I saw how you looked at her before you even realized you were doing it. I saw how she looked at you, too.”

Tim shook his head, a bitter laugh tearing out of his throat. “Lucy— don’t—”

“No, listen to me.” Lucy’s hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him so he had to look at her. “I’m not your rookie anymore — I’m her best friend. And you love her, Tim. You do. You can lie to yourself all day, but you can’t lie to me.”

Behind them, the doors flapped open again — a nurse calling for another cart, someone yelling to page Respiratory now.

Lucy’s fingers dug into his jacket. “If she pulls through this — and she will, because she’s too damn stubborn not to — you tell her. You don’t wait. You don’t hide behind that that badge and your rules and your walls. If you love her, you tell her, or I swear to God, Tim, you will regret it every single day for the rest of your life.”

Tim’s throat burned. He couldn’t form the words. He just nodded once, jaw locked tight to keep it from shaking.

Lucy’s eyes softened. She let go of his shoulders just enough to pull him into a hug — tight, fierce, protective.

“She needs you, Tim,” she whispered, voice muffled against his chest. “She needs you to fight for her when she can’t fight for herself. So don’t you dare fall apart now.”

Over her shoulder, the trauma bay lights flickered. A nurse stepped out with a grim look — but this time, she beckoned them in.

“They’re moving her to ICU,” she said. “She’s stable for now. You can see her for a minute before they transfer.”

Lucy squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. “Go. Be with her. And when she wakes up — you better tell her.”

Tim exhaled shakily — then pushed through the doors, chasing the only thing in the world that mattered anymore.

The ICU was too quiet. Beeping monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator filled the sterile room, the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin hospital blanket the only thing convincing Tim Bradford that you were still here — still fighting.

He sat hunched in the uncomfortable vinyl chair pulled up right next to your bed. One of his big hands wrapped carefully around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he could will warmth back into your skin.

You looked small like this. Too still. A tube snaked from your mouth, tape pulling at the raw skin at the corner of your lips. A heart monitor beeped out a weak but steady rhythm that he clung to like a lifeline.

He cleared his throat — voice hoarse from shouting, from begging, from all the words he’d never had the guts to say when you were awake.

“Hey, rookie.” He squeezed your hand a little. “It’s me. Pretty sure you knew that — I’m not exactly subtle.”

The joke fell flat in the silence, but he pressed on. He needed your brain to hear him — needed you to stay.

“They say coma patients can hear voices. So… that’s what you’re getting. My voice. Lucky you, huh?” He huffed out a small laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Could be worse, you could be stuck listening to Nolan ramble about organic coffee beans for hours.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking over your face — memorizing every line in case he had to carry it alone.

“You know, you… you kinda ruined me, you know that?” He gave a soft, broken chuckle. “First day I saw you — you were with Lucy. You had that big, stupid grin and you were telling her you were never gonna pass the physical test. And then you did. Of course you did — because you always do what you say you can’t. Just to prove yourself wrong.”

He shifted in the chair, leaning closer so he could brush a loose strand of hair off your forehead.

“I think… I think I fell for you right then. And I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it ever since. But you just— you *get* me. You know how to make me laugh when I’m being an ass — which is, let’s be honest, ninety percent of the time. You know when to push, and when to just… sit there with me in the quiet.”

The words caught in his throat, raw and clumsy. He hated being bad at this — hated how it made him feel like the same kid who never knew how to say the right thing.

“People think I don’t feel things. Or that I’m made of stone or some crap like that.” He gave a tired half-smile. “But you — you saw right through all that. And you didn’t run. God help you, you stayed.”

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “And now look at you. Still staying. Only you’re too damn stubborn to wake up, huh?”

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles again, grounding himself in the small warmth of your skin.

“I swear to God, rookie, if you make me tell Lucy you didn’t wake up after I finally admit all this mushy crap—” He sniffed, blinking hard. “I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll haunt me with your ghost and throw it in my face every day. So do us both a favor and just… stay. Just wake up. So I can say this when you’re awake and you can roll those pretty eyes at me and tell me I’m an idiot.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you. I’m sorry it took a hospital bed and a tube down your throat for me to say it. But I do. I love you so damn much it terrifies me.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to your temple, careful not to jostle any wires or IV lines.

“Stay with me, rookie. That’s an order.”

A soft knock at the glass door pulled him back. He turned, blinking, as Lucy cracked the door open. Her eyes were red, cheeks flushed from crying — but she managed a watery smile when she saw him practically draped over your bed.

“Hey.” She stepped inside, voice low but warm. “You mind if your other favorite person gets a turn?”

Tim sniffed, squeezing your hand one more time before easing back just enough for Lucy to slip in beside him.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “She’s all yours. But I’m not going far.”

Lucy brushed his arm gently as she passed. “Good. Because when she wakes up, you two have some things to talk about. And I will be eavesdropping.”

Tim huffed out a soft, broken laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

He stepped back just far enough to watch Lucy take your hand — but he didn’t let go completely. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. And he wouldn’t be until you opened your eyes.

Lucy perched herself on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle any wires or the ventilator tubing. She brushed her thumb over your wrist, right next to the IV line, her touch feather-light — like she was scared she might break you if she pressed too hard.

She could feel Tim hovering behind her, but for this moment, it was just you and her. Like it had always been.

“Hey, trouble,” she whispered, voice catching. She gave a soft, watery laugh. “God, you look terrible. I mean, still prettier than me on my best day, but… damn.”

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes flicking over your face — the bruises on your temple, the tape holding your breathing tube in place, the faint beep of your heart on the monitor.

“You remember when we were, like, nineteen? And you talked me into sneaking into that college pool at midnight?” Lucy’s lips curved into a real smile, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “You swore up and down there were no cameras. And then — of course — there were cameras. And we had to run across campus half-dressed and you still thought it was hilarious.”

She sniffed, blinking back tears. “I swear every bad idea I ever had was your idea first. And I wouldn’t trade any of them. Not one. Because it was you. And me. And it’s always been you and me. You’re my second half, dummy. You know that, right?”

She glanced up at Tim for half a second, then back down at you. She squeezed your hand a little tighter.

“And look — I know you heard him.” She gave a soft, fond eye roll at Tim, who huffed out a tiny huff of embarrassed breath behind her. “Yeah, yeah, he thinks he whispered — newsflash, he didn’t. Guy’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.”

Lucy leaned closer, her forehead nearly brushing yours.

“So I’m giving you permission, okay? Because I know you — you’d talk yourself out of it. Or worry about me. Or him. Or the job. But I see you two. The way you look at each other when you think nobody’s watching. You’re made for each other, you know that? You get him in a way none of us do. And he gets you. So when you wake up — not if, but when, because I swear I will drag your ass back from the light if I have to — you better let him love you. And you better love him back.”

She brushed a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand, then sniffed loudly.

“And after you do that,” she added, voice lifting into a soft, teasing laugh, “you are gonna help me find a new guy. Because, newsflash, it’s your turn to drag me to awkward speed-dates and swipe for me on those stupid apps. Deal?”

She pressed a kiss to your temple, careful and lingering.

“So come on, trouble. I need my second half back. I need my partner in crime, my dumb bad-idea generator, my best friend. You stay, okay? You stay, and you wake up, and we’ll figure out the rest together. I promise.”

She squeezed your hand again — and for the first time in hours, she swore she felt the tiniest twitch in your fingers.

She looked up at Tim, eyes wide, a tearful grin breaking through. “Did you see that?”

Tim swallowed, his own eyes glassy. He stepped closer, laying his hand over yours too — his big, steady warmth covering both your hands and Lucy’s.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I saw it.”

Lucy looked back at you, whispering through a smile: “Atta girl. That’s my troublemaker. Come on home.”

Your hand twitched again under Tim’s palm. Then your eyelids fluttered — a tiny shift, barely there, but enough to make Lucy gasp so loudly it startled even Tim.

“Hey— hey, hey— look at that—” Lucy’s voice broke with a hopeful laugh. “That’s it, trouble, come on back—”

Your lashes fluttered, your brow pinched tight. Then your eyes cracked open — dazed, pupils blown wide, blinking at the bright ICU lights overhead.

“Hey— rookie— hey, look at me,” Tim said quickly, leaning in until he blocked out the harsh glare. His face was the first thing you saw — eyes rimmed red, his expression raw but trying so hard to stay calm for you.

Your chest hitched. The steady hiss of the ventilator made your heart hammer faster — the tube down your throat felt wrong, choking, and you gagged against it, eyes wide as panic flared bright and wild.

A muffled, wet sound caught in your throat — you couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe right, your hands scrabbling at the tube, the tape, trying to pull it out.

“Whoa, whoa— hey— no, no— easy, rookie, easy—” Tim grabbed your wrists gently but firmly, pinning them to your sides before you could tear the tube free. “Hey, listen to me— you’re okay. You’re safe. They had to intubate you, that’s all. You’re still here. Just breathe for me— slow.”

Your eyes darted frantically — from Tim to the monitors to Lucy, who was half crying, half trying to hold your shoulder down.

“She’s panicking—” Lucy said breathlessly. “I’ll get the nurse!” She squeezed your arm once and bolted for the hallway, yelling for help as she ran.

Tim leaned in close, forehead almost touching yours, one big hand pressing your shoulder down, the other still wrapped gently around your wrist so you wouldn’t fight the tube.

“Hey— look at me, rookie. Right here. Right here, come on.” His voice dropped into that calm, firm tone he used on tense scenes — that steady authority you’d clung to a hundred times before. “You’re okay. They’re breathing for you, okay? Machine’s doing the work. Just ride it out— let it help you. You’re safe.”

Your chest heaved. Hot tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you gagged again, the panic pressing so hard it felt like your ribs would crack.

“I know, I know it feels wrong,” Tim murmured, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I know. But you’re still here, you hear me? You stayed. You did what I asked. You stayed.”

Your eyes flicked to his — glassy, wild, desperate — but you held his gaze, and he felt your hands go slack under his grip instead of fighting.

“That’s it— that’s my girl. Good rookie. Just breathe. In and out, easy. They’ll be here in a second to get this tube out, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m right here.”

A nurse burst in behind Lucy, a respiratory tech right on her heels. They started pulling on gloves, talking fast:

“Let’s extubate her— she’s conscious enough, fighting the tube—”

Tim stroked your hair back from your forehead as they moved in, his voice a low anchor in the flurry of motion.

“Hey— hey, look at me. Just a little longer. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me, rookie. You’re almost there.

And through the tears and panic, your hand tightened around his — just enough to say I hear you. I’m staying.Here’s the next detailed, raw part — your tube removal, your body fighting back, panic, mess, and then all the raw confessions with every cheesy, vulnerable bit.

The respiratory therapist moved fast, gloved hands steady but brisk. Tim didn’t let go of your hand — not for a second — while the nurse checked your vitals again, rattling off numbers under her breath.

“BP stabilizing — ninety over fifty, still low but climbing. O2 at ninety-four with assist.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” the RT said gently, voice calm but efficient as she checked your tube ties. “We’re gonna pull this tube out, alright? You’re gonna feel like you can’t breathe for a second — but trust me, you can. When I say cough, I want you to cough hard, okay?”

Your eyes were wide, still wet with tears. You squeezed Tim’s hand like a lifeline, trying to nod despite the tape tugging at your raw lips.

Tim leaned close, forehead brushing your temple. “You got this. Breathe. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

Lucy hovered at your other side, hand fisted around the bed rail like she’d climb in with you if she could. “Deep breath, trouble. You’ve done scarier things drunk.”

“Alright, ready? On three,” the RT said, voice firm. She snapped the suction tube on. “One… two… three!”

She tugged. The tube slid free in one long, wet pull — you gagged violently, a raw, harsh retch that made your back arch off the bed. You coughed, gasped — the nurse swept in with suction to clear your mouth and throat, but your stomach clenched and twisted.

A second later you lurched sideways, a violent wave of vomit hitting the edge of the bedpan the nurse shoved under your chin just in time.

“Oh, baby, breathe, breathe—” Lucy’s voice cracked, brushing your hair back while you choked and spit. Tim just tightened his grip on your hand, steady as stone, eyes wild but focused only on you.

“Airway’s clear,” the RT said, checking your chest with her stethoscope. “Sats holding — eighty-nine and climbing — that’s good. Let it out, sweetheart. Deep slow breaths.”

You were trembling all over by the time you sagged back into the pillow — skin clammy, lashes wet with exhausted tears. Your voice rasped raw from the tube when you finally croaked out:

“Wh-what… what happened—?”

Tim stroked your hair back, his thumb brushing your cheek. “House bust went bad. Fentanyl. You got dosed. Seized twice, rookie. Scared the absolute hell out of us.”

Lucy leaned in, still holding your wrist. “Narcan didn’t take right away. You gave us all gray hairs. You owe me a salon trip, by the way.”

You let out a wet, hoarse laugh that turned into a cough. Your chest heaved, rattling. You reached for Lucy’s hand, eyes wide and pleading through the haze.

“Hey— Luce— can you— can you go pack me a bag? At my place?” Your voice cracked halfway through. “Stuff for a few days. Please?”

Lucy blinked, eyes shiny but smiling through it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Anything you want, trouble. You want the dumb frog pajama pants too?”

You wheezed a laugh, nodding. “Frog pants. And my blanket. Please.”

Lucy kissed your forehead and squeezed Tim’s arm on her way out. “She’s all yours, big guy. Try not to get her heart rate spiking again, yeah?”

When the door clicked shut, the room felt quieter somehow. Tim leaned closer, his big hand still wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles against your palm.

Your voice cracked as you searched his eyes — raw and open. “I… I heard you, you know. All of it.”

Tim froze. His mouth opened — closed — opened again. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, almost shy for once.

You nodded weakly, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “Yeah. All the sappy stuff. The part where you called me stubborn. The part where you— you said you loved me.”

His jaw clenched, eyes glistening with something he didn’t bother to hide this time. “I meant every word.”

You squeezed his hand, breath hitching. “Good. ‘Cause I love you too. Always did. Even when you were barking orders at me on day one.”

Tim huffed out a broken laugh — part relief, part disbelief. “When I saw you in that house— unresponsive, pupils pinned— God, my heart almost stopped too. Don’t ever scare me like that again, rookie. Not like that.”

You gave him a watery grin, voice still hoarse but warm. “No promises, sergeant. You know I’m trouble.”

He let out a soft, choked laugh and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“Yeah, well — you’re my trouble now. Deal with it.”

You wheezed another laugh, the oxygen cannula they’d switched you to hissing soft at your nose. “Deal. Now come here. You owe me, like, a thousand more mushy lines. And maybe some bad jokes.”

Tim squeezed your hand, brushing his nose against your cheek. “How about this one — knock knock—”

You rolled your eyes weakly, chest rattling with a soft laugh. “Who’s there?”

“Not fentanyl, because I’d kill it before it got near you again.”

You let out a hoarse bark of laughter, half cough, half giggle. “God, that was terrible.”

He grinned — wide, unguarded, and for once entirely free. “Yeah. But you laughed. And you’re still here. So I’m gonna keep telling them. Forever, if that’s what it takes”.

Lucy nudged the door open with her hip, arms loaded down with your overnight bag, your battered old blanket, and — because Lucy Chen never does anything halfway — a giant neon frog mug with a lid that she must’ve grabbed off your kitchen shelf just because she knew you’d want it.

“Hey, trouble.” She plopped everything on the chair and gave you a bright grin, trying to keep the mood light despite her red eyes. “One bag of pajamas, your stupid lucky blanket, and your toothbrush with the weird unicorn handle. You’re welcome.”

You let out a weak laugh, voice still raw but steadier than before. “You’re the best.”

Lucy shot Tim a look as she peeled a snack bar open for herself. “You, on the other hand — you smell like a wet locker room that’s been set on fire. Go home. Shower. Put on deodorant. Maybe use soap this time.”

You nodded, squinting at Tim through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah. She’s right. You stink, Bradford. Bad. I’m recovering here — have some mercy.”

Tim huffed out a laugh, dropping his chin to his chest like he’d been caught. “Noted. Fine. But only because you ordered me to. Rookie outranks sergeant when it comes to hygiene.”

You reached for his hand before he could stand fully. “You’ll come back?”

He bent, pressing a kiss to your forehead — quick but warm. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

Lucy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh my God, he’s so sappy now. Look what you did.”

When Tim ducked out, promising he’d be back in an hour, you tugged Lucy’s wrist until she perched back on the edge of your bed. For a moment you just lay there, studying her face, trying to piece together the words with your groggy brain.

“Hey,” you rasped. “Before I forget. That stuff you said — about me and him. Did you mean it? Really?”

Lucy blinked at you — then her eyes softened, and she leaned in, brushing hair back from your temple like she had a hundred times before. “Hey. I meant it, trouble. A hundred percent. I know we’ve got history, him and me — but that’s ancient history. You two… you’re something better. He lights up around you. He tries not to show it, but he does. And you— God, you love him so loud it’s almost embarrassing.”

You huffed out a raspy laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Lucy said firmly. “Be happy. Be safe. Be loved, you idiot.” She poked your nose gently. “You deserve all of it. I want you to have all of it. And I want him to have you. Because if anyone deserves you, it’s that stubborn mountain of a man.”

You blinked back tears, your fingers curling tight around hers. “I do. I love him so much it freaks me out sometimes. Like… all the way down to my bones kinda love.”

Lucy smiled, her own eyes misty. “Yeah. I know. You’re my best friend. Of course I know. Now rest, alright? You’re safe. He’ll be back soon to stink up this room again, don’t worry.”

A few hours later

You must have drifted off sometime around the second rerun of Wheel of Fortune Lucy insisted on playing to “stimulate your brain.”

But sleep didn’t bring peace. It never really did, not after what happened in that house. Somewhere in the tangle of IV beeps and the hiss of your oxygen cannula, your brain replayed it all on a loop — the sting of the powder in the air, your chest squeezing tight, the roar in your ears that came just before the blackness swallowed you whole.

In your dream, you were back there — only this time you were alone. Tim’s voice was gone. Lucy’s laugh was gone. No pounding boots, no Narcan slam to the thigh. Just cold silence. And then you saw them — Tim and Lucy — sprawled on the grimy floor beside you, eyes glassy, skin gray, gone.

You shot awake with a wet gasp, chest heaving so hard the monitor wailed a shrill alarm. Your fists tangled in your blanket, clawing at your throat like you could rip the dream out of your skin.

“Nononono—” you sobbed, ragged and raw. “No— don’t— Tim! Lucy!”

The door slammed open so fast it rattled the wall. Tim was there first — hair still damp from his rushed shower, sweatshirt half unzipped. He crossed the room in three strides and had you in his arms before Lucy, right behind him, could even close the door.

“Hey— hey— rookie, rookie— breathe. I’m here. Look at me. Breathe, baby, breathe.”

Lucy climbed onto the bed on your other side, her hand framing your cheek as you sobbed into Tim’s chest, fingers fisted in his hoodie like you’d drown without the anchor.

“I saw you,” you choked out, words tumbling out in gasps. “I saw you — both of you — dead — I couldn’t— you were gone and I—”

“Hey, hey, hey— we’re not gone,” Lucy said fiercely, pressing her forehead to yours while Tim cradled you tight. “I’m right here, trouble. He’s right here. Not going anywhere.”

Tim’s hand cradled the back of your head, his breath warm against your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Nothing’s taking me from you, you hear me? I’m too damn stubborn.”

You hiccuped a shaky laugh through your tears, your fists still curled in his hoodie, Lucy’s hand tangled in your hair.

“You stayed,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “You both stayed.”

“Always, baby,” Tim murmured against your temple. “Always.”

Lucy kissed your damp cheek and gave you a teary grin. “Now, if you puke on his hoodie, that’s on you. I’m off duty for that part.”

You wheezed out a raw, broken giggle that melted into a quiet, hiccupy sob — but this time it didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like being held. Like home.

[itwoodbeprefect]

the great thing about falling really deep into a new media niche is developing opinions on many new things. the terrible thing about falling really deep into a new media niche is developing opinions on many new things

[tj-crochets]

Still no craft updates on account of I feel Bad* but I did get like half a beanie crocheted this weekend? I also have a bat that's haunting me. In that there's a bat design I desperately want to turn into a plushie not in that I am being literally haunted by a bat. As far as I know I am not haunted by a bat but to be fair I'm not confident I'd know? *my heart rate got high enough that made me cough but my asthma was flaring up enough that cough launched me into an asthma attack, which raised my heart rate even more, so basically I used my emergency inhaler and then was on the floor for a while. Feels bad! Do not recommend. I'm okay though just tired

[quibbs126]

What would every Transformer’s job be if they were just doing like, community service?

Okay here’s a more specific setup to clarify what I mean more. Cybertron’s been brought back to life, though everything’s still in ruin, peace has been brokered between the Autobots and Decepticons, and now they have to rebuild Cybertron. What is everyone’s job in this rebuilding of Cybertron?

Originally this was just gonna extend to the Decepticons, like they lost the war and have to do community service as their sentence or something, but then I wanted to extend it to the Autobots as well. And also, why shouldn’t they help in rebuilding Cybertron too?

Only rule of mine is no political positions. Well, more specifically, the position of ruling Cybertron or part of it. I know logically someone needs to be running things, but it’s a lazy answer to me for the purposes of this discussion. Also no cops, Prowl needs to be doing something other than cop work

Community service is the name of the game here, even if logically not everyone’s gonna be doing that. You get the idea

[unproduciblesmackdown]

what in the. see this is why it's a good thing that multiplayer videogames especially are about having fun & being yourself like what do you mean disguised spies automatically had the speed of the disguise's class & everyone's like yea if i wasn't always going for the scout disguise i'd kill myself right now. i'd be like haha can't catch Me out supposedly the extra slow or extra fast class >:) i am a harmless engineer

[mars-ipan]

kinda funny when ur brain’s gut instinct is repression so you just kinda watch while your stress and emotions get bottled and corked and the whole time ur just like “that is going to bite me in the ass so bad later but i can’t seem to open the damn bottles without getting glass everywhere so! guess we’ll wait”

[kalashtars]

.

[windrunner]

fucked medical things because im losing my mind i cant tag it all so watch outtttt especially my IS muts ily

insane how that's also assumedly factoring in that i gave them legal permission to bring in a bunch of me/d students who are going to both observe me and also like. touch me. go inside of me. the parts of me they're taking out are going to be studied in a lab because i am an "outlier" (read: Special Freak) but i still have to pay them over $6k for all of this and they know i will because the alternative is Death. why

[coolspork]

Anyone know what's happening with the weed smoke discourse? Where did this come from and why have ppl taken up arms like it's the end of days. Why r ppl talking abt calling the cops over weed still 💀

[connormoving]

okay sooo 1. once little man is done with my laptop i need to do the ssn shit bc i have the letter 2. in an hour i need to switch my laundry to the dryer and at Some point i need to sleep preferablyyyy i oush as long as i can its been 28 hours i Think? since i woke up i dont avtually remember its all kind of a blur i do have a headache and my fuckshit tooth is bothering me but whatever . once i get the ssn login thing done im pretty sure i can get a new card like right away and then once that gets here i can go and get my permit And by then my new glasses will be here which is epics and ummm at some point not today bc im tired and have a headache aka not at my best. so once those 2 things r not the case i need to do the science and math ged practice tests ive been putting them off bc im scared ill do bad SKULL.but i need to get those done ... and omce i have the permit and everything thennnnnn i can go do my actual proper ged tests and once those r done ill have my ged and an id and thus can start applying for jobs again And ill be so brave and ask my mom to teach me how to drive . YIPPEE

[neverendingford]

.

[barnesonly]

Obsession

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

word count: 6021

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.

A/N: i’m horny, okay?…

You don’t have a crush on Bucky Barnes.

That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.

You don’t have any of that.

What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.

It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.

Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.

Like right now.

He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.

You’re staring. Again.

You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.

And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.

You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.

It’s getting worse.

Like, medically worse.

You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.

One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.

And it’s not fair.

Because he’s not even nice to you.

He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.

But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.

You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.

“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”

Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.

“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”

That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.

You can’t help it.

You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.

You shouldn’t do it.

But fuck it — you do.

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.

Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

He’s all you can think about.

Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.

You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.

That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.

His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”

Your fingers move faster.

You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.

You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.

You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.

Your thighs start to shake.

You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.

You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.

And then?

You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.

Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.

Not when it’s him you want.

Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.

———

You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.

You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.

The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.

And him.

Bucky.

You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.

But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.

He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.

His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.

He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.

And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.

You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.

You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.

Because that man?

That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.

You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.

And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.

And then he’s gone, down the hall.

You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.

You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.

Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.

You barely make it back to your room.

Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.

You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.

He looked so good.

Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.

You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”

Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.

Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.

Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.

But he hears you.

Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.

He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.

His blood goes still.

He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.

Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.

He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.

His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.

He shouldn’t listen.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.

———

The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.

You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?

A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.

Until he walks in.

And your entire body remembers.

Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.

You look up instinctively.

And he looks right at you.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.

No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.

He doesn’t say a word.

You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.

He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.

Your thighs squeeze together.

He knows.

He has to know.

But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.

And now he knows.

Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.

You want to crawl into the floor.

You want to jump him.

You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.

He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.

And this time?

You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.

Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”

You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.

You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.

“Nothing,” he says, low and even.

You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.

You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.

But he gives you nothing.

Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.

And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.

You’re so fucked.

———

You try to sleep.

You really, really do.

You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.

You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.

But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”

You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.

But then your mind starts drifting.

To him.

Always him.

Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”

You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.

And then he hears you.

Again.

A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.

He stands without thinking.

Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.

He stops outside your door.

Closed. Not locked.

He doesn’t even knock.

The handle turns with the softest click, and then—

He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.

You don’t hear it.

You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.

You have no idea he’s there.

Not until you hear him speak.

“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.

You bolt upright.

Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.

Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.

And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.

His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.

You can’t move. Can’t think.

Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.

You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.

“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.

Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.

And it kind of does.

You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches.

Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.

You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.

And still… he doesn’t leave.

Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”

“I heard everything.”

That shuts you up.

His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.

You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.

He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.

He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.

Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.

He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink. “What—”

“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”

Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.

He’s already heard you fall apart for him.

Now he wants the show.

And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.

You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.

Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.

You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.

His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”

You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.

His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”

His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.

He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”

You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.

He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.

And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.

“Let go,” he says.

You whimper. “But—”

“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.

“Bucky—” you gasp.

But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.

You can’t stop the sounds you make.

You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.

One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.

Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.

He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.

“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”

You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.

Another finger slides in.

Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.

“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”

You choke on a cry.

And then you fall apart.

Hard.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.

His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.

Not in your life.

Not until him.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.

His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.

Then?

He smirks.

That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.

“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”

You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.

He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”

He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.

Your breath catches, watching.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.

He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.

And holy fuck, he’s big.

Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.

He notices.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”

He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.

His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.

“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”

Your body arches up to meet him.

“Please,” you whisper.

He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”

You nod, desperate.

His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.

“Say it.”

Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”

He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”

You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.

He grins. “Needy little thing.”

Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.

Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”

“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”

His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.

Your back arches. Your vision whites out.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”

He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.

Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.

You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”

Your nails dig into his back.

He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.

And all the while, he talks.

“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”

“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.

He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”

You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.

And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.

Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”

“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.

“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”

And it snaps.

You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”

He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.

“Please—inside—want it so bad—”

He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.

You’re ruined.

His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.

The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.

Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.

He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.

And fuck.

You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.

Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”

You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.

“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”

His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.

“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”

You shiver under him.

He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”

Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.

He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.

He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.

You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.

His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.

Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.

“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”

You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.

You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.

He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.

And fuck, maybe he does.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”

Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.

He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.

Fuck, he did ruin you.

tags: @iamthatonefangirl

[oblique-lane]

References for Anomaly Diversion!!!

Official!! finally!!

I wanted to make their design stand out, so I created them from scratch; they're not loadouts you can find in-game. Plus a little bit of character description because I'm dying to talk about them and their roles in the story (*wearing a shirt that says "please talk to me about my fic"*).

Now I can finally draw them often!!

Somewhat goofy clothing sheets under the cut↓↓↓

I tried to design them the way their silhouettes and colors stay recognisable, as if they were meant to be used in-game later, to not to break the gameplay rules. I also wanted them to look as tf2-like as possible, I studied the hell out of the 3d models and on the last three I guess it started to turn out decent. Drawing Spy is still pain though.

Or maybe it's just that I'm not attracted to the majority of the mercs visually?? That's why they don't look satisfying?? Lmao. Need to adjust them to my tastes later.

I'm not sure I can exactly explain my design choices with these... How exactly they correlate to their characters. There is something, but I went for it fully intuitively.

//

For BLU scout I went for the softer, rounder oversized clothing to accent his insecurity and the need to shield himself for comfort. It still needed to shape his torso (game rules) but his hood and sleeves do the deed. There is also a strict rule in how to draw his freckles: they look more like moles and there's 7 or 8 of them. You won't believe me if I say this is lore relevant.

For RED Scout, I went with the more aggressive military style. I think I literally took this jacket design from a real military one. There should be an accent on his heavy relations with the army. His clothes are tight because he still likes himself.

RED Sniper is giving hunter vibes, forest type. BLU Sniper looks more like a fisher or a winter hunter. Not sure what deeper meaning I could assign to this except that BLU Sniper was heavily referenced on Ogata Hyakunosuke.

BLU Spy should radiate tiredness. His look is quite unkept for his standards but at this point it doesn't matter anymore. The turtleneck and the boots are special requests from @/gentlesurgeryenjoyer (xoxo)

BLU Medic just looks so freaking cool in a black shirt. It was a vision. I'm not sure if black and white accents mean anything in terms of which side those characters are on. I also wanted to separate him from another famous horror witnessing Medic.

And Miss Pauling was the most satisfying to draw, it was a gift to draw her last... I gave her pants because it's getting cold outside at the time when the story takes place. I also find it very impractical to go killing job in a pencil skirt, I'm sorry. She probably also wears snickers underneath.

And also thanks to @nightly-headache for helping out and assistance!