#i need to stop listening to those i think | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

m-robinavitch · 2 days ago

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sedated.

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Female!Reader/Slight Original Female Character(no names used but they call her Angel as nickname) Summary: Being the cause of Langdon’s demise. As guilt eats away at you- you turn to the only person who understands your pain in this moment. Robby. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, slight passive suicidal thoughts, mild dubious consent, age gap relationship(older man/younger woman), drug mentions. Crossposted to AO3

“To uphold your dignity”

Lies. I did not listen, I judged him. I was judged. I was not empathetic nor kind to him. I silenced his pained voice and spat on the choice he made. I could not cure him, I was not capable, I could not comfort him as he had done for me many times over.

“To offer my best self”

I am not worthy of this profession. I mishandled the privilege I had to care for him. I did not embrace my imperfections, I hid them deep in my soul because they were failures that shame me. I was not vulnerable with him, I did not give him a safe space to heal; I slammed the door in his face and threw the key. I was not courageous, I did not want to risk failing. I admitted my errors and asked for forgiveness- and I do not condemn him for denying me.

“To foster collaboration and mutuality”

I left my team hanging, they could not care for him because of me. I laughed at the experiences he lived, I did not care for his decisions nor tried to maintain a partnership. I did not ask for help because I did not think there were boundaries on my abilities and I did not offer help when he had reached his limitations. I cultivated a culture of resilience against understanding and only worked to support my own professional gain, no regard for others or him.

“To practice the highest quality of care”

I stopped trying to learn; medicine was a tool, I have lost the love for the art and science. I advanced knowledge for my own benefit, I was not honest nor cared enough to change. I only celebrated myself, those who came before me no longer mattered for my success.

“To care for all”

I did not embrace my citizenship to humanity, I shirked any obligations to act in the benefit of all human beings, especially his. I did not challenge my biases, I shamed him, told him he did not deserve the care that was inclusive to all aspects of identity. I did not combat structural oppression, I promoted my own justice and my own ethical action, not those of society or wellness. I leveraged my position and privilege for myself, did not care about the system that failed him, because I was the system that failed him.

“Today”

I did not stand with my peers in solidarity, I was not united, I was self serving, unkind, someone I did not recognize. I shunned where we came from, there is no future for us anymore. I have no gratitude for those who supported me, for they were wrong. I sullied this oath, defiled my honor and his. I am not a doctor who heals; I am wicked and damned. I am to be held accountable.

I prescribed Langdon the pills first.

He never said no. Langdon would come at every beck and call to him from someone he loved, someone who needed him. Even after he moved out of your shared apartment and into his space with Abby, he would still answer your calls at 3 in the morning on the first ring because “what if you needed him?” No questions asked, whenever, whatever is how his soul would operate with yours. Which is also how he got roped into his parents aid this weekend. Helping them move out of his childhood home by toiling over the boxes that were stacked near as tall as he was. Each box housed every award, trophy, and ribbon that he ever accumulated, every drawing he scribbled and every memory of a happy childhood that his parents could cherish.

Now he wasn’t exactly an old man, barely inching his way into his 30’s, but Langdon killed his body with every 60 hour plus work week, combined with being a father to both a 3 year old and a 16 month old, he was exhausted and sore constantly. This particular week while shuffling around the routine group of elderly nursing home patients in the morning, he didn’t lift with his legs like he should’ve. Ibuprofen, his usual aid of choice, hadn’t done the trick that day or the past few weeks, even begging you to massage his back for a second in the Pitt break room with the perfect ER Ken doll pout. But the whole weekend moving boxes to and from his old home and parents' new apartment, a sharp spasm had erupted from the heel of his right foot and trailed up to his lower back- pulling tight at the muscles that were still sore, making the box slip from his arms and land with a crash. The gasp that left him had even surprised his mother, who attempted to get him to sit down, but there were only a few more boxes left and he wanted to go home to sleep it off until work the next morning. So he powered through. And did not get to go to sleep as soon as he got home, no Tanner wanted to play, wanted to be thrown up in the air and caught and run around in the backyard, who was Langdon to deny his son the pleasure of bonding with his father?

The box he dropped held his NYU Biology bachelor’s degree, cracking the frame and the glass spidering along the edge- an omen he paid no mind to at the time.

“You’ve been hobbling around like an old man all fucking morning, sit down Frankie.” Langdon, for all his glory as an ER doctor, was a giant man child. Stereotypical man-flu haver. Or when you would say you’re not feeling good, an hour later neither is he even though you have period cramps. But those damn electrifying blue eyes of his have anyone struck, babying him like he wants even though the drama queen in him is saying “no- no I’m fine please.” Even now, he’s swatting your hand away as you grab his bicep to make him sit down for a second.

“I’m fine, just tweaked my back this weekend.”

“If you’re gonna brag about sex I’m not giving you sympathy.” You say with a roll of your eyes and start to walk away while he follows you, still sitting in the rolling chair but using his long legs to catch up to you and grabbing you by the edges of “your” hoodie. It wasn’t yours, two sizes too big, years of wear and tear from near daily use, a hint of musky cologne that never seemed to fade no matter how much you washed it.

“Don’t tell me you and him are on the rocks again.” Groaning and pulling you to sit in the empty chair next to his, only to take the can of Red Bull from your hand to steal a sip.

“Okay, I no longer have sympathy for you. I hope you hurt more and stub your toe on the gurney.” Standing, grabbing the Red Bull back from his hand and chugging the rest of its contents. Langdon lived to tease you, and the fact that you slept with your attending the day before your internship at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital had him relentless.

“No, no. Wait. Ok, sorry, sorry. I forgot- touchy subject” Groaning again but this time from pain, Langdon stood to catch up to you, shuffling a bit as to not exert too much energy. “I was helping my parents move this weekend and I lifted wrong, back was acting up from when I had to wrestle Ms. Hall into bed Thursday. And I was already still hurting from when Tanner and I were on the trampoline.”

“Yeah she does have the energy of a spry 70 year old instead of 90. And that was also your fault for attempting to backflip. Have you been taking anything?” You inquire, stopping to lean against the computer as he caught up to you.

“No,” shaking his head frustrated, “I feel like I pop ibuprofen like candy, it’s done nothing.”

“Fine, here, to stop your whining and since you have been in pain for a good while already-“ you turn to face the computer, typing a bit while he leaned over you to rest his dimpled chin on your shoulder. “I’ll send a script for 5 mg of Oxy to the pharmacy, don’t get addicted” you laughed with him then, but it had been a prophecy, not a joke.

You gave your best friend the map for his destruction and you both laughed at the time. You assisted him in his suffering, and aided him in his own ruination. How could you not blame yourself? How could you not cry and toil for all eternity over the guilt? How do you go on with the knowledge that you sabotaged his entire life and career when all he did was trust and love you when no one else could? You can never look him in the eyes again. You can never call yourself the godmother to his children again, because you were also made to protect them and you were abetting in damning their future in tandem with their father’s. You can never smile with his wife again because now all she sees in you is the pain and suffering you caused her husband, her children, herself, bound blood still fresh on your hands.

The day was long, it was tiring, it was brutal. You leaned against the hospital, taking a moment to breathe the crisp night air- feel the slight breeze on your skin after being stuck in the stuffy ER from the massive trauma. You could be proud of yourself- could pat yourself on the back because you did more than what you could today. Running back and forth between patients, literally shoving your hand in a man’s chest to stop the bleeding- which had you in the OR for a few hours, watching the fruit of your labor take place. After scrubbing out you felt good- felt like you could work another few hours. But you wanted to catch up to Robby, see how he was holding up from the day's events. You can see him and Abbott walking towards the benches where some members of the “Pitt Crew” told you to join them for a drink- a well deserved one no doubt but your phone was vibrating.

“Hey- where’d you go? Was gonna to see if you wanted to get a dri-“

“Did you tell him?” Cutting you off- speech struggling and slurred. Confusing pulled at your face, brows furrowed because he didn’t sound okay. Langdon sounded very drunk and very angry. He never got angry really- at least not at you.

“Tell who what? Frank where are you?” He had disappeared and reappeared amid the chaos of the Pitt, only to disappear again.

“Don’t fucking lie to me- we promised we’d never lie right?” He slurred again- quickly you try to find his location on your phone, only to realize he had blocked you from seeing him.

“You sabotaged me-“ he sobbed, “you fucking had to take me out. I was in pain- I needed them, you knew that!” What was he doing? You want to call Abby, but you’re afraid if you got him off the phone you’d lose him and something worse would happen.

“Frankie- what are you talking about? Are you ok? Just tell me where you are an-“ you’re trying to understand his slurred words, he’s mumbling and yelling bitterly- blaming you for his own actions and you’re trying to follow.

“The Oxy angel! You gave me the fucking Oxy- remember?” His anger bubbled up, “you knew I was in pain and you watched me pop the pills you gave me. I got fired. Happy now? Couldn’t be me so you had to take me down with you.” You couldn’t say anything else- he had already hung up. Your hand was shaking- trying to call him back but your efforts were in vain as it kept going to voicemail. Each call was denied. You couldn’t breathe- your chest tightened, neck felt like someone was squeezing you. No. No- he couldn’t. Langdon wasn’t- was he? The air was gone from your lungs, spinning, you couldn’t stop the spinning and noise in your head. Was this your fault? Did you subconsciously try to do this to your best friend? You needed air even though you were already outside- you needed to get away, run from your thoughts but you couldn’t go home, no- because home was once Langdon’s and whispered his name everywhere you stepped.

With slow, shaky steps you make your way to the roof, throwing the door open and dropping your bag, not caring where it landed really. You cling to the railing, tears hot and angry- when did you start crying? You needed more air, needed to feel like you were flying because gravity was so heavy right now, crushing you and pulling you down like you were being dragged to hell for your sins already. Unsure and wobbly, you throw a leg over the rail, straddling for a second because the wind is picking up but- maybe it felt good to fall from grace? Finally fall from the title of ‘angel’ that you were bestowed upon so many years ago by Langdon. Throwing your other leg around, you’re walking closer to the edge, looking down at the hospital and- it would feel nice for a moment right? The free fall? The wind rushing in your face and through your hair? Was Langdon right? Did you do this on purpose? When did you begin to feel jealous- if you ever did? Slowly you step back and start to pace- thinking about every single moment of the last year. How much did you even give him? When? Not remembering was the worst part because you didn’t care to take notice of your best friend spiraling. Your thoughts were so loud and the wind was roaring in your ears you didn’t hear the door open again or Robby initially calling out to you.

“Angel,” Robby paused, watching you walk back and forth along the edge of the roof, wringing your hands and muttering to yourself, “hey- angel what’s wrong?” His voice was soft, gently probing so he doesn’t startle you- but you paid him no mind. After his drink with a few of the ED members, he inquired if you had gone home already- hoping to catch up to you and see how you handled the day, but someone mentioned seeing you head to the roof and Robby’s gut told him to check on you. You were pacing along the edge, pulling at your fingers and wringing your hands together because you can’t remember how much you prescribed Langdon. You can’t remember when you even offered and now you have this tightness in your chest. You’re trying to recount the last few weeks- how was he acting? How was his disposition? In all the years you’ve known Frank he was acting the same but, no- no there had to be something, a sign or some indication that he wasn’t okay.

“Fuck!” you yell, stopping in your stride and shoving the heels of your palms into your eyes because you can’t- fucking- remember. Trailing your hands up- sliding your fingers in your hair you pulled just a bit, trying to jog your memory back to any moment when you asked yourself if Langdon was okay.

“Angel- angel stop,” Robby swings himself over the railing- cradling your face to force you to look at him. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He’s asking questions you don’t even have the answers to, you don’t know what happened- where Frank is, if he’s ok. God were you this stupid? Every month there is some type of “substance abuse signs” email that Gloria sends out- doctors are the worst dealers and yet the most common addicts.

“I don’t- I don’t know I-“ you’re shaking your head- either to let Robby know you’re unsure or to shake the relentless thoughts from your mind, “Michael I- it’s my fault, it’s- it’s my fault I- Langdon- it was me-I did it-“ you’re babbling- hyperventilating and unable to catch a break and Robby is confused. What did you do? He’s trying to recall his early arguments with Langdon when you shove out of his grasp to continue pacing. ‘Did angel tell you?’ In the moment, Robby had no idea what you had to do with the situation. But he’s putting pieces together because with your muttered words he hears ‘I gave it to him. I prescribed it- it was only 5 mg- I didn’t think he would-‘ and it dawned on him.

“Hey- hey stop,” Robby grabs you again by your bicep now, forcing you still and to look at him, “tell me what’s happened.” Your lips quiver, tears stained your face and you don’t even know where to start. Relaying every detail- only pausing to catch your breath or cry and you’re ending it with accepting the guilt.

“I did it. I did it. It was me Robby- it was me!” You ended your recollection of events, you gave your best friend Oxy. You handed him the keys to his demise. God you were that fucking stupid. “He came to me for help and I-“

“No- no angel that wasn’t you. Stop,” he’s trying to shake you a bit, getting you to understand and hear him but you’re shoving away at him. Pushing your hands into his solid chest that you used to sleep on- where you would lay awake with him at 2 am and giggle about the day, how a patient got a fish hook stuck in his ass or how Whitaker ate shit sliding in a kid's vomit. Where you would fall asleep to his heartbeat, stroking at the light dusting of chest hair, rolling your eyes at his snoring because ‘I don’t snore angel, I have never snored.’ Where you feel safe- loved- protected from the horrors of the shifts that haunt you.

“No! No- no Robby I did this-“ smacking at his chest you try to shove him away and loosen from his grip but he’s stronger. He’s always been stronger- has to be for you in this moment because you’re breaking. He’s not used to you breaking. You’re not insensitive- no you feel so deeply that you hurt for days after you lose a patient. You won’t cry in the room, won’t cry at the funerals you’ve asked to attend, won’t let a tear slip at the end of the day when Robby asks how you’re doing. No those are reserved for silently curling up in the shower, where the sound of the water drown out your sob, the water mixing with your salty tears.

“Stop it!” He shakes you again, “Langdon made his own choices- you didn’t shove the pills down his throat-“ you slap him- hard. The sharp sound bounces off the roof and echoes out into the darkness. You might as well have- you handed it to him. You basically spoon fed them to him. Robby didn’t know what he was talking about- you should’ve been careful, you should have been looking out for Langdon- you should have anticipated and known every single consequence possible. He would mention his pain and you said nothing when you’d see him take a pill or two during his shift- hell you were no stranger to it yourself. But you’re wracking your brain trying to think of all the times you had seen it.

“Get off me-“ you fight- attempting to wrestle yourself free from Robby, slapping his chest, sobbing and want to kick but god- he’s as relentless and stubborn as you were. “No- no-“ you’re crying, telling him no because you don’t deserve compassion, you don’t deserve relief from the guilt. Langdon did. You deserve to be damned and thrown from this roof for your hand in the matter. Robby pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you and finally- you break. A strangled, wrecked sob releases from the depths of your soul. Collapsing into Robby you crack- your slaps at his chest become weaker, eventually you fist his scrub top and cling to him. One hand soothes you, stroking your head but the other remains tight around your body- keeping you firm against him so you don’t try to escape. Slowly he sinks to the floor, letting you cry into his chest and use him as an anchor so you don’t drift away from him in your ocean of grief. He doesn’t move really- only to kiss your temple or rub your back, doesn’t adjust himself in any way while you sob into him, doesn’t know how much time has really passed but he’s content to sit and stroke your hair and shush your tears.

“I should go,” you finally say, no silence to break as there’s still the sound of the city, sirens, shouts, music- making it feel alive, “it’s late- you’re tired.” It’s an excuse, you’ve been pathetic in front of Robby for long enough, you don’t want him to think of this moment when he thinks of you- at your worst. But even at your supposed worst, Robby thinks the world of you. Intelligent, witty, sarcastic, funny, gorgeous with bright eyes that melt his heart when you look up at him. He holds you in the highest regard, he regrets every heart break he’s ever made you endure.

“Let me take you home,” he offers, standing and cupping your cheek so you can look at him and know he means what he says, “or stay the night with me. I don’t want you alone angel.”

“No,” you shake your head, forcing yourself to deny him because you deserve to be alone- to sit and wallow in the darkness of your empty apartment and have a shot or two. People died today, people lost their lives, their families, friend- and you’re monopolizing him for nothing at all other than your guilt “No I’m ok Michael I promise-“

“Please, just- I’ll stay in your couch, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Even when he’s not yours, he cares. When you can’t call him yours, he will always be yours. His thumb brushes your cheek- wiping away the tears he can reach, eyes soft and almost begging you to let him take care of you. So you nod, he’s helping you back over the rail and you take his hand in yours and grab your bags before walking down the stairs and back into the comfort of the dark. It’s a silent walk, Robby doesn’t pull his hand away from yours nor do you pull away from his. He’s a lifeline at this point- walking through the park to your apartment and if you close your eyes you can imagine it’s a Sunday afternoon again, and you both are coming back from breakfast hand in hand- enjoying the breeze and you’re about to meet Jake at the basketball court. But it’s not months ago, it’s not a beautiful Sunday, it’s dark. And Robby isn’t yours anymore.

You’re still in a bit of a fog- head pounding from your tears and Robby lets go of your hand briefly to unlock your door. Oh, he still had his key. He takes your bag from your shoulder, hanging it in the entry way with his and slowly, he’s ushering your through the small hall and into your bedroom- sitting you at the edge of your bed. Kneeling before you, he kisses your forehead and begins untying your shoes- minding the blood that was drying- you’d have to throw them in the wash tomorrow. Tapping your arms, Robby lifts the hem of your scrub top, lifting it gently to avoid pulling your hair once it was over your arms. He lightly snapped the strap of your sports bra with a small smile- a silent indication that it was the next article to go. “Up” he nodded, making you stand so he could slide off your pants and underwear- your hand on his broad shoulders to steady yourself as he carefully held your ankles one at a time to free them from the pooled fabric. You’ve obviously been naked in front of him before, many times over. But this was distinctly more intimate than when you’d sleep together. You felt even more naked than before, Robby was looking up at you- raw and tormented- soul on display for him to pick apart and yet he never does. He doesn’t judge you at this moment because he has been there many times- when Adamson passed you had been there, helping Robby shower and eat for days after the fact.

“I’m gonna start the shower ok?” With a kiss to your temple he’s up and in your bathroom, turning the water to the temperature he knows you prefer. ‘Satan’s lair hot’ he would call it when he’d join you for a quick shower- feeling stripped and raw but you relished in the way it soothed your muscles after a long day. Robby returns and takes your hand, guiding you into your bathroom and helping you in the shower. He watches you stand there- letting the water cascade down your face and body, not moving. Sighing, he starts to strip so he can join you.

“Lean your head back baby,” he coaxes you, turning you so the water glides down your back and he can lather your shampoo into your hair. The scent brings him back- wafting around and choking him, remembering how he would wake up with your hair in his face and how he’d be slightly annoyed at the time, but he would kill to have one more chance to be inconvenienced by it again. He’s at your side, massaging your scalp and keeping you upright while coddling you more than you think he should. Robby is gentle- has always been gentle with you unless you ask him not to. Slowly rubbing the rag along your shoulders, across your skin and dipping down to kneel in front of you to get the blood that had soaked into your shoes and dried uncomfortably between your toes. He moves to turn the water off but you grab his arm, ceasing him momentarily because you just- just need a moment to feel like it’s all ok. Understanding, he pulls you into his chest- turning so the spray of the water is mostly on him and just lets himself hold you. He can pretend it’s months ago and you’re sneaking to join him in the shower to before work- hungrily kissing him, pulling him back into your embrace each time he begrudgingly tries to leave, and you both just sit under the stream for a bit in silence before the stress of the hospital starts.

“You need sleep angel- come on” with a kiss to your temple he shuts the water off and wraps you in a towel before he does the same, sitting you on the edge of the tub to dry your hair with the specific towel your bought- the one you’d jokingly get after him about and made sure he didn’t use for his hands. Robby dresses himself quickly, digging through your drawers and finding clothes he hadn’t even realized were missing- a t-shirt from his med school that you would wear to bed only- because it still smelled like him and a pair of boxers that he let you borrow to sleep in the first few weeks of your relationship.

“Which do you want?” He asked, holding out one of your nightdresses and a t-shirt he found. It was Langdon’s, the sole shirt that he had with letters of his frat- before he got kicked out of course. God why did it hurt to see it? You nodded to the dress, grabbing it from Robby’s hands while he dug around for a pair of underwear for you.

“I’m gonna set myself up on the couch ok?” He didn’t ask to sleep in bed with you- stupidly he thought maybe that was pushing his luck because all he wanted was to hold you in his arms to sleep like before. And you didn’t ask him to- you’ve been pathetic enough today around him. Selfish even. Robby lost patients today, it was the anniversary of Adamson’s death and he was here- taking care of you. But if you asked him- this is where he wanted to be. Needed to be. A distraction from his own personal bullshit, because for all the ache, he’s been neglecting his feelings. And focusing on you gives him a purpose to neglect instead of being emotionally constipated like you had told him he was months ago. Adamson is still gone, Leah is still gone. He can’t change that. But you’re here and your problems won’t go away soon- he can be here for you now. “If you need me, wake me up ok?”

“Okay, thank you-“ meekly you say, crawling up your bed and into the sheets to try and forget about your miserable excuse for being hurt. You attempt a fitful sleep, tossing and turning- unable to breathe without the pain in your chest or to stop thinking for a moment- what signs did you miss? Langdon had always been hyper, always been on the go and ready for the next trauma. Cherry picking for a trauma yes, but- so did you. It wouldn’t stop- your mind didn’t stop. Robby was the only one who could quiet your mind- he could give you temporary relief to the world, clearing the fog around your brain. But- you didn’t need relief, no- you needed a distraction. You needed to not think about the pain for only a second- just a moment of distraction because it will always be constant. You won’t have Langdon at work anymore. You won’t be able to play rock paper scissors when you hear of an incoming trauma anymore. You won’t get to shotgun Red Bulls in the parking lot at 5 am with him anymore. You won’t get to share the lunch Abby packed for him- definitely way too much for just him because she knows you don’t cook. Will you even be able to call him your best friend anymore? Will you go to his house on the weekends to play with the kids anymore? Will Abby call you for dinner on Sundays anymore? Fuck- fuck you fucked up. You fucked up. You’re hyperventilating again- tossing the blankets from your body because you feel hot. Maybe the feeling of the hell you belong in has already begun its process- reminding you that you are to blame, that you should be punished for the role you played.

You’re out of bed- pacing along your bedroom floor trying to calm your breathing, trying to stop crying because Robby will hear you. The screech of the flatline is in your ears- rattling your nerves, feeling your heart stopping but simultaneously about to beat right into your stomach and out your ass. You feel the bubbling sensation of nausea creep up. Hands shaking and you just need a fucking distraction from it all. You need Robby in the moment more than you need air to breathe. More than you need the blood in your veins because he’s gladly give himself over to you for a bit of respite.

Robby is no stranger to the feeling of guilt- and he’s had his share of selfish tendencies. Months after Adamson died, Robby would have you in his bed- burying himself deep into your tight core because he needed to feel something more than the failure of his own humanity. You tried to talk- tried to get Robby to open up but the only way he attempted to cope was through physical contact. He closed himself off mentally- shutting the doors to prevent more fucked up feelings from creeping into his mind late at night but you let him use you, you laid back and let Robby cry it your chest with each thrust- kissing his tears away and holding him to your chest when he was sated. He’s awake, lying on your couch that’s slightly too small for him to be comfortable- staring up at the ceiling fan slowly make its rounds. He hears you shuffle from your bedroom- silently padding along the wooden floor, cursing when a creak gives you away. You know he’s awake- he’s not snoring.

“What’s wrong angel?” he’s immediately sitting up but before he can stand you’re throwing yourself on the floor in front of him, sobbing something awful because it’s too much again.

“I can’t- I need-“ you try to speak- try to calm yourself to get the right words out but what do you say? That you’re so consumed with your own guilt that you need a distraction- and that distraction can only come from him burying himself so deep inside you that you’re more him than you? He knows. Robby knows what you’re going to ask because he knows you better than himself sometimes. He was in the same spot as you years ago- knelt in front of you, kissing up your legs with tears in his eyes, begging you to take his mind off the world for a second. You had been a savior to him then- an angel who stripped herself of her wings to join him on this damned floating rock and be used in the most sinful way. But- was it sinful if he felt like you were heaven sent? The answer to a prayer he didn’t know he made? The light at the end of a fucking tunnel to guide him to your arms again?

“Please Michael,” you begged in the dark, kneeled on the carpet in front of him as if he were the patron saint of guilt and desperation, forehead pressed into his thigh while you whimpered and let hot tears drip. You lifted your head from its position, staring up at Robby with a face that was stained wet from tears of grief, eyes petitioning him to have mercy on your aching heart. To take your mind away from its mortal coil, to heal your inner despair with his touch on your body so that you can escape reality for a moment. Straightening yourself and trying to catch your breath, you adjusted to kneel between his open legs, arms wrapping around his torso- shoving your face into his chest and again- begging for distraction, “please, I need you. I can’t do this anymore.”

Robby’s heart was torn, stripped raw from the stress of the day already- but now hearing the suffering from your voice, a feeling that rose deep from your soul. No your heart wasn’t broken, that was a laughable analogy for the pain and guilt you felt, because your soul was shattered. For all intents and purposes, Langdon was your soulmate since you were 18. You love Robby. And you would never admit to anyone, not even yourself, that Robby is the love of your life and the worst thing you could have ever let go of, which you will regret for years to come. But Langdon was the other half of you, your soulmate that was bound and tied to your heart for this lifetime and the ones that were to follow. Your atoms were intertwined together, every fiber of your being was tethered with his. The guilt you felt for hurting him, ruining his life, it destroyed you as well. Now, you didn’t want to live without Robby- but you would and could, you have many times over already. But if you were to attempt to live without Frank Langdon in your life for a mere moment? You would likely cease to exist, forget to breathe, beg for death because after your passing, his soul would find yours again for the next reincarnation of your beings together.

Internally, he couldn’t allow himself to let you use him as a distraction. Not because he was noble or because he thought he deserved better- no, because he had been dreaming to hold you again. Robby laid awake most nights, yearning for your body to be slotted around his, to feel your skin against his and be able to kiss you awake before the sun rose, like he had done so many times before, just so he could make love to you in the quietness of the night- where the sun and moon met like your bodies were, whispering their love in passing while you both did as well. Here you were, knelt between his thighs, begging for him to let you use him as a distraction and he hated every ounce of his being because he would gladly let you use him. He would take a scalpel to his chest and cut out his own heart with a smile if you asked, looking up at him with those eyes that he never quite learned how to say no to. Letting you use him, well he would feel like he was using you. Using your pain and agony tonight as a way to sate himself, weaning himself off his own addiction by a low dose of your body rutting against his.

Robby didn’t say no, he couldn’t tell you no as you unwrapped yourself from his waist and rose up on your knees to rest your head on his shoulder, fisting his shirt in your shaky hand. He was incapable of telling you no as you kissed his neck, softly with trembling lips, god it felt so fucking good to be touched by you like this again. He had chastised himself for looking at you lustfully while he ran the rag across your skin in the shower. He went to bed half hard- cursing himself because you were crying in his arms and a part of his brain was thinking about tasting your skin again- sinking deep into you, wrapping your thighs around his waist and calling it home again.

“Michael,” you whined, “baby, please. Distract me.” Your lips trailed along his neck, the hand that wasn’t balling his shirt along his chest was resting on his thigh to keep you upright, nails digging in ever so slightly. He was a weak, pathetic man. The thin strap of your nightdress had slipped down off your shoulder, the top swell of your breast threatening him, beseeching him to taste. He kept his hands at his side, not daring to let a finger trail across your skin because he wouldn’t be able to stop just there. Rising up again, one knee bracing on the couch to aid you in your assault on his resolve. This time your target was his jaw, lightly nipping at the edge, knowing how his body sings already, your lips and teeth the director.

“I need you,” a kiss on his cheek.

“Please,” a kiss on his forehead.

“I can’t anymore,” a kiss on the side of his nose.

“Michael,” a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Each kiss chiseled away at him, each kiss had Robby teetering on the edge of letting go. What a simple, foolish man he was for a woman who whispered his name so sweetly, that he could never hear it the same again from anyone else. You would peck at his lips, letting him taste the tears that you had shed but he couldn’t kiss you back. He couldn’t forget himself, that you were suffering, yes, but he was not. He was in his right mind- he was levelheaded, right? No- he was not. Robby was suffering as well because the woman he loved was on her knees begging to be put out of her misery- to be fucked and touched- and he was denying her, how fucking selfish he was. He could allow himself one kiss, he could allow himself to aid in your atonement by letting you find comfort in his arms and body. Once more, you begged against his lips.

“Please baby,” forehead against his, breathing the air he released to get just a taste of him with your hands dragging their way up his body to cradle his face in your palms. You loved Robby. You loved and ached for him daily. But this cycle of despair pained you, cycle of giving your entire being to him but he would only knock out a brick or two of the wall around him for you. You knew he could take whatever guilt and ache you had in this moment, dull it, make you forget that you were the root of all evil in Langdon’s new reality.

“Please my love,” you didn��t need your stethoscope to hear the strings of Robby’s heart and tenacity snap. “Help me,” you plead against his lips.

“Okay,” Robby nodded, whispering back into your lips so that maybe your soul could hear that aid was coming, that he was here to fix you, be used by you like you had done for him years ago.

“Okay baby,” he relented, permitting himself to kiss the tears away from your tired eyes, “I have you.” He unshackled his arms from the mental restraints he had, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you up and into him while the other grabbed your thigh to have you straddling him now, body flush against his. Robby could hear you gasp in relief, hiccuping slightly through the tears and nodding because your savior had arrived. Just like he always had. Throwing your arms around his shoulders you kissed him with fervor- slotting your lips together like many times before. They were no strangers, they have met frequently in the last few years and knew the terrain well together. Your fingers wound themselves through the hair that settled along the nape of his neck, always so soft and the one thing that you knew he couldn’t resist.

For all the love you had for each other, this was a different type of love making. This was desperate, sad, needy, hurried- so that you couldn’t think or have time to think about your better judgment. Robby had pulled the other strap of your nightdress down to reveal your breasts to him while he kissed along your jaw, beard scratching perfectly against your skin that you sighed, finally finding respite in a feeling that wasn’t your own sorrow. Down your neck, Robby licked and sucked, lavishing your skin with a groan added, deep and guttural in your ear that you drew out from canting your hips over his. He missed how your skin tasted, how you sounded when he would circle his tongue around your nipple or use his beard to scratch along your chest.

“Fuck-“ you sighed, pushing your chest into his face, silently asking him to torture you with his mouth more so you can finally stop thinking, “thank you baby,” Robby was your true love, your savior, taking your pain in his hands and holding it high above your head so you can forget for just a moment. “Thank you.” You repeated, grabbing the hair at the back of his head and forcing him to look up at you with those sad eyes, deep brown, looking at you like if you asked, he’d walk through hell and back to kiss you one last time before leaving you to the eternal ruin you would face there. The arm around your waist pulled you down, trapping your hips and forcing you to grind into him slowly, but hard and rough so you can feel the outline of him through his boxers and your underwear. Groaning, Robby kissed his way back to your lips, licking into your mouth when a moan escaped, while his other hand palmed at your chest, heavy hands and calloused fingers pinching and scratching lightly at your breast and nipples to hear you whine.

“I’m here,” sighing, letting you cling to him while your body trembled in his arms, “use me.” It was a privilege for him, because in his mind, you allowed Robby to be used- a distraction from the pain that another man caused. He wasn’t ignorant, Robby knew he would always come second to Langdon. Years ago it pained him, to lose the woman he loved to another man- almost angered him because how could Frank even understand how truly blessed he was to be loved by you? Langdon never even had the privilege of tasting you- of dipping his tongue into the sweet salvation that was between your legs, truly an act of compassion for Robby on your part to bless him with such an honor.

“I can’t- fuck, please Michael-” you’re whimpering in his mouth now- desperately grinding into him for some relief- some friction to help you think of something else- anything else because the memories are flooding back and- ‘This is your fucking fault and you know it! Stupid selfish bitch- you sabotaged me for the ED Fellowship didn’t you? What you can’t stand not being Robby’s center of attention- are you jealous he gave me a recommendation?’

Robby felt you bury your face into his neck, crying gently again and whimpering his name- not from pleasure, no- you were clawing at him for solace, biting his neck and pulling at his hair. He couldn’t try to keep it together- you were his debilitating weakness, you could stab him in the chest and Robby would slide himself deeper into the knife just so he could be closer to you. He was losing his control- this was supposed to be about you. Robby’s hand slid its way down your back, dipping into your underwear and after grabbing a handful of your ass, he twisted his hand to ball up the fabric around his wrist once, twice, a final third time when he knew it was taut- and yanked back violently. You heard the tearing of what was your underwear, felt the scratch and pull against your hip but now there’s only Robby’s boxers holding your back from the soothing balm of pleasure.

Desperately you palm at him, feeling the familiarity of his hard length under your hands and you don’t waste a second pulling him free from his boxers and lining yourself up, the tip notched at your entrance- Robby’s pressing his forehead against yours and is nodding, silently begging you to put him out of this misery as well.

“Fuck,” you gasp, sinking down onto him so slow, so gentle in contrast to the anguished need of only moments ago. “fuck, I love you Michael.” Robby desired to hear those words again- prayed that he would hear you tell him in earnest that you loved him and that you wanted to try again with him. But for now he can dream. For now he can imagine it’s months ago and you’re in his arms again, reminding him that you love him- and he’ll distract himself with a kiss from your perfect lips that cry for another man.

You’re crying into the kiss- mumbling that you love him while rising up on your knees to feel him slide thickly between your walls, filling you perfectly with a well acquainted feeling. Repeatedly saying ‘I love you’, grabbing his hand at your hip that’s steadying you to intertwine your fingers with his. The act has Robby gutted, thinking back to how you would do the exact same months and years ago when he’d have you in his bed, finding his hand in the darkness while you sigh and moan his name. But this time, it was for grounding- something to hold onto, the memory of feeling safe in Robby’s arms, loved and cared for.

Robby starts to feel anger bubbling up inside while you squeeze his hand. Robby’s ire wasn’t directed at you, no- never at you. Langdon had let him down, let the entire team down- but more specifically he let you down and blamed you for his failure and shortcomings. He blamed you for his lack of self control, which was ironic considering that while Robby had lost all sense of self control around you- it was on him alone. Langdon took no responsibility in his actions and his ego was his own ruin. Robby could feel the way your heart was destroyed, guilt eating away at you from Langdon’s words. You didn’t know, you didn’t purposefully hurt your best friend. But how could he make you see that? How could Robby pull you back from the edge of the roof and tell you to blame the one constant person in your life who was always there. Frank was there before Robby, he was there all the times Robby wasn’t- every break up and fight, he was there. He couldn’t expect you to abandon a piece of your soul so easily.

“I love you, so much angel-“ Robby sighs into your mouth, his own tears starting to fall as the dust of the stress and mental strain of the day begin to settle, “I’m yours, I’m here baby.” He knew your guilt in this moment, he couldn’t save Adamson, he let his mentor down. He couldn’t save Leah. He let Jake down. In all his glory and years of a healer he felt he had nothing to show for it because when it mattered- he faltered. He heard the incessant beep of the flatline in his ears, felt his heart racing against his chest as you hopelessly move in his lap with a relieved sigh as he exchanged his reassurance with you- that he loved you more than you understand.

Reluctantly he let go of your hand and flattened his arm on your back, tightening the grip his other hand had on your thigh, Robby turns to gently lay you flat on the couch. The hand on your thigh slides up to your knee, wrapping your leg around his waist so he can drive himself deeper inside your tight solace. The angle has you gasping, running your hand up under his shirt so you can drag your nails down his back. His necklace was dangling in your face, the shine from the metal really the only thing you can see in the darkness. Who was really using who at this point was unknown, you and Robby cried together, hearts bloodied and open for each other to mend. His hand came back to find yours, lifting to rest above your head while locking your fingers together. His pace didn’t falter, it was slow and deliberate- feeling each needy, desperate thrust of his hips into your own so that maybe you both could lay aside your combined grief and heal together, if only for tonight. You feel a familiar crescendo in the pit of your gut, a pull that only Robby was able to elicit from you- as if he studied your own body in those dreaded years of med school just in preparation for this moment.

“Close,” you whimpered, grabbing at the hair at the back of his neck and pulling him closer- foreheads together in combined effort and concentration. “S-so close baby.” You didn’t have to warn him, Robby knew, being so in tune with your body already- the signs were obvious to him. The way the pitch of your voice lifted slightly, how your breathing stuttered, the grip on his hair tightening, your thighs squeezing around his waist, the tightness of your walls around him- Robby knew each and every tell of your impending orgasm. He wasn’t far off- forcing himself to slow down so you can forget everything for more than a moment. But that was a slight lie- Robby forced himself to slow his devastating pace so he can stay inside your heat, if only for mere seconds longer because he never knows when the last time will actually be the last time. He makes this mistake routinely- breaking your heart and letting you run from his emotional crudity. His greatest regret is cheating you into coming back to him over and over again , being so fucking selfish that he can never truly let you go. So he will force himself to slow down in this moment- pretending you’re his again.

Your orgasm felt like drowning in Robby- the sound of your heartbeats combined in your head, the smell of his cologne hazing around in your mind, the feel of his fingers digging into your thigh, chill of his necklace on your chest, the squeeze of his hand in yours, the thick fullness of him inside you, his tears falling softly on your cheeks, the sounds of his hips roughly slapping against you, the sweat beading on his forehead that was pressed against your own- his voice wafting around in your chest to suffocate your heart with ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m yours’. You were silent as you came, tears streaming down the side of your face- feeling Robby’s pace stutter for a few more thrusts then groaning, deep and guttural as he followed your peak together. Mixed breathing and small gasps, catching your breath together with one final kiss before he reluctantly attempts to pull out of you.

“No,” you tense your thighs around him faintly, “don’t- not yet. Please.” You still had to feel something- still needed a reason to not spiral in the depths of your own guilt, a reason to stay grounded to now instead of circling the drain with what was left of your sanity. He didn’t think you were able to tug at his heart even more, but looking down at you, bathed in moonlight with tears glistening and begging him to not leave you in any form- what was left of him died and was reborn into something akin to devotion, ready to give up what was left of him to spend eternity worshiping at your feet. So he nodded, kissing the tears away from your cheeks- not realizing they were mixed with his. Slowly you ran your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly- remembering how much he loved the feeling and would melt into your body. Turning you both gently, Robby laid on his side and immediately you draped yourself over him as much as possible, never fully leaving the comfort of your warmth. Fingers lightly skimming over your skin, no rhythm to follow, just caressing you gently like he would many times over.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his neck, “thank you Michael.” Different than how you said it earlier, you were thanking him for loving you. Thanking him for having mercy on your damned broken soul. Thanking him for coming to your rescue all over and being your home when Langdon could not be.

“Always.” Robby kissed your temple, feeling you settle against him finally, sagging into his body and letting out a shaky sigh. You didn’t know what you would have to face tomorrow, you didn’t want to think about Langdon or Abby or the kids, right now your just wanted to sleep here in Robby’s arms like you have done so many times before. Robby was your safe haven, an asylum that shielded your vulnerable heart as you slept. You knew your thoughts would be quiet with him, his presence alone was the guardian of your wretched mind- a protector that asked for nothing in return, besides your love, which was so easy to give to him- you have many times before, though you’re really not sure you stopped. No- each time you claimed to stop loving him, you only came back so much more stronger with so much more love to proffer. He didn’t take, no- Robby stored the love you gave him, hoarding it deep inside his body to strengthen himself up to knock down the wall he spent years building brick by lonely brick. Each time a little more of himself was available to you- each time the love and devotion was more ardent than the last. Maybe this time it’s secured- this time it’s going to last.

You were his angel, his peace and bliss- light at the end of the fucking tunnel and all that bullshit he spent years looking for and reading about but didn’t quite believe until he met you. He believed it. But- were you truly the angel they said you were? Robby and Langdon? For even the devil was once God’s most precious angel. The fall was so far up from the pedestal they put you on, and at this moment all you felt was the wind rushing against your body. You guess you’ll have to brace yourself for the impact of reality sooner or later.

#the pitt #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader #robby robinavitch #robby x reader #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #robby robinavitch x reader #robby robinavitch x you #michael robby robinavitch x you #my random typings

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cate-planchette · 1 day ago

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No, the OFers are also the pimps, because they get a cut of their recruitee's earnings. That's why they're doing it, they're not encouraging people to sign up for fun. Stop excusing people's immoral behaviours because those people happen to be women. And again, pimps do not get my sympathy. Yes becoming someone who exploits other people cancels out your own victim status, why wouldn't it?

Mia Khalifa is someone who had better options but chose porn, which you said did not exist. She's basically the flipside to Andrea Dworkin's Right Wing Women, who chose a husband over prostitution; she chose prostitution over a muslim arranged marriage. I have the same amount and kind of sympathy that Dworkin has for those women.

I don't think she deserves harrassment, but she's going to deal with being famous and degraded for the rest of her life because when she had different priorities, she degraded herself to make herself famous, and I'm not going to sit around pretending one isn't the direct consequence of the other. It doesn't even matter whether I'm sympathetic to her; sympathy is not activism, I might as well wish her thoughts and prayers; you are only pretending that sympathy means anything because it's all you've got to give you the moral high ground right now. I also think this is another example of feminism being redirected into meaningless bullshit that's easy - arguing against internet comments that are mean about Khalifa, which again are going to be endless pretty much forever - versus something practical like supporting Laila Micklewait, which has actually achieved results. Supporting Khalifa is basically virtue signalling, because doing so has literally no real world effect. There is other actually effective stuff you could do if you're anti-porn.

I don't think the harassment she gets justifies other women 'perpetuating the lie' of how the industry is to avoid it. If she exited the industry and still promoted it to others, or if she started doing that now because it reduced the harrassment against her, that would be immoral and I would have no sympathy at all for her. I can also have some sympathy and still not put much energy behind it because again, that is not productive. Sympathy is not activism. I don't need to do it and it doesn't matter if I don't; she should be committed to anti-porn activism independent of whether people are nice to her or not.

If you don't think detransitioners participated in the new system of gender role swapping as a way to get out of sexism, you haven't been listening to detransitioners.

It's quite obvious that whatever I say, you need to win this argument and will acccordingly respond to whatever argument is closest to mine that you can demonise, versus what I am actually saying.

As radfems I think we need to be more comfortable calling Liberal sex worker women class traitors.

Obviously I'm not speaking about women who've been trafficked or groomed into the industry, but the women who have made an informed choice to join the industry from a privileged position for personal profit whilst actively contributing towards women's sexual objectification.

I saw an tiktok about a woman who was disciplined in the workplace for wearing an outfit that was "inappropriate". The picture displayed an attractive woman in her mid twenties with a curvaceous figure, the dress itself while form fitting was full coverage. I've experienced a similar situation so I had a lot of sympathy.

And yet when I clicked on her tiktok to see if there were updates about the situation, I saw multiple videos of her being "confronted" by a voiceless HR woman, in outfits that got progressively more revealing. It turned out this woman was an OnlyFans creator who had fabricated this situation to drive traffic to her page, showed videos of her in lingerie in her "office" and videos of her being groped at her desk by a faceless male "coworker." Her office job was nothing more than set dressing for her to film her adult content. Yet she performed as a woman experiencing sexual harassment and discrimination by her workplace, something that truly happens to millions of women at some point in their careers.

This is just one of many examples of sex workers fetishising real life situations that happen to women. There are many more examples of women who style themselves to emulate teenagers or children, who make content simulating being assaulted or raped.

And yet I'm supposed to support these women? The woman who deliberately talk over impoverished trafficked women, and use their platforms to campaign against regulations such as the Nordic model that would make the industry safer because it would impact their revenue? The women who tout the industry as being empowering and glamorous to teenage girls, and encourage them to join? (Don't forget that OnlyFans has an affiliate programme where you can sign up under another creator while they gain a percentage of your earnings, similar to an MLM.)

I'm tired of saying I'm against the industry but supportive of sex workers. I am supportive of women and girls who are victims of the industry but I refuse to pander to women who will gleefully participate in an industry that dehumanises all women whilst using feminism as a get out of jail free card.

#que

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itsnesss · 2 days ago

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𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | you’re still haunted by a past love, unsure how to move forward, but ollie waits

warnings | fluff, emotional vulnerability, past toxic relationship, self-worth issues, mentions of unresolved trauma

word count | 0.8 k

🖇️ sctw album 🖇️ more ob87

The night seems endless. The dim lights of the cloudy sky barely reflect off the windshield, and the silence in the car is thick, as if something else is sitting between you two.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as he takes a smooth turn, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. Sometimes he taps the steering wheel with his fingers, like the movement helps him think or calm down. But this time, he doesn’t seem nervous. Just attentive. Waiting for you.

"Do you want music?" he asks, breaking the silence in a soft voice.

"No... It’s fine like this," you murmur, because any song now would be too much. It would make you feel something you’re not ready to hold.

Because you’re on the edge. All the time.

Since he showed up in your life, you’ve felt like you’re walking on a tightrope between what you could have with him and everything you haven’t let go of yet.

"I tried to be what he thought I was, I wasn't."

That thought keeps coming back like an old wound that still hurts when the weather changes. You curl up against the window, not looking at Ollie. You’re afraid of what he might see if he looks at you too much. Afraid that he might discover that sometimes you still hear *his* voice in your head. That you still wonder if the problem was you.

Your ex wasn’t cruel. Not like the stories other people tell. He didn’t yell at you or break you apart... at least not directly. His was slower, subtler. A collection of small disappointments that you absorbed as if your worth depended on how much you could endure. You molded yourself to like him. You changed your loud laughs for silences, your ideas for concessions, your boundaries for excuses. And when he left you in the end, you didn’t even cry. You just felt empty.

Now Ollie.

Sweet, patient, and with those eyes that always seem to see more than you want to show.

When he stops at a lookout point by the sea, everything becomes even quieter. You only hear the distant sound of the waves and your shallow breathing.

He turns off the engine.

"I know it’s not easy," he says without looking at you. "And maybe I’m asking you for something you’re not ready to give."

You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure there’s a right answer. Part of you wants to ask him to stay. Another part feels like you don’t deserve it.

"I don’t want to hurt you," you whisper, and for the first time, you say it out loud. Something real. Raw. Honest.

He nods, but doesn’t pull away.

"Then don’t," he replies with a simplicity that disarms you. "Just... tell me the truth. That’s enough for me."

And so you speak.

Of your past. Of how you got lost in a relationship that seemed like love but was slowly draining you. Of how you learned to lock your emotions away in boxes you never opened. Of how you feel now with him. Scared. Confused. Tempted. And also alive. Because he makes you feel all of that together, and that’s what overwhelms you.

He listens.

Without interrupting. Without judging. He just listens.

And when you finish, when your voice breaks and the tears blur your vision, he doesn’t say "everything will be fine" or try to fix you. He simply leans toward you, carefully, and presses his forehead against yours.

"I’m not going to force you. Or rush you. I just want to walk with you, even if it’s slow."

The tears surprise you. Not because of sadness, but because of relief.

Because no one had ever offered you love like that: without conditions, without hurry, without demands.

"I guess I never healed right... Maybe it's a green light, but I can’t go."

Yes. You’re broken in some places. But maybe you don’t need to be whole to move forward. Maybe something can be built from that honesty.

He looks at you. And for the first time in a long time, your eyes don’t look away.

"I want to try," you say. "I don’t know how, or how long. But I want to."

He smiles. A soft smile, small, but enough to make you feel like you’re worth it. Even with your broken pieces.

You don’t kiss that night.

It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes, the real start of something isn’t a kiss, or a promise, or a certainty. Sometimes, it’s simply staying. In silence. Together. Waiting for the moment when you can cross that emotional stoplight without fear.

And Ollie, you know, will be there when that happens.

Because he doesn’t need you to run.

He just wants you to take his hand when you're ready and say: now, yes.

tags | @ebkitty

#🖇️ ollie bearman #oliver bearman x you #oliver bearman x reader #oliver bearman #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #🖇️ so close to what

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anonymusbosch · 3 days ago

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on wanting to do a million things

prompted by @bloodshack 's

i wanna learn SQL but i wanna learn haskell but i wanna learn statistics but i wanna start a degree in macroeconomics also sociology also library science but i wanna learn norwegian but i wanna learn mandarin but i wanna paint but i wanna do pottery but i wanna get better at woodworking but i wanna get better at cooking but i wanna bake one of those cakes that's just 11 crepes stacked on top of each other but i wanna watch more movies but i wanna listen to more podcast episodes but i need to rest but i need to exercise but i wanna play with my dog but i wanna go shopping but i need to go grocery shopping but i need to do the dishes but i need to do laundry but i need to buy a new x y and z but i need to save money but i wanna give all my money away to people who need it more but i wanna pivot my career to book editing but to do that i have to read more and i wanna read more nonfiction but i wanna read more novels but i wanna get better at meditating but i wanna volunteer but i wanna plan a party but i wanna go to law school. but what im gonna do is watch a dumbass youtube video and go to bed

I think I've been doing slightly better this year about Actually Doing Things. not great! but I do a lot and I've been "prototyping" ways to get closer to doing as much as is possible. and if I actually talk about it it's a bunch of very obvious statements but I'll try to make them a little more concrete

rule number one: experiment on yourself

there's no one approach that's right for everyone and there's not even one approach for me that works at all times. try things out. see what works. pay attention to what doesn't. try something else.

rule number two: ask what's stopping you and then take it seriously

example: I often want to do Everything in the evening at like 2 PM, but then get home and am tempted sorely by the couch, and then get stuck inertia'd and not doing much but being tired and kind of bored. why?

if I don't have plans, it's easy to leave work later than planned and hard to make myself do something by a specific time

i'm generally tiredish after work. 4 out of 5 times, that'll go away if I actually start Doing Something, but 1 out of 5 it's real and I will go hardcore sleepmode at 8 PM and just be Done

i use up a ton of my program management/executive function/Deciding Things brain at work and usually find it noticeably harder to string together "want to do Thing > make list of Things > decide on a Thing > do Thing" after I'm home. Even if I have a list of Things to Do, how does one decide! how does one start! and god forbid there's a Necessary thing. then it's all downhill

therefore, mitigations: have concrete time-specific plans in advance.

if I have an art class at 6:00 PM I need to leave work by 5:15 and NO LATER and I can't get sucked into "oh 10 more minutes to finish this" *one hour later*

that also means I have to have a fridge or freezer dinner ready and can't spend 45 minutes cooking "fuck it, what the hell did I put in the fridge, why don't we have soy sauce" evil meal that is not good

plans with friends: dinner! art night! music night! repair-your-clothes night! seeing a show! occasionally, Accountability Time where a friend comes over for We Are Doing Tasks with tea and snacks etc.

for some reason I'm way better about Actually Doing Things when the plan exists already. magically I overcome couch inertia even though I am the same amount of tired! and while I never learn the ability to decouch without plans I at least learn to make them

still working on:

a "prototype" for maybe next month is a weeklyish Study Session for a thing I want to learn about. I want to somehow make it employer-proof (I am accountable to some entity to being at place X at time Y) and haven't figured out a good way. Maybe I can leverage that the local library is open til 8 on wednesdays and somehow make it a Thing? maybe I'll try it!

oh god oh fuck the thing about plans is that if you want to have them you need to make them. christ. a lot of the time I can cover this with some combo of weekend planning + recurring events (things like weekly friend dinner/weekly class) + having cool friends who reach out proactively but it still requires active planning and it can fall thru the cracks

rule three: cool friends

they can take you to things

they can remind you that you can do whatever the fuck you please

i have a friend who is somehow Always doing cool classes and learning shit. and this reminds me that I can ... do that. and sometimes I do

you can take them to things!!

rule four: try to kill the anon hate in your head

obv this depends on your circumstance but sometimes it's worth it to me to look at constraints that "feel real" and check whether they're an active choice I made thoughtfully or, like, the specters of people I don't know judging my choices

time and money are obvious ones. recently was gently nudged towards looking at whether i could give myself more time to Do Things by cooking less. imaginary specters of judgmental twitterites: "it's illegal to spend money. if you get takeout you're the first up against the wall when the revoution comes. make all your lunches and dinners and hoard the money for Later. for Something. how dare you get lunch at the store. you bourgeois hoe. taking charity donations from the mouths of the poor cause you don't have your life together enough to cook artisanal bespoke dinners every night. fuck you." and obviously eating takeout 24/7 is not the answer, but realizing I was not making an active choice helped me try making the active choice instead. "how much do I actually want to balance cost, time, tastiness, and wastefulness of my food, given my amount of free time and my salary and the tradeoff against doing something else? can I approach it differently to do more quick cheap food + some takeout?" -> current prototype: substitute in 1 takeout dinner or restaurant-with-friends a week, 1 frozen type dinner, and then batch cook or sandwiches lunches w/ "permission" to get fast lunch at the store. we'll see how it goes!

i am really really bad at this and find it helpful to talk to other people who can help point out when I'm being haunted by ghosts about it.

rule five: what would it take? what's the next step?

this one i give a lot of credit to @adiantum-sporophyte in particular for, especially for prompting me with questions when I muse about the million-ideal-lives on car rides. what would it look like to do xyz? what's something I could do right now to move in that direction? what's the obstacle? like, actually ask the question and think through it. with a person talking to you! damn! maybe the obstacle to x is that I don't know if I'll like it or if I just like the idea of it. and I don't want to commit to x without knowing. Okay, so maybe an approach would be to find someone who does x and talk to them about how their life is, or maybe it's "spend 15 minutes looking up intro-to-x near me", or "actively schedule 1 instance of x", or something like that. Or maybe it's that I don't know what it takes to do x. Okay, how about on Tues after dinner Adiantum fixes a sweater at my apartment while I spend 20 min looking at prereqs for x. like, it's so basic to say "to do a thing, you could try figuring out how to do it" but I think the important thing here is the feedback/prompting to even recognize "hey, step back, if you don't know the next step then figuring out the next step is the next step"

rule six: habits

prototyping: exercise

I do a lot better when I exercise in the mornings. I do a lot better when I do PT exercises regularly. For a while I was doing PT with friend in the morning every morning before work (accountability! a friendly face to make it more pleasant!) but that didn't really solve - it's not the kind of exercise that makes me feel awake/active, it's like dumb little foot botherings. but: having the habit of morning exercise made it easier to swap out 2 of the 5 days for more intense exercise, and then to swap those 2 for a different more intense exercise when I needed a break. it's easier to build a low-effort version of the habit and then work in the higher-effort one than to just Decide to be the kind of person who gets up at ass o clock to do cardio or whatever

rule seven: set up the structure of your life to make it easy

this is also a "duh" thing but like. on so many levels it comes down to structure your life to make the choice more doable. this can be something like "i structure my life to make vegetarian cooking baseline and vegan cooking the majority by stocking the pantry with staples and spices from cuisines that work well that way" or "i chose an apartment that lets me commute by bike" or "i have my camping gear put away in a fashion that makes it easier to gather frequently and lowers the barrier to trips" or "i keep physical books around to prompt myself to read xyz" to "i don't use instagram or twitter or snapchat or facebook" to . idk.

and in terms of charitable giving: similar deal. I have an explicit budget at the beginning of the year (~10% of my before-tax income), I know in advance what charities I give to, and I know what timing I will use (basically, alerts for donation matching around specific fundraising times). Anything outside the Plan comes from my discretionary budget/fun money. That makes it less of a mental load (the choice is already made; I don't grapple with every donation request or every bleeding-heart trap because I have a very solid anchor on "I give to xyz, the money's set aside") and it's armor against impulsive-but-not-useful scrupulosity. I structure the rest of my spending/life to prioritize a set amount and it makes it easier to follow through

rule eight: if you can do it at work a tiny bit that counts for real life

(infrequently used)

"hi mr. manager I think it would be great if I could use enough SQL to make basic queries in the database so we don't have to go through the software team for common/basic questions. I'd like to take 1 hr on Friday to go through some basic tutorials and then 1 hr with Pat on Monday so he can walk me through an intro for our specific use case. I estimate this will help save the team a couple hours a week of waiting for answers from the other team." and then you have enough of a handle with baby's first SQL that you can add little bits and bobs as you exercise it. this is responsible for a medium amount of my knowledge of python and all 3 brain cells worth of SQL.

rule nine: life is an optimization problem

not in, like, "you need to optimize your skincare and career and exercise and social life and have everything all at once" that's not what optimization means. optimization is like, maximize something with respect to a set of constraints. i explicitly Do Not do skincare beyond "wash face" and "sunscreen" bc I want to optimize my life for like looking at weird plants in the mountains. explicitly choosing to put time and money elsewhere! can't have it all all at once. so fuck them pores. who give a shit. yeah i ate a lot of protein shakes instead of home cooked breakfasts this week bc i was prioritizing morning exercise. im looking at this beautiful bug and it doesn't know what fashion is or what my resume looks like. im holding a lizard. im not spending time on picking cool clothes or whatever bc i spent that time looking up lizard hotspots on purpose.

that's really long and probably mostly, like, not surprising? but i keep benefiting from ppl being like "hey have you considered Obvious Thing" framed very gently

#long post

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humiliatemeplesse · 2 days ago

Text

You got to the movies and were surprised that you were the only one there. Well, it's an off time and the movie's been playing for a while so that's why it's empty you thought. You picked your seat and sat down. A couple of minutes later you heard some come through the door. It was some young guy. You of course checked him out quickly then turned around again. Then, he sat right behind you. With every other seat available in the theater he picked the one behind you. What an ass, you thought. So you continued to sit there quietly waiting for the movie to start listening to him slurp his soda. Then, all of a sudden, you felt something hit the back of your head and push it forward. You jumped up and turned around and saw that he had his big stinking sweaty socked feet up on the edge of your chair. "Hey man you said what are you doing? Every other seat in this theater is empty, if you want to do that, you can sot anywhere else." The then you turned to move to another seat and he said "stop faggot". You stopped simply out of surprise that he would say that. Then he said "that's right, faggot. Now get back over here and sit in your seat or I'll beat the shit out of you. There's no one in here, no one's going to save you." He flexed his biceps and you knew he was serious when you saw those guns. So you quietly went back to your seat and sat down leaning a little forward so your head didn't hit his feet. You could smell his socks, they were pretty smelly, he'd obviously worn them a few days. "Now lean back" he said. "What?", you said. "I said lean back." You leaned back and happily discovered that his big sweaty sock feet weren't there anymore. Then, suddenly, you saw them out of the corner of your eyes as they heavily landed on your shoulders. You started to move to get up and he pushed down hard with his dirty socked feet on your shoulders and said, "no, faggot." You stopped moving. "I need a nice footstool so I can stretch out and relax and enjoy the movie and that footstool is going to be you, homo. So sit there quietly and don't move I don't want my comfort disturbed." His socks really smelled. You thought, maybe he's worn them for a week. You started to think about what you could do. You thought maybe if you got up quick and ran you could get away. But you didn't want to take the chance after you saw how built he was. So you sat there, humiliated, being used as a guy's footstool for his big sweaty smelly dirty socked feet. Every once in a while he'd hit them up against the sides of your head or move them so that they rubbed in your face. In the last few minutes before the movie started, some more people came into the theater, probably about six or eight of them, you couldn't turn around to see. But they could see you. And they were all whispering and then laughing. The guy just kept his big sweaty dirty socks on your shoulders chuckled a little bit. Then one of the other people that had come in said "pervert" really loud. The lights went down and you spent the next two and 1/2 hours with those big stinking socks on your shoulders, in your face. You couldn't even pay attention to the movie. That's all you were to this guy, some random faggot to use as his footstool.

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honeydippedfiction · 2 days ago

Note

#5 with Joe please from hurt/comfort

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#5. They overhear you arguing with your family/friends and are quick to come to your defense when they start insulting you.

Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The house was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon.

Sunlight poured through the wide windows of the living room, casting soft amber streaks across the floor. Joe was in the kitchen, rinsing out a protein shaker, the TV on low behind him. Game highlights flickered across the screen in silence. The sound of faint voices drifted in from down the hall.

He didn’t catch the words at first—just the tones. A soft murmur, the low back-and-forth rhythm of two sisters talking. There was a familiarity to it, even a comfort. Joe had heard them like this before: teasing, venting, laughing about things he didn’t always understand. He smiled to himself and glanced down at his phone.

Then something shifted.

A sharp edge sliced through the air, barely masked by distance.

“No, that’s not what I said. Don’t twist my words,” her voice—his girlfriend’s—rang out, no longer calm. “You asked a question. I answered it.”

Joe’s head turned toward the hallway. He froze, listening.

Her sister’s reply came just as sharp. “And I’m saying your answer doesn’t make sense. You act like you don’t owe anyone a straight explanation anymore.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?” she shot back, louder now.

Joe took a step toward the hall.

“It means,” her sister said, “that ever since you started living in this—this fantasy—you think you’re above the rest of us.”

“Fantasy?” There was a laugh then, brittle and full of disbelief. “Because I’m finally happy?”

“Happy? Or comfortable?”

Joe’s hand tightened around the shaker bottle.

“I’m comfortable because I’m happy,” his girlfriend replied. “And I’ve worked for that. You know I have.”

“Oh, please,” her sister scoffed. “You used to be real. You used to show up for people. Now you’re just—posing. You walk around in designer everything and post your little couple pics like your life is some kind of photo shoot.”

There was a pause. Long enough to make Joe step into the hallway, but not quite down it.

His girlfriend’s voice came next, quieter, but far more dangerous. “You’re mad because I’m not struggling anymore. Admit it.”

“I’m mad because you left us behind.”

That landed like a slap.

“You mean because I stopped drowning with you?” she replied, breath trembling. “Because I chose something better for myself?”

Her sister didn’t answer right away. The air stretched between them—sharp and silent. Joe felt every word through the walls.

“You changed,” her sister said finally, low and bitter. “You’re not the same.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m stronger now. I know who I am.”

“Well, who you are now is a stranger. A trophy girlfriend for an NFL star. You traded your identity for box seats and clout.”

That was it.

Joe stepped into the doorway.

Both women turned. Her sister’s face, flushed and defiant. His girlfriend—she looked stunned for half a second, but her eyes met his with something else, something pained and pleading.

Joe’s voice was calm. Firm.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

The weight of it dropped between them like a hammer.

Her sister’s mouth parted in shock. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward. Not aggressive, but grounded. “I don’t care what this is really about, but that right there—those words—you don’t get to throw them at her.”

“Oh, so now you’re jumping in to save her?” she said with a mocking smirk, arms crossed.

“I’m not here to save her,” Joe said, his gaze unwavering. “She doesn’t need saving. I’m here because I’m not gonna stand by while you tear her down to make yourself feel better.”

“She’s not the same person you grew up with? Good. That means she’s evolving. That’s what we’re supposed to do. You’re holding her hostage to a version of herself she had to outgrow just to survive.”

Her sister looked away, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t know anything about our family,” she said coldly.

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “I don’t. But I know her. I know how hard she’s fought to be where she is. And I know how much it hurts her to have the people she loves most throw that in her face.”

He turned to his girlfriend then, his expression softening.

“She’s been everything for everyone, all her life. And for once, she’s trying to choose herself. Let her.”

Silence settled again—thick, unresolved.

Her sister looked between them. Her lips trembled, just slightly, like she was trying to hold something in. Emotion, maybe. Or pride. Maybe both.

Without a word, she grabbed her bag off the console table, turned, and walked out the door. The latch clicked softly behind her.

The stillness that followed was suffocating.

Joe turned back to his girlfriend. She was standing there, arms crossed, like she was holding herself together by force. Her jaw was tight, her eyes glassy.

He closed the distance between them slowly. “Hey.”

She didn’t speak. Just let him wrap his arms around her. And once he did, she exhaled—slowly, like her whole body was finally giving in to the weight she’d been carrying.

“I didn’t want you to hear all that,” she said quietly into his chest.

“I know.” His hand moved gently along her back. “But I’m glad I did.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. “I feel like... like no matter how far I come, someone’s always waiting to remind me I’m not enough.”

Joe’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed soft. “You are. Don’t ever doubt it.”

“She misses who I used to be,” she whispered. “The one who needed her. The one who didn’t have a future yet.”

“You outgrew the version of you that had to survive everyone else’s expectations,” he said. “And that scares people who haven’t figured out how to grow with you.”

She nodded slowly, tears threatening, but not falling. “It hurts more than I thought it would.”

He kissed her temple. “Because you still care. That’s who you are.”

They stood in silence, wrapped in each other, letting the echoes of the fight settle into the corners of the room. Outside, the light was fading, the golden hour giving way to dusk.

And inside, despite the wreckage of the argument, despite the broken edges of love and family, something remained steady.

Her.

Him.

Them.

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emotionally-cuckolded · 3 days ago

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[Marriage Counselor] How long has it been now since your wife started cuckolding you? Four months I think. So tell me how you feel about it now. I've spoken with her and she's very pleased with how everything is going. How about you?

[Cuckold] Well -- I have started to feel less jealous about her having someone else as her sex partner. It's been hard the past month, though, since she decided to stop having sex with me.

[Marriage Counselor] But you do understand why, don't you. The sex she's been having with him is simply so much better than she has ever had with you that it makes it hard for her to even think about you in a sexual way anymore. You do understand that, don't you?

[Cuckold] Yes. It's frustrating, but yes I understand why she decided that. But the problem, really, now isn't just that. Two weeks ago, she told me that she and her sex partner -- the same guys she's been having sex with three or four times a week for almost two months now -- have decided to start going out on dates together. And so -- just a couple of nights ago -- they did. They went to a restaurant together, and then to a bar to listen to music, and then she spent the whole night with him at his apartment. I guess I never expected her relationship with him to ever be anything more than just sex.

[Marriage Counselor] And that hurts your feelings and makes you jealous?

[Cuckold] Yes. Both of those things. And I worry that they might see someone we know -- that people will find out that she cuckolds me.

[Marriage Counselor] O.K. Let me ask you this. You do really love her, right? And want her to be happy, and satisfied, and feeling fulfilled in life.

[Cuckold] Well yes. Of course. More than anything in my life! That's why I agreed with you when you first recommended that she cuckold me. Because I knew it was something she needed to do to be happy and to be satisfied and to feel fulfilled.

[Marriage Counselor] Good. That's right. Well -- let me say two things about what is happening now. First, you need to understand that when a woman is with a man as often as your wife has been with him, and when he is satisfying her sexual needs the way he is for her -- it is very natural for a woman to start to develop emotional feelings for the man -- often very strong emotional feelings. And so it is very natural for her want to be with him in ways that go beyond having sex.

And secondly -- going along with that -- your wife has deep romance needs in addition to her sexual needs. You knew that you had been failing to satisfy her sexually, but what you perhaps didn't realize is that she was feeling romance-deprived as well. Ultimately, what she needed was not just another sexual partner, but a real lover -- a man she cares about and wants to spend a lot of time with -- including socializing with and dating. Has she told you that he now refers to her as his girlfriend? And that they plan to go to a party together next week so that he can introduce her that way to his friends? And that she is eager to start going out with him as a couple with people that you and she used to socialize with?

[cuckold -- on the verge of tears]. Oh god - no. She hasn't told me all that. So pretty soon everyone will know?

[Marriage Counselor] Yes -- and yes, most men in your position feel very humiliated and ashamed, but I can work with you on that, so that you can accept that what you are doing -- stepping back so that your wife can fall in love with another man -- is something admirable -- a real sign of how deep your love is for her.

[cuckold] Falling in love? Is ... is that what's happening.

[Marriage Counselor] Oh yes. Most of my clients reach this point eventually, so I'm not surprised by it at all. What is important for you to focus on is that this is a very important time for your wife. She is experiencing the delirious thrill of fall in love and having her love requited. You want to make sure that you don't do anything to interfere with that experience for her. She and her boyfriend will be spending more and more time together I suspect, and all she needs from you is to be a supportive friend to her -- to step back and to step away, so that the two of them can explore their feelings for each other more -- and then you will need to accept, and even celebrate wherever that process ends up -- which for many of the couples I've worked with, involves the cucked husband fully replaced in his wife's life by her lover.

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sparrows4bats · 9 hours ago

Text

If Jon falls first, he would be so awkward at first. But the moment Damian reciprocates or shows any sign of feeling the same? All restraint is gone. Jon Kent is a simp and not afraid to let anyone know. He is gonna prove to Damian Wayne that not only is he an amazing boyfriend but he will be an even better husband.

He is giddy. Everything Damian does makes him blush and stutter. It's not just because Damian is cool and smart and handsome. He is all of those things, a degree of gorgeous and competent that leaves Jon in awe.

But he realises he likes Damian when they are arguing, and no matter how angry Jon gets, Damian never flinches at his red eyes. He never wonders for a moment if Jon will hurt him. Because Damian Trusts Him.

Jon thinks it may be a crush when Damian protects him after he is sent flying into a building during a mission, and Jon knows that even if he is Superman, Damian will always see him as Jonathan Kent.

Jon realises he is in love with Damian because of how kind he is, watching him with Lizzie and his pets. Even though Jon knows how hard it can be for him sometimes. It makes his chest ache with sweetness.

He decides to do something about it after he notices he's not the only one who has noticed how amazing Damian is. Kids at school, people at galas, and even other heroes look at his Robin like he's something they can have. It's unacceptable.

So he asks his Dad for help, and Clark explains some of how he convinced Lois Lane to marry him. (Clark Kent still considers it the best and hardest thing he has ever done. It doesn't stop him from laughing at his son for 10 solid minutes when he tells him. Bruce is going to be soooo pissed when Jon succeeds. It'll be hilarious)

Jon starts small. He invites Damian on missions and listens for any animal related emergencies Robin can come to. His Dad helps by distracting Batman while Jon sneaks into the Manor. (Clark trusts his son to call if he needs help, not that he would ever willingly put Damian in any real danger) Damian is confused by his change in behaviour but is happy to come along.

After long missions, Jon invites him to stay the night with him at his apartment or the farm. He delights in Damian wearing his clothes and being all sleepy and vulnerable. They share his bed, and Jon wakes up to Damian asleep on his chest. (Jon wants to wake up like this forever.)

So Jon starts to touch Damian more outside of half conscious cuddling. He hangs around his personal space like a cloud. Jon had thought Damian would hate it but accepts the closeness with ease, in fact, he melts. He doesn't hug back as tightly but leans on Jon in a way that makes Jon feel stronger than his powers ever have.

Next, he starts to do little things for him, like drop off coffee, and when Damian starts working to become a doctor, Jon makes sure he eats and sleeps between studying. Jon doesn't take in much information during Damians' study sessions, too focused on how Damians nose scrunches when he's concentrating, and how he blushes whenever Jon praises him.

Jon starts giving Damian little gifts; trinkets from wherever he travels, and pretty daggers he finds thanks to Diana. Damian receives each one with a smile and soon starts giving Jon gifts, too. Pieces of art he drew or food he finds in Gotham that he thinks Jon might enjoy. (Each drawing and painting is carefully framed in heat vision proof glass.)

Surprisingly, It's Damian who kisses him first. After Jon gives him a kitten that Clark saved from a tree. (Bruce said Damian couldn't adopt any more pets he said nothing about accepting them as gifts). The kiss is soft but full of passion, and Jon can't help but deepen it.

"I love you." Jon tells him when they pull back to breathe.

"Good, because if we do this, I couldn't bear it if you left me."

"Never, I'd fight the world to stay with you."

"And I'd defeat death to keep you at my side, Habibi." Jon kisses him again because he finally can. (Damian is even more handsome when he is under him, and Jon sends a silent thank you to whatever God is listening for letting him see it.)

(Clark was right, Bruce was pissed when he found Jon naked in Damians bed the next morning.)

Damian names the cat Clark after his future father in law. (Bruce will get his revenge, he swears, on BOTH Supers, eventually.)

#damian wayne #batfamily #jondami #batman #batfam #supersons #jon kent #bruce wayne #clark kent #superman #Clark Kent is petty #Clark Kent is a Menace #So is Jon #like father like son #Clark the Cat #damijon #Lois Lane is a Treasure

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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 10 - Always On My Mind

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I'm only a girl, about to make Bucky Barnes drink boba.

Chapter Title from Good Days by SZA

Word Count: 13.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Things get better, and worse.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Read on A03!

You don’t want to look him in the eyes.

Bucky’s right there, all the time, and it’s so fucking hard to look him in the eyes.

He might see it. He will see it. When he says something in a slight Brooklyn accent—deep and rough and commanding—while looking at you with the I’ll pull you apart if you ask me to, Butterfly. See what you’re really made of, gaze.

Those things together are dangerous. His voice has been in the commanding tone a lot, and you don’t think he’s even doing it on purpose. Or maybe you’re just weaker to it. There is less of a fight in your body against him anymore. Less of a desire to win, and an entire shift in what constitutes winning.

It wouldn’t be Bucky leaving. Not anymore.

That’s part of the issue.

Because if he’s looking at you and seeing into you—just like he always does—while using his commanding, no room for argument tone, you might just fucking tell him. You might be rambling about nothing at all, and Bucky might say your name in the way that’s trying to get your attention, and you’ll fucking slip because none of your mastered control fucking works around him.

“Did you know there’s no such thing as a fish?” You’d asked him last week, lying flat on your back in your office, and Bucky had frowned over you.

“Of course there’s such thing as a fish. I saw one yesterday.”

“Where did you see a fish?”

“At the harbor- That’s not the point.” Bucky had leaned further forward, his tongue flicking slightly over his lips.

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

It hadn’t been helping.

“I think it is the point.” You’d hummed pretending to look at your nails so you don’t have to look at him. “Why were you at the harbor?”

“My therapist gave me homework.”

“To go see fish?”

“To go see something bigger than me.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“It was supposed to remind me that in the grand scheme of things, we’re all just dots or something.” Bucky had been glaring at you, but it wasn’t for you. What Bucky glared at you for you, it made the fluttering part of you whine, and he looked like he wanted to eat you alive a little.

This was just grumpy. Annoyed.

And you should’ve looked away. But Bucky had never told you about therapy before, and you didn’t want to fuck that up. Friends. He was your friend. And friends listen and talk to each other, looking each other in the eyes and not thinking about their friend grabbing them by the waist and pulling them up to their chest and kissing them stupid and breathless-

Friends don’t do that.

You needed to stop doing that.

“That sounds like a stupid exercise.” You’d hummed. “We are all small, but the kind of too insignificant to create change mindset leads to lethargy and apathy.”

Bucky had raised his brows, and you’d given him a small smile.

“Laziness and-“

“I got apathy.” Bucky had shrugged. “Just needed the first one. And the Doc said that I’m supposed to let go of some guilt ‘cause of it.”

“Did you?”

“No. Just smelled like freakin’ fish for the rest of the afternoon.”

You’d giggled, and Bucky had blinked at you. And done the tongue thing again.

“You gonna elaborate on the fish aren’t real thing, Butterfly?”

“No.” You’d given him a wide, teasing grin. “Good use of elaborate.”

Nostril flare. “Thanks. Fish are real.”

“They’re not.”

“Kid, you say a lot of funny things-“

“Aw, you think I’m funny-“

“Yes. Shut up.” A heat had spread through your stomach at the sharpness of Bucky’s words. Like they were obvious. And he’d just kept fucking talking. “But fish aren’t real isn’t even a good joke.”

You’d shrugged, twirling your hair between your fingers. “It wasn’t a joke.”

Bucky had grunted your name, and your smile had hurt your cheeks.

“There was this guy who studied fish all across the world, and he found out that there was no common denominator in what we call fish. It’s too broad a term for the ecological diversity. It would be like calling every single land animal a primate. It’s just inaccurate.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” You’d stuck your tongue out at him. “Told you.”

“Sometimes you just say shit, Butterfly.” He’d shrugged. “And you’re real good at selling it. That was your truth voice, but I wasn’t just going to buy fish aren’t real right off the bat.”

You’d frowned at him. “What’s my truth voice?”

Bucky had frowned, scanning over you with the I’ll pull you apart gaze again, and you could’ve fucking sworn his voice had dropped when he finally spoke. “You smile more.”

That wasn’t a voice thing. You’d wanted to argue that you smiled a lot anyway, but you didn’t, and this was why you weren’t supposed to look at him or know him in the first place.

But you hadn’t managed to agree. He’d sounded so sincere, and knowing that about you meant he’d been paying attention to you. And your smile. It made the raw part of you keen and settle so comfortably, and this was all getting very confusing, very fast.

But Bucky hadn’t seen it on your face, so you’d held his gaze. You could manage it. It was impossible and daunting and dangerous, but so it goes. You’ve survived worse than a crush.

Because that’s what this was. Is. Won’t stop being. Just a crush.

And that’s fine.

You can’t control a crush. It’s a chemical reaction in your body to someone attractive, who you get along well with, and want intimacy with on a level a little above physical. And Bucky’s the first viable option since you met Miles—his skin isn’t sagging off his body, his teeth are all still in his mouth, he’s not a trust-fund prick who’s heard about your past and thinks he can do whatever he wants to you, and you don’t see him as a brother—so you’re going to be more susceptible to his charms.

Sort of charms.

Bucky doesn’t really have charms.

Not normal ones.

“Why are you making that face.”

You’d frown at him from your desk a few days ago. “What.”

“You’re making a murder face.” Bucky had said, his arms crossed over his chest as he sat across from you. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. Only moving to the couch when you moved to the floor. “Who’s the sorry asshole of the other end of it?”

“There’s no idiot-“

“Yes, there is.”

“James-“

“You’re destroying the paper.”

You’d glanced down, and he’d been right. You’d been shredding some unimportant report, scattering and arranging the pieces over your desk in one of those weird patterns you couldn’t stop making.

Bucky had given you a slightly smug look, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Who are we killing?”

You’d blinked at him. “We?”

He’d nodded, grinning at you from his eyes, and he was luring you. Baiting you into thinking about anything but the dumbass fuckhead lawyers you really needed to fire.

You’d taken it.

And Bucky didn’t need normal charms. Normal charms were a hidden trap. One of those baited bear-traps, hidden until the promise of something sweet and a lot of colorful leaves. Normal charms had gotten you on the leash you had now. Bucky’s charms told you exactly what he was trying to do, because there was no Show. From either of you. Ever.

That was where the crush had to come from. You’re growing attached to Bucky because you don’t have to preform for him. And his job is to protect you—even if he hasn’t actually done that yet—so it gives you a sense of security that you haven’t had in a while. And he’s so handsome it makes you a little dizzy, and he only does that tongue thing more and more, and he pays a lot of attention to you because you’re together all the time.

It’s the perfect storm for a crush.

But that’s all it is. All it will get to be.

You can’t leave Miles. That’s just a blanket, obvious statement that should be a kill switch—you can’t leave Miles, so there’s no future with Bucky—but only seems to make the crush grow, because now you’re getting pathetic little fantasies about Bucky saving you. About him looking on those stupid cameras and seeing a worse night, then bursting through the door and carrying you to safety.

That won’t happen. Bucky doesn’t care about you that much—nobody who can see you could—so it’s just a fantasy. A really, really dangerous fantasy.

And you don’t need Bucky to save you. You’ve survived this long by yourself. And you can’t be saved, because this isn’t like Tony on the balcony, offering you an escape from the wilderness life had dropped you into. You were the idiot. You gave Miles the bond. Nobody gets to save you, because that’s just not how this fucking works.

So you had to come up with other reasons for the crush to die.

Bucky’s doesn’t want you like that, is a big one. He couldn’t. You’re you and he can see it, plus he knows who you were, and nobody ever reallywants you when they learn that. Bucky might not have minded it as your friend, but as more is a different story.

You’re damaged goods.

He won’t want that.

You want him to want that. If he wanted that, you might melt about it. But he won’t. So the crush has to die.

It won’t. No matter how many reasons you give it—he’s Sam’s friend, he doesn’t even know about the bond, there’s no future there, he didn’t even like you until last month, let alone want you, he can see you and that’s dangerous—the crush just keeps rooting deeper and deeper into your body, twining over all your nerves and blooming up your spine with the Mist.

At least you know. Now that you know, you can adapt, and keep moving.

You can find just the right amount of cover for Bucky to never see the slight flush you’ve developed whenever he looks at you, or the sheer levels of ditzy your smile reaches under his attention. You just have to start giggling more, at whatever you hear. And smiling like a dummy at other people. And leaning your body closer towards random co-workers, even if they’re not the perfect kind of warm like Bucky is.

You’ll need be careful of keeping it as a crush, though. A crush will fade, and then you’ll get to have a friend. You really want a friend. You haven’t really had a friend since Tony, and he’s incredibly dead.

And Sam doesn’t count. Sam’s a brother, a pseudo-uncle. There’s no world where you lose your relationship with Sam, because if he was going to be sick of you, it would’ve happened a long fucking time ago. You’ve given Sam an uncountable amount of reasons to tell you to fuck off, the least of which was being friends with Tony.

But Sam’s family.

So he stayed.

Friends are different, though. You think.

You don’t have enough experience in the field to say for sure. Your only benchmark wasn’t exactly an average friend experience.

But you talked to Tony about—almost—everything. Just like you’ve been talking to Bucky. And friends do things for each other. And spend lots of time together. And know a lot of things about each other.

Tony knew about your family. And your childhood, and your past.

The only thing he didn’t know about was the bond. He would’ve tried to fix it, not understand that it is the fix. You’re the overloaded, unbearable thing, and the bond keeps you in check. Tony would’ve said that was dumb, and started looking for ways to remove it. Then he would’ve called you an idiot for giving it to Miles—Tony had never liked Miles, calling him Satan’s Little Helper even before the long nights on the bathroom floor started and the bruises began to gather—but still helped you all the same. That’s what friendship Tony had been. Both of you being too much, all the time, almost in a competition to see who could break the other first.

You’d made Tony watch sweeter, happier things, just like you were doing with Bucky. Your logic had been you have a daughter now, Tony, you can’t make her watch John Wick. And he’d listened to you, because Tony always listened to you. Pepper had once compared you to two little dogs, running in circles and sniffing each other’s butts, trying to out dog the other all the time.

Bucky’s not like that. He’s more along the lines of a bigger, better-trained dog that never barks, and only bites. Just sitting and watching you chase your own tail with vague amusement on his features. When you’d talked to Tony, it had been a sparring match.

Talking to Bucky had become more like a dance. Everything flows, and you have to move with him. Not faster or louder. Even if you’re doing most of the talking, Bucky’s good at finding the right places to jump in and take over.

And Bucky’s really far from being Tony. In a lot of ways. You have to explain a lot more things to Bucky, but he never counters it with something he knew. Bucky just absorbs your words and stares at you with an expression you can’t really read. You could always read Tony’s expressions. He was horrible at hiding them, and worse at pretending he was hiding them.

And you’d never looked at Tony and wanted to know everything about him, but maybe just because he told you everything.

You’d never wanted to tell Tony everything about you, because the things you kept hidden were for everyone’s sake.

You never dreamed of Tony saving you. You were terrified of it.

You didn’t want to be his problem.

But you want to be Bucky’s problem. You are Bucky’s problem. You’ve already made his life impossibly complicated. And if he saved you—which he won’t, and you’ll only entertain the thought on the longest and darkest of nights, when there’s no one around to see—you think he’d do it right. You have no proof of that, just like you have no proof that he’d want to save you at all, but you just think he would.

There had never been that same instinct with Tony.

You’d never had vivid sex dreams about Tony, either.

And Tony had never looked at you and ignited a part of you that hadn’t existed before.

Maybe that’s just a Bucky thing. Maybe whenever he looks at Sam, there’s just a little piece of him that flutters and blossoms under Bucky’s gaze. And the same thing happens to Sarah, and they just never warned you about it.

That’s probably not the case.

It doesn’t help that you’ve never really seen Sam and Bucky be friends, so you can’t tell if this is how Bucky is with all his friends—all two of them, which is still better numbers than you have—or he’s just like this with you.

If he’s only like this with you, you’re not allowed to read into that. Or think about it. Or let it bloom and grow into something like hope, because this crush needs to wither and decay as fast as possible, or a lot of things will be in danger.

But Bucky’s not making that easy.

Of course he fucking isn’t.

“Chinese or Mexican?”

You frown at him, sitting across the desk, his attention on his phone. “What?”

“For lunch.” He mutters, glowering at the screen. “Why are there so many fucking choices?”

“Because we live in a city. Hold on, Buck, I need to pull up the website-“

“No.” He looks up at you with a firm, almost violent gaze of determination. “I’ve got it.”

“You’ve…” You pull your lip between your teeth, scanning over him carefully. His whole body is tensed, like he’s about to try and jump on a grenade. “Got it.”

“Yes. I do.”

You raise your brows. “Convincing.”

“Shut up.” His glare falls back to his phone. “What’s boba.”

“It’s a type of tea. With little balls in it.”

“Little balls-“

“They’re called tapioca.” You shrug. “You’d hate them. They’re kinda gooey.”

Bucky pauses, looking between you and the phone with another unreadable expression. “Do you like them?”

“Yeah, but-“

“They have chicken too.” He mutters, and it’s his low, mostly to himself tone. “I can eat chicken.”

“Congratulations on that, but-“

“You like red meat more.”

You blink at him, and the fluttering part of you is going haywire. You have to bite you cheek to get your thoughts back together from a haze of his attention, the Mist rising so fast up your spine you feel a little dizzy. “Yeah. I do.”

“Is calamari a red meat?” Bucky frowns slightly. “Nah, it’s a fish. Worked that one out myself.”

He licks his lips again, and gives you an almost proud expression.

There’s the better trained dog. The Doberman, asking you for a treat.

“Good job.” You try to make your voice a dry, sarcastic drawl. If Bucky hears the nervous breathiness, it doesn’t show. “James.”

He grunts, his attention back on the phone, and you take a long, deep breath.

“You’re not gonna like boba tea-“

“We’ll see. How about- They’ve got like a sausage and cheese sandwich thing. You want that?”

“Yes, please. But- What about the Jell-o, I told you you’d hate that and you did-“

“Technically you said Jell-o is shit, James, don’t eat it.” He shoots you an amused look. It’s not helping. “It did taste like shit. I shoulda listened.”

Jesus Christ. “But- Listen now, Bucky, you won’t like it-“

“You like it.” He shrugs. It’s too casual a movement, and it’s spreading a fuzzy feeling over all your nerves. “So far you’ve been a pretty solid authority on good things, Butterfly. And if I hate it, you can say told you so. Not that complicated.”

Not that complicated. Friends trust each other’s opinions and tastes, so it’s not that complicated.

Nobody really trusts you like that, and Sam’s told you that Bucky never trusts other people like that, but it’s just not that complicated.

But the Mist doesn’t seem to get the memo. It just keeps rising.

You were right. Bucky hates the boba. One little tapioca shoots up the straw and into his mouth, and he spits it out like it was poison.

“Fuckin’- What the hell was that?”

“Boba.” You hum, grinning at him from around your own straw. “Can I say told you so?”

Bucky snorts. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart-“

“Told you so.” You reach out one hand. “Gimme.”

Bucky blinks. “I was just gonna trash it-“

“Don’t.” You flex your fingers with a pointed look, and Bucky passes you his cup with a sigh.

You give him a small smile, swapping the straws in your cups and sliding your previous boba back across the desk.

He doesn’t take it. “What are you doing.”

“I’m giving you that one.”

“It’s the damn same drink.”

“Wrong.” You shrug. You’d been ready for this. You’d known he’d hate the tapioca, but he’d gone out of his way to order lunch for you, and you wanted him to do it again. “Those,” you nod to the cup, Bucky still eyeing it wearily. “Are popping boba. They taste like strawberry.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Strawberry.”

“Yep. Try it.”

He doesn’t move, and you sigh.

“C’mon, James. Trust me.”

That works to well. Bucky grabs the cup with a cautious hand, gives you an odd look, and takes a slow sip.

His eyes widen when the popping boba hits his mouth.

But he doesn’t spit it out.

You won.

He likes it.

You knew he’d like it. You’d ordered it because you’d been so fucking certain Bucky would like the lighter, softer flavor of the popping boba, and the gentle sensation is always calming, and you were right.

A new game starts, after that. It’s maybe more crucial than the first one, because the first one was all biting and mauling each other for the sake of the Show. The first one, the prize was you get to keep going, alone, just as it’s supposed to be.

This game has no prize. And you’d really fucking lost the first game, because you’re never alone anymore. Bucky’s everywhere. He’s with you every waking moment, sitting on your couch or across your desk or fucking looking at you. Always looking at you, and you can’t ask him to stop, or you’ll have to explain why.

You don’t want to say why.

Nothing good can come of telling Bucky that you can feel it when he’s watching, and that does odd things to your body. And that now you think of him whenever you look at your bookshelf, and a vague thought of would Bucky like that crosses over your head. He’s there—in your head, which is far more concerning than out of it—whenever you eat good food, and want to share it with him to see that rare smile. When you trip and almost don’t steady yourself, because you’ve gotten so used to Bucky catching you. Whenever you do an orange coded, boring and horrible meeting, and you wish he was there to tell you that you didn’t have to.

Whenever Miles reminds you that you’re not the type of girl that gets to say no, honey, and you can almost see Bucky’s silver-blue eyes on yours, his voice in your ear say that shit’s not your fault either.

He’s fucking everywhere, so there needs to be a new game. And there’s no Show to be found, in this one. It’s just a game for the sake of playing.

And Bucky’s a really good playmate.

It starts after the boba. The next day, Bucky drives you to work—just as always—and follows you into your office with only his usual small nod to Grace. Then he’s standing up with his phone in hand, and you frown at him from across the desk.

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.” He grunts, and you tilt your head at him.

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s my building, I’m allowed to worry about it.”

“Well, stop worrying about it.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being weird.”

He shrugs it off. “I’m always weird.”

“No. Not like this. What’s downstairs.”

“I said-“

“I heard you. I’m not accepting your answer.”

Bucky raises his brows. “Not accepting it.”

“Nope.” Your arms fold over your chest, and you raise your chin as you hold his gaze. “And you’re not supposed to leave me alone anyway. What if Hydra comes?”

“Hydra won’t come.”

“But they might.”

Bucky sighs your name, glancing down at his phone. “I gotta go-“

“Get something?” You shrug at his tight nod, turning back to your computer. “I’ll send Grace down to get it.”

Bucky pauses. “Your assistant.”

“Yep. Just tell me what she needs to look for-“

“I’ll tell her.” Bucky snaps, whipping around and almost stomping to the door, muttering low words to Grace that you—apparently—don’t get to hear.

“Is it a secret bomb?” You ask as he returns inside. “Are you finally trying to kill me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d just do it. Wouldn’t need a secret bomb.” He pauses, a small frown on his face. “But I won’t. I don’t want to kill you.”

You feel a like you’re floating, because Bucky said that like it was really important for you to understand. Like you might have spat in his face or tossed him out just for his joke.

And he’s just staring at you, standing tall before the desk with his shoulder thrown back, rather than dropping into his seat. You can’t tell if he’s waiting for permission. He shouldn’t be. You’re not his boss.

You still offer him a small smile, and tilt your head slightly. “Aw. I don’t want to kill you either.”

That was the right thing. Bucky’s shoulders relax, and a smile twitches on his face. “You couldn’t if you tried, Butterfly.”

“I think I could.” You shrug. “I’m tricky, Buck. Fast and wily.”

“I’m fast and wily. You’re overconfident.”

“I am not.” You pout at him, and his nostrils flare. “And confidence is half the battle.”

“Not the winning half. The winning half is bullets and skill.”

“If you’re not confident enough, yeah.” You shrug. “When Hydra comes, I just have to convince them they can’t take me.”

He snorts. “As much as I’d like to see you try that, I don’t think it would end in your favor.”

“That’s loser talk, Sargent. You think I wouldn’t win?”

“I think,” Bucky’s voice is slow, and his gaze is driving right into your ribs. “That if I threw you into the jungle for a week, I’d come back to monkeys braiding your hair and the birds brinin’ you water.”

“Oh.” You frown, turning over the words in your head. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky gives you another odd look. “You know how to punch, kid?”

“Yes.” Your answer is too quick. Bucky hears it—of course her does, asshole—and gives you a pointed look with those fucking eyes. You crack under nothing but the Mist. “No.”

He grins. “That’s what I thought. We’ll fix that.”

Before you can ask, there’s a knock on the door. The quick double knock that means it’s Grace, and no one else.

“Mr. Barnes?” Her head pokes in, and Bucky draws back to his full height in half a second, his features becoming somehow more unreadable. You’re not sure what just happened.

“Did you get it?” He asks, walking back across the room, and Grace gives a small, nervous nod.

She keeps looking at you. Like you’re supposed to know what’s happening.

You don’t.

“Good. Thanks-“ Bucky pauses, and Grace looks like a deer in headlight. “Grace.”

“You’re welcome.” She whispers, shooting you another look, and then she’s gone.

“Bucky, what-“

“Coffee.” He cuts you off with a grunt, and when you turn, that’s really all it is.

Bucky’s holding coffee.

Fancy coffee. The kind that they put little leaves in, that’s never worth the price.

You always buy the coffee when you were buying for Grace. She deserves it. And because of that, you have your own order.

The order in Bucky’s hands.

“Did you get Grace some too?” You blurt before you can think better, and something strange flashes over Bucky’s face.

He’s back in the eased form. Where he’s looking down at you with an almost unnoticeable smile that starts into his eyes.

You wish you knew what it meant.

“Yes.” He thrust your cup forward. “Here.”

This is so stupid. It’s just coffee.

The right coffee. That Bucky got for you.

Unprompted.

For you.

“Thank you.” You whisper, trying to keep your voice even, even as the Mist rises up and up and up your spine.

His grin grows. Spreads over his face like some sort of beautiful, blossoming vine that just reaches everywhere. Even his hair looks softer.

His chest puffs a little bit out. Like he’s proud.

Like he won.

He’d known. He’d known that you’d gotten the popping boba just for him.

He has to have known. Bucky must have figured it out, and this is his payback.

But he doesn’t get to have the last word.

So the game begins.

You order next. Sandwiches for lunch, but not because that’s the goal. The sandwiches are a cover for the desserts.

“What’s that.” Bucky points to the paper cup-holder, and you grin at him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a milkshake. Didn’t they have like, soda shops in your day?”

“Yeah, but I was poor, sweetheart. And Steve and I spent all our money on Coney Island.”

“Did they not have milkshakes there?”

He rolls his eyes. “Smart mouth, Butterfly.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, and you get lucky. Bucky’s too busy staring at the milkshake to see your flush.

“Why is it pink.”

“Because it’s mystery flavor.” You hum, rolling your own straw around its plastic cup.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“You’re no fun-“

“Butterfly-“

It’s not good how you’re just responding to that now.

How you expect it.

“Bucky.” You grin back at him, lowering your tone to match his, and he scowls. “It’ll be good. Try it.”

“Tell me what it is-“

“Cotton candy.”

Bucky blinks. “In a milkshake.”

“Yep.”

“Why.”

“We’ve got all kinds of flavors now, Sergeant Barnes.” You lean back in your chair, your gaze still trapped on Bucky’s as you hold up your fingers, and start to count. “Neapolitan. Banana. Peppermint. Peppermint stick. Brown Cow. Rocky Road. Banana split. Blueberry. Hawk-chock. Mango. Hulknana-foster. Stark Strawberry. Regular strawberry. Purple cow.”

Bucky gives another look. It’s firm, but not angry or annoyed. There’s something soft under it that you really want to see more of, and casts the Mist out over your spine.

You’re a little dizzy from it.

“You done?”

“Yeah.” Your grin doesn’t waver, and the look on Bucky’s face grows. “Which one of those do you think was fake?”

Bucky’s brow draws together, his tongue flicking out over his lips as he thinks. “Purple cow.”

“Close. Brown cow. And Hawk-chock. That was a failed Hawkeye brand pitch.”

Bucky raises his brows. “Too close to cock?”

“Too close to cock.”

He chuckles, and takes the milkshake.

He likes it.

You win that one.

But Bucky wins the next one. He orders lunch from the diner a few blocks down, and gets you a burger.

“How’d you-“

“’S what you got after the play.” He grumbles, pushing the container forward, and you swallow.

“Oh.”

It’s all you could manage.

He’s really been paying attention.

Of course he had. He’s Bucky.

You up him the next day with the correct sushi order. He ups you with Indian food, and ordering himself something new. With the ten flaming peppers from the menu. And he lets you watch while he tries it, and grins at you when he barely even flinches.

“How-“

“I told you. Wakanda.” He pauses, and you know this Look now. Drawn brows and no blinks, but no anger either. He’s really, deeply thinking, because Bucky seems to think a lot. “They’d like you.”

This Mist rises. “Cool.”

“You’d like them, too. Like it there. They’ve got a whole lotta books.”

“Could I read them?”

“No.” He shrugs. “But you’d figure it out.”

You would. You always figured it out.

It does something to your skin and gut—something tingly and hot and molten—that Bucky knows that too.

You make him try a big, fancy cookie. And an acai bowl. And ramen noodles, that you buy from the corner store and teach him how to heat in the microwave. You’re on a roll.

The Bucky brings you lunch.

That he picked up.

From the deli by his apartment. Like you fucking mean something. Mean enough to stand in a deli for, when he can’t even handle the subway.

It makes your crush worse.

All of this is making your crush so much fucking worse. Bucky’s being nicer and nicer to Grace, and that makes something in you glow because people always look her over.

She mentions her dog to Bucky one morning, and now he asks about it every morning. Then he’ll ask about the Boy, and you’d be suspicious for why he’s not pushing for the Boy’s name anymore, but you’re too busy staring at his muscles flexing as he opens the door to your office. He’s still opening the door to your office, and you’re going to go fucking insane.

You almost lose all together—your mind and this new game—when you climb into your car next week, and Bucky passes you stickers. Lots of stickers. Of dragons and cats and flowers and a disco ball. There’s a little Captain America shield, and a Death Star, and-

“What’s that?”

Bucky glances at you as he starts the car. “Lightsaber-“

“No, this one.” You hold up a little Sky Bison. “This is from Avatar.”

“I know.”

You raise your brows. “Did you watch Avatar.”

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

He nods, and you think this smile is going to be etched onto your face forever.

“All of it?”

“The first two seasons so far.” He grumbles, like he’s just as angry about this as you are thrilled. “They’re relaxing.”

You hum, settling fully into your seat, and Bucky shoots you a Look.

Furrowed brows. Three blinks.

This one means confused.

“You gonna say it?”

You give him a perfectly innocent smile. “Say what?”

“The thing.”

“What thing?”

“The-“ He scowls, glaring out at the road. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do.” You hum, turning another sticker between your fingers. “But if we’re both thinking it, and we both know it, I don’t have to say it.”

That’s how you, against all reason, win that round. Even though Bucky opened a new door where things—not just food—are allowed, you win.

And you hold the lead. You order the next round, plus you get Bucky a traveling mug. A stainless steel, solid mug.

“Look.” You pretend to throw it, grinning at him the whole time. “You can take someone out from fifty feet.”

“Fifty feet?”

“Yeah.”

He gives you a vaguely amused look. “That’s pretty far, Butterfly.”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “I’m not good at distances. It’s to hold your coffee. You can even put it in your stupid backpack.”

“Hey.” Bucky gives you a mockingly firm tone. It still creates the fuzzy feeling. Maybe hotter. “I like my backpack. It’s reliable.”

“And so,” you hold up the mug. “Is this.”

He rolls his eyes, but takes the mug.

You get more paper, the next day.

“You shredded it all,” he mutters as he shoves it into your hands, and you had. And he gets you another lunch from the deli, because he seems to have noticed you like it.

But you’re still winning.

You keep winning. And this is a fun game to play.

Your nights are still long. Miles still lingers like a poisoned fog whenever Bucky drops you off at night, and you still have to draw the Show together before you walk through the door.

But the days are good.

You’re doing your job, and being useful, and it’s not like wading through a swamp. You smile when you see Bucky in the garage, and he smiles back, and then it’s like a lighthouse through the day. Bucky’s there. He’ll be there. He’s becoming a given, and that’s dangerous, and you don’t care because it makes the Show easier.

You get breaks from it. You can smile and drawl at all the suits without worry, because later you’ll joke with Bucky behind the door. You can drift through all the meetings, and go through all the motions, and lie below Miles in bed with your gaze fixed on the ceiling, and occupy your brain with more important things like Bucky.

Far too much time in your mind, dedicated to Bucky.

There have been more dreams.

A lot more dreams.

“Look so fuckin’ gorgeous.” Bucky groans your name above you, and you can’t stop the whine that escapes your throat.

Your mouth is stuffed with his cock. And his flesh hand is tangled in your hair, the touch soothing as he guides you up and down, letting your nose bump his abdomen before pulling you almost fully off, letting you slightly lick the tip-

“Jesus, babydoll, you’re so-“ When your eyes flutter up, Bucky looks as wrecked as he sounds.

You moan around him, starting to grind onto the air as you double your efforts—swallowing and sucking on him, letting yourself choke on his dick as one hand traces up his muscles thigh to play with his balls—and Bucky hisses.

“Fucking hell, just like that, so fucking good, such a good girl-“

You squeak, and Bucky’s chuckle seems to echo around the whole universe.

“I know, Butterfly, soon. I’ll make you cum all over me, soon as I- Shit-“

He pulls out without warning, spraying his cum all over your face, and when he comes down, he’s looking at you with another-

It’s not unreadable. Somewhere in the back of your addled brain, you know that’s Bucky’s love-face. Slightly pouting lips and flaring nostrils and his tongue flicking out, because he’s told you he doesn’t want to ever be anywhere good but you.

You think he’s told you that. You don’t know how, or when. Just that it makes you feel a little fucking irreplaceable and entirely happy, and the Mist is building and slowing down all at once.

You wish you could remember.

But right now all that’s really in focus is Bucky, smearing his cum over your cheek with a thumb, before pressing that same thumb between your lips for you to suck.

He groans your name as you do, and he says it like a song. A war drum. Something that he’s shouted from the pews of a church.

You smile up at him.

And it’s all so good.

Your eyes shoot open, and your skin is stuck to the slightly cracked tile of the bathroom floor. Papers scattered around you, the boy asleep in the soft light coming through the window.

The dreams are vivid. Strangely vivid. And the Mist is always right at the base of your skull when you wake up.

But they’re not only sex dreams.

They’re starting to be something close to domestic. A false waking, where you’re in a bed, and your eyes flutter open with long breaths instead of darting open and thrashing like a feral, trapped animal. Or another lunch, but Bucky’s just there to give you food and eat with you, and then he kisses you on the brow and leaves, and there’s a picture of him on your desk. Then you’re sitting on the couch, your attention on your laptop while a movie plays in the background, and Bucky’s slumped against you with his metal arm around your shoulders, and-

“You’re not payin’ attention, sweetheart.”

“I’ve seen this one,” you mumble, your fingers still flying on the keyboard. “We’re watching it for you.”

He hums, and his lips are right on your fucking ear. “If it’s for me, I want you watchin’ with me.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just need to-“

“You always need to.” Bucky pulls your laptop away, setting it down on the coffee table—that’s not your coffee table, it’s wooden and worn and there’s no trash but still a lot of clutter—before tugging you half into his lap. “I’m feeling neglected, Butterfly.”

You roll your eyes, but still curl into his body, dropping your head back on his shoulder to pout. “I gave you a blowjob like two hours ago.”

“But you didn’t let me return the favor-“

“Bucky-“

“C’mon,” his lips trail up your neck, and your nails scrap against his metal arm. “Lemme take care of my girl. She can get back to tryin’ to kill me after.”

“I’d never kill you.” You say weakly, and Bucky chuckles.

“Not on purpose, no.” Two fingers trace over the lines of your panties, and now neither of you are paying attention. “Sing for me, pretty girl.”

Bucky’s fingers rip off your already ruined underwear, and his thumb presses onto your clit, and-

Apparently, sometimes the domestic dreams turn into sex dream. But they’re still just dreams. Ideas your brain is likely creating to escape the reality of Miles.

But Bucky’s part of your reality and life too, now. And there’s still the lingering question in your head of when will it drop. When will it be ripped away.

But Bucky doesn’t seem like the type to go quietly.

And he’s not really trying to go at all anymore.

He got you a book he thought you’d like.

Didn’t suggest it. Or tell you about it, so you could find it.

He bought it.

For you.

You’re staring at it as he holds it out for you. It’s a hardcover. Glossy.

New.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat trying not to let your half-panic at the gesture show on your face. This is too much. Not enough. You need to say no because this is so much, but it’s also perfect, and you’re feeling a little lightheaded. “I have a Kindle.”

Bucky frowns at you. “This isn’t to start a fire, kid. You’re supposed to read it.”

“I- I know.” You spin your pen in your hands, trying to keep your voice. “A Kindle is an e-reader. Like one book that’s also all of them.”

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s fuckin’- The future is weird.”

“It’s actually not that novel an invention anymore. You can, uh- There’s an app I can put on your phone-“

“I only just got one of those smartphones. I’m not doin’ apps anytime soon.”

“But-“

Bucky says your name, and there it is. The commanding voice. “Take the book.”

“I could’ve bought it myself.” You whisper, your eyes locked onto his.

And you could’ve. You have the money for it. All the money for it. And Bucky might not. You don’t know how much Sam is paying him—shit, you need to check if Sam is paying him enough, and if he’s not you’ll make up the deficit, but that’s not the point—but it’s not going to be more than you, and if he’d just told you to buy the book you could’ve and this whole, dizzying feeling would’ve been avoided-

“Stop thinking.” Bucky grunts, pushing the book further forward, and you swallow.

“I- I wasn’t-“

“Yeah, you were. Take the book, Butterfly.”��

“But-“

“No. Take it.” His eyes narrow. “If you don’t, it goes in the trash.”

You glance back down at the cover, trying to buy yourself time until you can think of a really, full reason to say no. “Brave New World?”

“Yep.”

“What-“

“It’s a sci-fi book.” He mutters, and you can still feel his gaze. “Read it in high school.”

“Oh, so a million-“

“Stop trying to distract me.”

Fuck. “I would never try to distract you, James.” You give a sweet smile, and his nostrils only flare.

You don’t understand that Look yet. His gaze is as intense as usual, and he’s standing a little taller, but his features are so neutral you’d think he was stone if you didn’t know better. But you do, and there’s something to the Look. There’s something to all of Bucky’s Looks. And you’ve gotten better at working them out, but this one…

You have no fucking clue.

“It a dystopia book.” Bucky’s voice is low, his words careful, and you’re sort of clinging onto every one of them. “Like that Hunger Games thing you wanted me to look at.” He scans over you slowly, doing the fucking tongue thing again, and you’re sitting down, so why do you feel so fucking dizzy-

“You should read the Hunger Games.” You mumble, twirling your hair between your fingers. “You’d like it.”

“I’ll read it if you read this.”

“Buck-“

“Take the fuckin’ book, Butterfly.”

Stalling and distracting isn’t working. It’s time to switch tactics. “Or what?”

That’s the same Look from before. You still don’t know what it means. “Or else.”

“Wow. Smooth words, James-“

“Just take the damn book.”

You’re not going to win this. Bucky’s not going to waver, and the Mist is too high up your spine, and his gaze is too intense, and you lose. You take the book with a fake-pout, and Bucky grins, and this game is far too important now.

Bucky’s not going anywhere. You don’t want him to go anywhere. It hits you when he gives you the book, but it almost knocks you out a few days later, when you do more than just lose.

“Wait.” Bucky grunts, and you frown at him as he digs through his backpack, shooting a quick glance to the door.

“Bucky, the meeting’s starting soon-“

“It’s starting in twenty minutes.” He drawls your name, giving you an amused look. “Just hold on, I gotta- Here.”

He pulls out a Coke bottle. A Cherry Coke bottle. And shoves it into your hands before you can even think to protest.

“Orange meeting.” Bucky mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. Like he’s trying to block you from handing it back. “Thought you could use it.”

You could. This was one of the stupid finance meetings where you have justify every single bit of money the foundation has spent with words that aren’t just believe it or not, this money isn’t for making more money. It to take care of people, and if you have a fucking problem with that, take it up with Tony’s grave. And at least five of the suits always try to hit on you—although that number has gone down since Bucky started standing behind you all the time—and you’re always exhausted after, and he got this for you.

Because he knows. He knows orange meetings on your schedule means horror. And he’s trying to make it better, and it worked.

Because Bucky knows you.

You’re wiped out. You can’t even call this losing, because it feels painfully good, and if this is losing you want to keep losing forever.

He knows. You. That’s what the game is. Was. Knowing each other.

Just like you know Bucky’s still doing all his stupid therapy exercises, and that since the harbor thing didn’t work, he’s supposed to go to the planetarium.

“Does she think the ocean just wasn’t, like, big enough?”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head. “Or I just wasn’t tryin’ hard enough.”

“That’s stupid.” You mumble, bouncing on your feet in the elevator, turning the Coke in your hands. “You should go to the aquarium instead.”

“Should I?” Bucky raises his brows, and you give a small nod.

“The ocean itself is just a lot of water. The aquarium will have penguins, and seals, and turtles-“

“And fish?” Bucky’s grin is shit-eating, and his shoulders are relaxed, and it makes him somehow more handsome.

“Choke on my balls, Barnes.”

“Smart mouth.” He hums, his grin not falling for a second. “I’ve never actually been to an aquarium. They weren’t more than tanks, in my day.”

You shrug, picking at the Coke bottle’s label. You will not take the old man bait. “Then you better fix that. Go to the aquarium. You can get in for free, too, if you say you’re with me.”

“With you?”

“We donate a lot.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses, his brow drawing together, but this isn’t just the thinking look. There’s something more. Something deep that’s living in the stupid fucking tongue flick.

You hold his gaze. You don’t know how to do anything else anymore, and it’s steadily proving to be more than enough to break him.

When Bucky clears his throat, the sound is rough.

You can’t fall over.

He’ll catch you.

And it will make everything worse.

“I’m doin’ another bio class.” He mutters, still looking at you. “Aquarium might be good for that.”

“Oh.” You give a soft smile, and the Mist feels like it’s glowing. You helped. “Good.”

“Yeah. And, uh,” Bucky lets out a long, slow breath, and you realize you’re leaning forwards. Trying to get closer. You don’t know how to draw back away. “I don’t know how to, uh, name drop. Never have. Doin’ it with Steve was weird, and I’d rather shoot myself than do it with Sam, but-“ He coughs again. You feel a little blurry in your gut. “I can go. And just pay. But if you’re not doin’ things-“

“I’ll go to the aquarium with you.” You say before you can overthink it. “We can go on Sunday?”

Bucky blinks, then gives you a tight nod. “Sunday. Thanks.”

“Of course.” You shrug, looking back down to the coke bottle. The coke bottle he gave you.

Fuck.

“I’ll pick you up? In my car?”

Bucky shakes his head. “We’ll meet there. I, uh- I wanna take my bike.”

“Okay.”

“And then we can look at all those fish that aren’t real.”

You grin back up at him. “You’re really fucking stuck on the fish thing, aren’t you.”

“It’s insane,” Bucky grumbles. “Fish are real. It’s like saying birds aren’t real.”

“Birds aren’t real. They’re government drones.”

All that gets you is an eye roll. “Whatever you say, Butterfly.”

“You could at least pretend that one got you-“

“But if I don’t pretend,” he grins at you. “It’ll make you actually gettin’ me all the better, right?”

Your flush might be hot enough to burn the building down. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Somehow you manage not to fall over. Or over think. You get through the rest of the meeting, and day, and drive home and dinner with Miles, all without falling over or letting yourself dwell on it at all.

But then you move to the bathroom, and it slams into you.

You’re fucked. Bucky knows you, and you’re fucking fucked. You want to keep knowing him, and being around him, and doing things just a little more for him than anyone else because he doesn’t seem to think it’s too much. That you’re too much. And if he does, it obviously doesn’t bother him. Not enough to try and get away from you. Bucky should be trying to get away from you, but he’s not, and you don’t want him to stop, and the crush is growing. Rooting and spreading over your intestines, until you can feel it a little all the time.

This is different from Bucky just seeing you. From just looking through the Show. Seeing past the show doesn’t tell him what types of books or drinks you like, or make him keep such steady conversation, make you flush.

That’s the knowing you part.

And you know him. You think you know Bucky, at least more than most people—which is a low bar—and enough to understand he does really want you to go to the aquarium with him. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t.

That can be a friend thing. Friends do things together all the time. You go to dinner with Sam all the time, and that’s not more. This doesn’t have to be more.

It might be.

It can’t.

Too much effort is taken, to focus your attention back on the Hydra codes. For so long, it’s just been numbers. Numbers and names and a lot of mythological words—Babel and Scylla and Hades and Lupa and Brigid—that mean nothing apart, but must mean something together. Unless Hydra’s goal is to just fucking confuse you, there has to be a pattern.

And you don’t find it. Not tonight.

But you do find something worse. Something more important.

It’s the first name you recognize.

Zemo.

You know that name. You’ve heard before. From Tony, and on the news, and from Sam, and-

Oh.

Oh fuck.

All it takes is a quick google. You don’t even have to skim the Wikipedia page.

Baron Helmut Zemo is best known for framing James Barnes for the death of King T’chaka.

He wasn’t a part of Hydra. You don’t think he was a part of Hydra. You remember when the whole Sokovia mess happened, and you know a little more than most thanks to the postcard Sam sent you, explaining that he was sort of an enemy of the state now, but Hydra was only something in the bylines. A means for Zemo’s cause, as you’d understood it.

Yet that’s his name. In the code.

And you can only think one thing about it. It’s an acceptable thought, it’s related to what’s happening right now.

But it’s still all you can think. And there’s no escaping it.

You need to tell Bucky.

——————

Bucky’s had friends.

Before the train, he had plenty of friends in passing. People who he got along with well. Easily. Who he’d talk to and joke with, never stressing about what he was saying because Bucky-before-the-train had charm. Swagger. Smooth words and a sparkling grin that his ma said was real good at getting him into trouble, then right back out of it.

He’d always—not always, not now, but he wasn’t allowed to be angry about that—had Steve. But that was his brother. He’d talked to and told Steve about damn near everything. All the books he read and the girls he got into bed and how when the war was over—which it had been, but not for either of them to see it—what he planned to do with the future.

Get a job, maybe something where he got to make things, and bring the world further into the future. Maybe one day he’d have gotten good enough to meet Howard Stark—this was before he could only remember how to break things, and before he killed Howard Stark—and get his name put somewhere that people read it. Find a sweet girl. Settle down and have a family. Have more friends, because Bucky-before-the-train hadn’t looked at people and only seen the shadows on their faces.

Bucky-after-the-train still has friends. But they’re friends whose shadows he learned to like.

Friends means Sam and Sarah, and the big old guy down at the deli who knows his order now.

Her order.

It’s Her order. And the guy at the deli must have picked up on the fact that it’s for a girl, because now Bucky gets a wink whenever he takes it.

And She’s not his girl. And She’s not sweet, but Bucky-after-the-train hasn’t really got a taste for sweet things anymore, and Bucky-before-the-train would’ve been thrown off his damn rhythm into kissing the ground at Her feet, if he got to meet Her.

She doesn’t have any shadows. She has the Moon, and all those perfect cracks that make knowing Her like a drug. Bucky keeps finding new cracks and colors and patterns in Her, and he doesn’t know what to do with any of them, but he’s far too gone to try and ignore them anymore.

She was not a friend in passing. If Bucky’s worked out anything about Her at all, it’s that she doesn’t do things in passing. That’s just not how She operates, and it fits well into his log. She doesn’t stop moving because the only other option—at least to Her—would be sitting still. She talks fast with no thought, or slow with so much thought Bucky can hear Her damn brain moving. When She ate, food was either shoveled into Her mouth or poked at with a fork. When Bucky watched Her work, She was either typing so fast he was convinced She couldn’t actually be writing coherent sentences, or staring at Her screen until Bucky grabbed Her attention.

She was all or nothing. She was either talking and giggling and bouncing and grabbing all of Bucky’s attention by the throat, or not moving at all and making Bucky a little feral with worry.

Because he worried about Her now. That had crept up on him, without warning. How he’d lie on the floor at night, and wonder if Her bed was soft enough for Her. If She had to share it with that asshole, or if he was finally back out of town. If She’d mind sleeping on the floor, or if Bucky would be allowed to curve himself over Her, she’d be enough for him to stick out sleeping in a bed-

He wasn’t allowed to think like that. Not about his friend, who had a boyfriend. Who already had too many people reducing Her to just a body in a bed. And She’d be more than just a body, if Bucky got to have Her, but he couldn’t think about that. Not when he was supposed to be in control.

He’d let the first thoughts slide. They really had snuck up on him, so he just needed to build his defenses higher.

But all of Her had snuck up on him.

And Bucky’s defenses might as well be a fucking pillow wall, when it came to Her.

Because just like everything else, She didn’t do friendship casually. She was all in.

On Bucky.

As a friend.

And he’d never had a friend like Her.

She listened to him and talked to him and got him things, always looking at him like he was the only thing in the whole universe. She somehow had picked up on things about him in three months that had taken Sam damn years. She laughed at all his jokes, even when they weren’t that funny—Bucky was still learning how to tell jokes that weren’t stabbing comments meant to pry something open again—and never expected more from Bucky than he could give. She didn’t seem to expect or ask anything from Bucky at all.

It made giving Her things all the better. Made that heat turn into a hurricane of pride and a kind of satisfied smugness that was also a pre-Hydra feeling. More than a pre-Hydra feeling. A new feeling, where he was getting himself into trouble and didn’t really want to get out of it.

Not when She kept smiling at him. And laughing for him.

Bucky was addicted to it.

But damnit, there were far worse fuckin’ vices to have. Far, far worse than the most beautiful creature in history—She had to be a creature, because nothing in Bucky’s brain seemed to be able to work out how She could just be a person—knowing Bucky, and letting him know Her back.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking Her to go to the aquarium. That was part of knowing Her, was figuring out that if Bucky asked and meant it, She’d give it to him.

Bucky shouldn’t be allowed to have that. He didn’t deserve Her coins or books or doe-eyes, paired with the honeyed and feline smile, and Moon turning and shifting in Her eyes. He’d break it. She wasn’t delicate, but She was fragile, so Bucky would crush Her, just like that butterfly in the garden.

And there was a difference, between delicate and fragile. Delicate things at least looked the part, and She had that slight glint in Her eyes that told Bucky She’d bite anything that tried to touch Her unwanted.

But She was still fragile.

She looked fragile right now. Her leg bouncing under Her desk, Her lip pulled between Her teeth, another paper being destroyed under Her quick fingers.

“You doin’ alright, Butterfly?”

She blinked up at him, and Her nod wasn’t convincing. None of this was convincing. She looked like a squirrel, trying to find where She could store something for winter. Adorable and frantic and-

Small.

She looked a little small. And She wasn’t shaking, but small was still too much.

The gut feeling was twisting and clenching, and now that was hot too. Almost burning up into Bucky’s heart, making it pound a little harder than it should be in his chest.

That might just be Her presence. The heat usually came just from Bucky knowing She was near him.

But something still felt off. She wasn’t talking, or working, or even lying flat on the floor—She did like lying on the floor, and She also seemed to like Bucky, so who was to say She wouldn’t like Bucky and the floor, and that really wasn’t the damn point—and something felt like it was wrong.

Everything had been fine this morning. Same two guards—Harlow and Cooper—as every weekday morning, except for Monday’s and Friday’s, when one of them would have the day off. They were good men. Harlow had done two tours in Afghanistan—Bucky still wasn’t sure why he’d needed to be there, and She’d tried to explain it, and he’d just ended more confused than he’d started—and Cooper had been a combat medic and boxer. They never looked Her anywhere but in the eyes, and She gave them a slightly warmer smile than most other people. They called Her Ma’am, and never acted like Bucky was a problem.

Bucky trusted them to do their jobs well, and after the second Hydra contact they’d even talked to him about new security measures to take.

The building was secure.

She was secure.

Bucky still couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut.

“You sure?” He pushed just a little further. He needed to check.

“I-“ She let out a long, slow breath, the thinking pout forming. That wasn’t good. “If I tell you something, you have to promise not to overreact.”

“Should I be ready to overreact?”

“No?”

Bucky gave Her a flat look, trying to ignore how the gut feeling was starting to bubble. “You’re not a good liar, sweetheart.”

She scowled. That was adorable too. “Fuck off, I am a fantastic liar, you’re just- you’re you-“

“Me?”

“Shut up.” She snapped, and at least She wasn’t small anymore. She was prickling, and Bucky knew She couldn’t actually hurt him, but the Moon was turning, and this heavy weight over his chest felt a lot like dread.

“Are you gonna tell me the thing I’m not allowed to freak out about?”

She started running a hand through Her hair. Bucky wanted to grab a fistful of it and tip Her head back, kissing Her until she was full of only good things, giggling and soft against him-

Not the time. Not his place.

“You won’t freak out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She blinked at him, the Moon flashing, and nodded slowly.

Then Bucky heard it.

A tick. Tick. Beep. Tick. Beep.

It didn’t have the weight of an explosive. Those were often only tick, tick, tick. But a clock was tick, beat, tick.

This was a beep—automated—and a light, softer tick. The mechanism wouldn’t be heavy. Wouldn’t be holding something heavy.

“Buck-“

“Shut up.” He grunted, trying to keep his attention focused on the sound.

Her eyes narrowed, the wolf look flaring as Her lips curled slightly. “Excuse me?”

The tick, beep, tick, was getting lighter. Quicker. “I said-“

“I heard you.” She snapped. “I will not shut up, James, you look like you’re about to break something, and-“

Bucky didn’t bother to keep listening. Tick, beep, beep, tick. Two beeps couldn’t be good, and it was getting louder as well closer. He stood up without a word, marching to the door.

There was a voice he didn’t recognize on the other side. Quick and nervous. Male. Tick. Beep.

“James Barnes, if you don’t sit the fuck back down and tell me why you’re-“

He said Her name, keeping his voice low and firm. “Do you have any appointments right now.”

“No, but-“

“Any appointments in the next half-hour.”

“It’s 3pm on a Friday, Bucky. Nobody wants to meet with their boss at 3pm on a Friday. Now can you please fucking tell me-“

“Shut up.”

“Stop telling me to shut up-“

He snapped Her name again, and this tone was doing wonders in making Her listen. He’d need to remember that. “You told me if I ever wanted you to shut up, you would. Right fucking now, you need to shut up. Understood?”

“I- No, because you’re not explaining.” She crossed Her arms, raising Her chin up, and there was a crack that Bucky could see on the surface. Not fear. Something a little wrathful that was making Her try to seem bigger than she was. “I am not doing fucking shit until you tell me why.”

“God fucking-“ Bucky marched back across the room, yanking her forward by Her sleeve and covering her mouth with a hand.

Her eyes went wide, and he felt a slight brushing feeling on his palm.

It was a good thing he’d used the metal one.

She was trying to bite him.

“You’re a fucking-“ Not was not the time to be in slight awe of Her for having the nerve. “Goddamnit, Butterfly, I’m trying to help you-“

Her eyes narrowed, and Bucky let out a long breath, holding Her gaze.

“Listen.” He hissed. “There is a man outside your office, and I think he was sent from Hydra with a fucking chem bomb.” She froze, and Bucky let out a long breath. “You’re going to stay put, I’m going to call Sam, and we’ll figure this out. Blink twice if you understand.”

She blinked, and Bucky gave a short nod.

“If I move my hand, are you going to behave?”

Bucky didn’t know why he chose those words. But he did know that She was giving him the doe-eyes, and he needed to goddamn focus, but She was also starting to shrink, and he wanted to fold himself around Her.

He could. Metaphorically. Bucky lowed his hand, and he would fold himself around Her by keeping her safe right where she was.

“Bucky, Grace-“

His hand shot back up, but She dodged it, trying to move around the desk.

Shit.

Then Her words caught up with his head.

She was trying to go out there. She was trying to fucking kill him.

Bucky hissed Her name, trying to move to block Her. “I told you to stay put-“

She shook Her head, weaving around him, and goddamnit-

Bucky threw himself forward, and he did get to fold himself around Her. He got to pin Her to his chest while She thrashed around, trying shove him away so She could do something brave and kind and fucking stupid.

“Grace is out there, we have to- Fucking let go-“ Her voice was rising, higher and higher as She moved. “James, I fucking- I can’t just leave her, Bucky-“

He had to cover Her mouth again.

She was still trying to bite him.

“You are not leaving her.” Bucky lowered his mouth to Her ear, keeping his words firm. “The bomb is probably on a timer. And Grace is not Hydra’s target. You are. If you open that door, sweetheart, you’re done.”

Her movements grew almost feral, with nails and more biting, and kicks aimed for his tight. If Bucky didn’t have his arm and the serum, She might have done some actual damage.

“You need to fucking- Shit-“ Bucky groaned as Her elbow hit his sternum. “Alright, let’s do this.”

That confused Her enough to pause, and Bucky grabbed the opportunity. He hauled Her down onto the couch, keeping his palm pressed firmly over Her mouth and fully pressing his weight over Her’s.

Now She was just staring at him.

It wasn’t helping anything.

“Grace is going to be fine, if you just fucking listen. Okay?”

Blink.

Doe-eyed blink.

Not the point.

“Good.” Bucky grunted, keeping himself planted across Her body. He didn’t fully trust Her not to ignore him and sprint for the door the moment he moved. “Here’s how this is gonna go. Tell Grace to say that you’ll let the man in yourself, and that she needs to get off this floor. Take the elevator, not the stairs. Tell her to call 911 and make security shut down the building. Do not tell her why.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Civilians freak out when they hear why. I will call Sam, and you’re gonna sit in the furthest corner of the office. I will stay with you until the building is clear. Once the man realizes the door isn’t opening, he will try to break it down. Do not move. The chem bomb with go off, and we are going to stay here until we get the clear. Got it?”

Blink. Bucky let out a long, heavy breath through his nose, and in almost perfect timing, the computer let out a soft ping sound. Likely Grace, asking if she could let the man in.

When Bucky let Her go to do her part of the job, She wasn’t feral anymore. She was small, but not shaking. Almost too still, a slightly glossy look in Her eyes.

She wasn’t speaking at all. She typed the message, then drifted over to the corner.

Bucky shouldn’t be worried about that.

He really needed to stop worrying about what he should or shouldn’t do with Her. Or at least get a better idea of what that stuff meant. Otherwise he was going to lose his damn mind.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. Her desk was blocking to office door, because he’d moved it there himself. It was a Friday, simply due to the flow of time. He liked how She was listening to him now, even if it was for such a horrible reason. He didn’t like-

Wrong.

He fucking hated how he’d been right. After about two minutes, whatever sorry fucker had the bomb started to bang on the doors, shouting for Her to fucking let him in and that She couldn’t escape them. And Bucky wasn’t sure how he’d ever thought She was Hydra. She was horrible at fully covering Her emotions, and right now he could almost taste the fear rolling off of Her.

The desk started to rattle, and the man must be slamming himself into the door. Bucky’s best guess was that it was some random idiot who owed Hydra, and had been made to pay his debt like this. By getting Her.

That would mean She was really important to Hydra. They didn’t just waste debts like that. It was either a life of labor, or this type of one-time service that guaranteed freedom. And you were never really free.

But the idea of it was nice.

Bucky fucking hated how She’d curled into herself, too. How Her head was dropped to Her knees, drawn up to Her chest, and Her breathing was so fucking shallow and fast as She tried to block what had to be coming.

He needed to protect Her from this. All of it. Whatever he could, his mission was to keep Her safe, and he was supposed to be done with missions, but this one didn’t seem so bad. Protecting something that made everything better. He didn’t think when he moved. Bucky grabbed Her because there couldn’t be another thing to do. Wrap himself around Her. Make some use of yourself and do your job, and keep Her safe because if she never gets to laugh again, that might be the worst thing in the world.

He wanted to keep holding Her here for a while. He wanted to pull Her face into his chest. He wanted to, at the very fucking least, make Her breathing slow down, because the rapid sound of Her fear was worse than that clock Sam kept on his office wall.

Tick. Beep. Tick. Beep. Beep. Beep.

There was the loudest rattling sound yet, a long and horrible hiss, and Bucky was getting a lot of wants today. He turned Her head so Her face was pressed against him, and She didn’t fight it, but he still cleared his throat to explain. She couldn’t be allowed to think Bucky would just grab Her like that for any reason but normal, platonic care.

His rotten, slightly molded heart had alternate motivations, made of how he could suddenly smell Her sweet shampoo, and he felt clean despite the everything about this.

Part of his explanation was for himself. Just so he could pretend he wasn’t getting dangerously close to having a fourth want, that started and ended with Her. He had no right to want at all. And less than a right to want Her.

“I’m trying to block you from breathing it.” He muttered in Her ear, and he could’ve sworn She relaxed. “Case some gets under the door. I can take it. You can’t.”

She nodded against him, still completely silent, and Bucky didn’t know what else to do. They just had to wait this out, and he was fine with silence, but She obviously wasn’t. And She was so fucking still.

It really was worse than the shaking. The shaking seemed to have a hidden fury under it.

This was just dreadful, awful fear.

“Steve used to jump on bombs.” Bucky muttered, and he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing. “Back in the war. He had guts and heart, but he was this scrawny little kid that a bird could knock out. A bird did knock him out, once. Pigeon shat of his head, and he fell over. I nearly fell off the pier laughin’, then had to swear on my Ma not to tell anyone.” Bucky frowned at the air. “Shouldn’t’ve have told you, should I.”

She didn’t answer, but Her breathing had slowed, so Bucky kept talking.

“They’re both dead, now. Steve and my Ma. Well, Steve’s alive. Sorta. I ain’t talked to him.” His accent was slipping a lot more than he wanted, but She wasn’t pulling away. Her breathing was even, now. He couldn’t stop. “He woulda liked you. Steve. I probably would’ve needed to grab him to stop him running out there, too. And I’m pretty sure you would’ve jumped on that bomb, if I let you. So…”

Bucky trailed off, unsure where he was going. He didn’t know Her that well. But that didn’t stop the very clear, vivid image in his head of if She did tackle the bomb-man. And She walked like Steve did, too. With a high honor that was mostly made of paper, and a command that was earned and measured, that didn’t fucking work on Bucky.

No amount of chest puffing and rousing words had ever worked on Bucky. He’d liked to try and buy into them, before the war, but there had never been any point but trying to be part of something. The war. His squadron. Someone’s life.

He was pretty sure Steve had known that didn’t work on him. That he just wanted to do it.

Make something.

Bucky had been thinking a lot about making things, lately.

Now was not the time to dwell on that.

She’d twisted in his arms, and She was looking at him. Right at him.

Christ, She was beautiful. The Moon shining in Her eyes and Her hair framing her face like some sort of painting. More than a knockout. Maybe a fucking coma.

Bucky’s voice was a little hoarse, when he finally spoke. “I just, uh, I thought it would help if I talked-“

“It is. Helping.” Her voice was so small, and Bucky swallowed. “Please don’t stop.”

Fucking Hell. She was so close, and Her body was so soft against his, and Her lips were a little swollen from being chewed on earlier, but Her features were perfectly open. No more mask at all. Not right now.

It was somehow more beautiful. And Bucky wanted to hear what Her giggle sounded like without it. What Her smile looked like, and how She moved when she wasn’t trying to make the world part around Her. If She’d stop moving for good reasons, because She was all or nothing, so there had to be stillness that could be born from-

Control.

Bucky nodded at Her, dragging his focus back together by force. He would not lose control. That would maybe be more unforgivable than anything Hydra ever made him do.

“Saw my first bomb at the Stark expo.” He muttered, trying to drag something up from his head. “Went with Steve, and some girls. They were sweet, but I, uh, I don’t remember their names.”

She let out a soft laugh, even as Her face returned his shirt. That was a really good sign. “Because of the brainwashing?”

“Sure.”

“Wow, James.”

“When I was remembering things, I wasn’t focused on remembering random names of long-dead ladies, kid.”

She shrugged against him. “Maybe they thought about you until they died. You ever think of that?”

“No.”

“There are those smooth words that got you dates.” She hummed. “That’s what got them to remember you. The sweet-talking Sargent boy who showed them a bomb.”

“I was a Sargent man.” Bucky grumbled, and She laughed again. This really was working. “And I didn’t show them a bomb. Howard Stark did. I- Really wish I didn’t kill Howard.”

Bucky didn’t know why he’d said that. He wasn’t sure why he was saying anything. But She wasn’t running, and Her breathing was still even.

She’d even twisted to look at him again. And there was nothing predatory or venomous in Her gaze. It was still just open.

So Bucky kept talking. And he didn’t let himself keep thinking about it at all.

“Wish I didn’t kill any of them,” he said slowly, holding Her gaze. “But I- He was my friend. Good guy. I, uh- I admired him. Wished I could make things like that. I wouldn’t have, if I could. They had to do a full reset on me, after. Apparently I was distressed.”

It wasn’t a lot. Short words. No short of long speech like She’d given him on Sam’s roof.

But it was the most he could manage.

And Bucky added two things to his log about Her.

First, he wanted to make things. He had before the train, and then it had been dead, and now he wanted to do it again. And he wanted to make something for Her. He could give it to Her like he’d given Her the book. To prove that he really was listening. That he liked Her company, and he liked Her more, and he liked the things She’d said he would, so maybe Bucky could do something like that for Her in return. And making Her something would just be more. And Bucky might want more—most, all—of Her, no matter how horribly that might end.

Second, there was a flip side of Her being calming to listen to. She was calming to talk to. He’d said all that, and She hadn’t sprinted away or looked at him with pity or tried to make him say more. What he’d said was enough.

A little bit of Bucky felt like he was enough.

And that was the most better he’d had since he’d been free.

“Bucky?” She mumbled, scanning over him carefully. “Remember when you promised not to overreact earlier?”

He grunted, and She took a deep breath. That couldn’t be good.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Butterfly, wh-“

“I’ve kind of, sort of, absolutely been working on breaking the Hydra code myself?” Her words were rushed, like She was afraid they’d get away from her if she wasn’t careful. “And I- I cracked it. I sort of cracked it. Cracked some of it. Enough of it. Got something from it that’s understandable. And not just a bunch of numbers. So I, uh, yeah. I need help.”

Help. She needed help. Bucky’s help. She hadn’t let Sarah carry Her plate at game night and he’d seen Her take work from Her assistant, but She wanted Bucky’s help. For the second time, it was Bucky who She was asking for help.

He could sit in that later.

Right now had to be about how She’d broken the Hydra code herself.

Bucky said Her name as carefully as possible. “Sam’s had a whole team on that for months with nothing. Not a single word.”

“I know.” She mumbled. “But I- I didn’t want to just do…nothing. And it didn’t look like a code to me, it looked like art.”

Of course it did.

Bucky really wished that didn’t make so much fucking sense. Everything would be easier if that made no fucking sense.

“What did you find.”

She blinked at him. “You… believe me?”

That was a stupid question. Now didn’t seem like the time to tell Her that. “Yes. What did you find.”

“You have to promise not to overreact again-“

He grunted Her name, and She swallowed.

“Zemo.”

For a second, there was a high ringing in Bucky’s ears. “What.”

“I- know. I’m sorry, but I need your help figuring it out, and I know about the whole… Thing. And I can’t tell Sam because this isn’t his thing, and I- I thought you might actually listen to me.”

Listen to Her. She wanted Bucky to help Her, and listen to Her.

It wasn’t useful to keep thinking of himself a goner.

But it was accurate.

And She was still talking. Seeming to get away from Herself.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But I- I don’t know how to do it myself, and I could, if I had to. But it’s a lot, and I’ve never dealt with that before, and I could try but I- I’m not- I don’t know how it would go. And I couldn’t leave. I can’t leave. And I- I want to- and I- What if- I don’t know how, and I’m not- I don’t know why they’re doing this, and I don’t- I don’t know how Bucky- I don’t know how-“

This. This was what Bucky had meant by fragile. This was one of the worst things he’d ever seen. She was shaking in Bucky’s arms and curling slightly further into him, and Zemo was a name he’d never wanted to hear again, but the sound of Her staggered and fearful breaths was worse. So much worse.

It was like watching an animal in a trap. Trying to claw itself free but just mauling its own leg.

Bucky wasn’t going to crush or break Her. He wouldn’t.

But he would do anything to make Her feel better.

Make this better, because that was another thing he could do. Something to do, to make things better, and he’d still be angry at Zemo but he’d get over it. For Her.

“You’re gonna be fine.” Bucky muttered, pulling Her right back into his chest, and not thinking about it beyond instinct, and doing something. “You’ll be alright. I’ve got you. We’ll figure it out. I’ll help. You’ll be fine, Butterfly. You’ll be fine.”

That sounded like something that should help. The kind of thing his Ma had said when he’d had nightmares as a kid. She’d even run her hand over Bucky’s back, the way Bucky was rubbing Her’s now.

And his Ma couldn’t have known how not fine things were going to be. That all of Bucky’s teeth and nails and hair turning into snakes wasn’t even close to the true horror he’d know.

But Bucky wouldn’t let his words to Her be a lie. He’d promised to keep Her safe, and he could actually fucking do something about it. So She would be safe.

She let out a high, soft breath against him, and relaxed, and She trusted him. To touch Her. Hold Her, even just like this.

Bucky would keep Her safe.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he didn’t do missions anymore. Didn’t take orders or do anything he didn’t want to.

He wanted to do this. Let Her keep making things better, and keep consuming him too much for him to drown himself, and give Her whatever the hell She wanted, without a price.

Bucky was going to keep Her safe.

From Hydra.

And anything else that dared to try and shred Her into something small.

End Note: Bucky is my dream man. Sassy and horny and obsessed with his yapping girl.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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erwinsvow · 6 hours ago

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being popes wife while he’s in prison means the most world shattering sex when he gets out he is not gonna stop for HOURS you really would just have to let him get it out of his system and fuck you into a coma

this actually made me like almost faint i'm not even kidding. i'm just gonna set aside the internal worry i have that nothing i write for him makes any sense or is out of character and just write about this for a minute thank you -> i wrote this like a week ago and never answered and look how far we've come so i'm gonna post it because this is the anon that started it all!!!! wherever you are thank you!!

in my perfect little world he would go to his old apartment first, before going to the house. you, his perfect little wife, would be the devoted type who came to visit him once a week, once every two weeks if you really had to. it's a really long drive but it was always worth it to you. the type who without fail asks his family if anyone wants to come with you this week. in my little au i would make her a nurse who works three on, four off and she uses those four to go visit pope, sometimes staying overnight in some hotel and then visiting again the next day before she drives home. as much as it means to pope that you would drive so long to see him week after week, i don't think he would like it. he would think it's too dangerous for you to drive eight hours by yourself, that it's dangerous to visit him when there's so many leering, unbelieving eyes that this is the wife that pope's been hiding back at home. and i think he wouldn't want you to see him like this, even though you're just moping at home, that this is the part of each week you look forward to. i don't know, maybe even after a year of marriage before he got arrested and the time you've been going to visit him, pope can't process that there is someone in his life who loves him this much. that he's not a burden, that you're not scared, that you do all of this willingly just to see him and hold his hand for a couple of hours, that you're always in tears when it's time for you to go home, that you answer his calls immediately, even if you're at work.

so you can imagine the kind of loyalty he has to you, since he's seen firsthand the kind of love you have for him. so when he gets parole, he doesn't tell you about it. doesn't want to get your hopes up like he did last time, and then he had to break the news to you over the phone and listen to you cry for the rest of the allotted time, and go back to his cell with the realization that you're still at home crying and there's nothing he can do to help you. so he keeps it quiet, drives himself home with the windows rolled down so he can hear the ocean again, thinking about the face you'll make when he's in front of you again. and fuck if it doesn't live up to every expectation he's had in his head for the last three years. the way you look in the comfort of your shared home, not just dressed up for him inside the barren prison. you're probably doing something that's part of your routine, the one he's had memorized since the two of you got together, cleaning up from breakfast and baking something since it's saturday.

you freeze when you hear the door open. pope's brothers usually tell you if they're swinging by, but they normally never come around unless they need you to stitch one of them up or something. you don't think they had any jobs planned for today, but then again, you could be wrong. but it's not loud enough to be them, you'd hear cursing and shouting and screaming if it was. a little stupidly, you step out of the kitchen towards the front door, without so much as a weapon to defend yourself. but you have this hope, that one day your husband will walk through those doors again like you haven't been living alone for the last three years.

today is the day your wish came true. and he does love your expression, wants to memorize it so it can never truly leave his mind. but what's better is when the two of you get into bed because he has no intentions of getting out of bed, because he has a lot to make up for. three missed birthdays—yours and his, three wedding anniversaries (and three other anniversaries, the first day you two met). all the times he should have been there for you when you had a bad day at work or got anxious around his family or needed him there, like when your car wouldn't start or the breaker short-circuited and the power went out. i've talked enough about pope and wifey's sex life, but same as the show, he goes to smurf's house after. someone asks him where you are. "i'll bring her by tomorrow. she couldn't walk."

EXCUSE-

#📮 asks #pope cody #sorry this took so long to answer!!! my brain kept going blank because i loved this prompt so much. i love you

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severedfromthesource · 3 days ago

Text

Androids and Electric Sheep

Ren is experiencing an unusual bug. Features F resus, M rescuer, CPR, stething, mouth to mouth, internal defibs, sex leading to cardiac arrest, sex acts both with consent and a person who cannot consent. I got too invested in the preamble so I highlighted the moment resus actually starts if you want to skip it.

No matter how advanced technology gets, it’ll only ever be used to fulfill man’s most base desires. Case in point- RN-34678. Or Ren, when the barcodes make my eyes glaze over and I get sick of calling them the number slurry X Tech names absolutely everything. Ren is as sophisticated as they come. Actual artificial intelligence. She makes the predictive text and ‘can’t even draw fingers’ image generating 21st century jokes people passed off as AI look like even more of a waste of time than they had been in those days. They might as well have been Speak n Spells. The collective power of every single basement dwelling crypto whizz kid with miles of wires and burnt up processors and bricked up video cards dedicated to their etherium farms pale in comparison to the computing power it takes to run Ren’s brain for an hour. She understands nearly 6,000 languages. She learns and retains information, consuming nearly 160 TB of memory every 8 hours. The bio-organic lace that makes up the net of her brain is a miracle, with the possibility of infinite memory. She is perfect in every sense of the word.

She is a glorified fuck toy.

The second the first android became commercially available, one of the first markets they hit was sex work. If nothing about late stage capitalism drove you crazy, that would have. Fuck curing cancer, or making androids for the dangerous, back breaking work people wreck their bodies to do, X Tech decided people needed a sex doll with a 100k price tag. The world’s most expensive cum sock. And yeah, alright, maybe I’m just bitter, partially because there’s no way in hell I could ever afford one, even as an android technician. But what a waste. She sits on my examination table, dutifully unzipping her black leather catsuit. Her managers always manage to stick her in something stupid looking, so overblown and sexualized they stop even being sexy at a certain point.

She looks up at me with lilac eyes. Last time they’d been blue. I like this shade better, I think, though I could do without the electric blue bob they have her wearing today. ”Your crash reports say you’ve been throwing error codes whenever a stream donation comes in over 2k,” I say. Which, for a bot like Ren, is quite a lot of her donations. “It’s probably just a bug in payment processing.” I look again over her diagnostics, floating on the screen at my desk. “Any complaints I wouldn’t find in the debug menu?”

”My heart has been feeling strange,” she says. I pause and look at her over the top of my glasses. “Well, firstly, it’s not your heart. An aether pump does not a heart make. Secondly, it shouldn’t feel like anything. You’re supposed to ignore the inner workings, it’s all background programs, runs without you thinking about it.” She shrugs. Her shoulders are pale as she rolls down the catsuit and pulls her arms from the sleeves, bunching up the tight leather around her midriff. Her breasts are small and round, standing upright as pretty as a Botticelli painting. I’d noticed the small bumps on either side of her nipples (Christ, did the things ever go soft? Or were they just always cutting glass?) but didn’t register until I saw them now that her managers had pierced them sometime since our last checkup. Little silver bars were stuck through the pink nubs, with winking silver balls on either end. Alright, cool, chill.

I clear my throat and pull up my rolling stool. “Well, let’s just take a look then.” I shift once I’m seated to alleviate the pressure of my stiffening cock. Listen, I’m not a technophile, honest to God. I go out of my way to filter out androids when I’m scrolling through porn sites because, despite the leaps and bounds we’ve made in technology, the uncanny valley is still a thing. It feels weird getting off to bots. But then there’s Ren. And fuck me if she isn’t the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. I put a hand on the back of her neck, my thumb resting at the diagnostic mode button hidden just under the edge of her jaw. I feel the soft bump that sinks in when I press. Her lilac eyes flash black with snatches of white text, then roll back to lilac. Damn, she smells like a new car.

I glance back at the monitor, and as I suspected, nothing comes up about the aether pump. It seems in perfect working order. Still, I dig around my box of scrap wires and spare tubing until I find my mostly neglected stethoscope. I don’t often have to use it, but I feel a trill of excitement go up from my stomach to think I get to use it on Ren. I plug up my ears and put a hand on her shoulder, taking the bell of the steth in my other hand. Her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing, set to mimic human intervals. The real purpose is to cool down her insides and keep her from overheating, but just like the aether pump and its auditory cues, its designed to mimic humans as closely as possible. After a guy fucks something like Ren, he gets the added benefit of being able to lay next to her and listen to her breathing. Feel her heart beat. Doesn’t matter what the purpose of the design is for, it matters so he doesn’t feel like he’s fucking a 100k fleshlight with arms and legs. I press the steth to a spot above her breast and it sinks into her pillowy soft skin like it was real. Cool it, Christ, you can’t get so hot and bothered over everything. Heel, boy.

But my thumb makes a slight imprint against her tit, and it’s hard to think of anything else. Same thing happens when I press the steth against a space under her breast, and it lays warmly against the back of my hand. The pump, like the fake lungs, is designed to look and act and even sound like a heart, pumping coolant through her body. I tell her it’s not a heart out of some petty, pedantic need to distance myself and my unique humanity, but truth is, the thing is a heart. She could die if something went really wrong with it, and a lot of bots have. Sudden cardiac arrest was one of the main bugs in the 2.3 rollout. It got so bad, tons of models in the service industry had to be recalled, because mechanical line cooks and servers were dropping if the ovens got too hot. My hand still on her neck, I pull her forward and press the bell to her back. Her forehead brushes against my shoulder, her gaudy blue wig draping against the side of my neck and jaw. I tilt my head just enough my nose brushes her hair. Fuck, she really does smell good.

“Well, I don’t hear any irregularities,” I tell her, because I don’t. The thing is pumping liquid aether around her body at around 70 bpm, like it should. She draws up from my shoulder, glancing at me sideways. “It only seems to happen with clients,” she says, drying out my throat in an instant. “Clients?” “Mhm. Whenever one of them climaxes. If they do it inside me, my heart starts going very fast. I get foggy and I can’t think afterwards.” I swallow. “Right,” I say, “I mean… I can’t exactly test that, Ren.” She touches my wrist. “It’s rather frightening, Doc. I worry…” She pauses, and I try very hard not to say out loud what I’m thinking. You shouldn’t be frightened of anything, Ren. You’re not supposed to feel any of this. She sits back, bringing her hand up, her fingers curling against where her pump lies in her chest, half covering her nudity.

She doesn’t want to get recalled. I wince in spite of myself. If she has the same defect others in her rollout had, she’s going right back to X Tech. I push the steth around my neck, scooping back hair from my face. “It’s a pretty fatal system flaw. It… I could… Well, I-“ I can’t look at her. Fuck, I really can’t look at her. My face feels hot. This is the plot of like, 90% of bot R34 on the internet. I might as well be a pizza delivery guy and she a lonely housewife who’s a few bucks short on a large sausage. She ‘breathes’. Her chest goes up and down, the lights winking off her pierced nipples. She’s so goddamn gorgeous.

“Doc?” “Thinking,” I huff. I spare a glance around the other cubicles bordering mine. Big glass offices, designed for this exact stupid fucking thing I’m about to do. The first guy who got caught with his dick in a bot ruined it for everyone, so now my coworkers and I are subjected to rat lab cubicles where we can look in on each other at any given moment. People around us testing reflexes, repairing cosmetic damage, quashing bugs. What I was about to do was also technically debugging, but there was no way in hell my boss was gonna see it that way if he saw my flat ass pumping in and out of a bot worth more than I make in a year on the other side of plexiglass. Alright, cool, chill. I scoop up my backpack with my work laptop and sling it over my shoulder. “Bathroom,” I whisper.

Cut to Ren and I, locked in the women’s bathroom. We have three women in the office, and their cubes are on the other side of the building, closer to another bathroom. This one is usually empty. Cut to her, awkwardly standing in front of a toilet. Me, on the verge of being the Most Fired Man Who Ever Lived. For extra security, I’d stuffed us both into a stall, locking it behind me too. It's cramped, which adds to the feeling this is absolutely not what I'm supposed to be doing. But hey, it's my job, isn't it?

I awkwardly maneuver around her and sit on the toilet lid, hastily undoing my pants. God, this is shameful. And weirdly hot? I can't tell if it's just Ren or the dozen or so corporate regulations and general laws I'm breaking doing this, but I can feel the pulse in my cock, pressing up against the inseam of my jeans. Those lavender eyes flick from my face to the swollen, flushed skin, and the outer rim of her pupils flash with color. I help her roll down the leather catsuit and then, holy shit, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m inside her. She feels real. My hands on her back, my face buried in her tits, her thighs on mine, she feels realer than any woman I had ever known. My breath warms her artificial skin, and the barbell through her nipple is cold, the contrast making me shiver whenever the hot skin of my cheek touches the metal. My fingers slide up her stomach, her hips bucking and pumping me in and out of her. She’s tight. Really fuckin tight. I can feel her aether pump, the artificial heart, throbbing in her inner walls, harder than any real heart I’d ever felt. It adds to every stroke, a thumping sensation that’s nearly making me come after a couple thrusts. Christ, I might as well be sticking my dick right against the chambers of her fake heart.

The job. Right, I’m doing a job. Fuck, I’ve never loved my job so much. “Lemme- ngh, God, fuck- lemme see i-ins-side your ch-est, R-Ren.” She’s straddling my lap, panting like a porn star, her bob swinging back and forth, and she nods. The synthetic skin goes translucent, a dull blue glow that starts at her collarbone and down to the bottom of her ribcage. I spare only a brief chuckle, Man, we never could get rid of those stupid gamer lights, before I try to focus my attention on her inner workings. The aether heart is basically a simplified human one, drawing hot fluid in one side and squeezing out coolant through the other in an eternal ebb and flow. And right now, it’s going insane. The valves are snapping open and closed rapidly, the thing shuddering instead of really beating. There’s a little display window pinned under her collarbone, and it’s clocking her at 150 bpm, the green spikes of her heartbeat saw toothing across the round display port. Not totally dangerous, but as I pump inside of her and she bounces on my thighs to match my quickening pace, it keeps climbing.

Alright. As much as I want to be stuck in here forever, with a beautiful woman bouncing on my dick in a way I’ve only ever dreamed of, I have to figure out what’s wrong. I wrap my arms around her body, pulling her flush against my chest. “Hold onto me, ‘kay?” I breathe against her ear. Her arms slid around me, nails brushing briefly against my shoulder blades. I take in her scent. Focus on the sensations of her body, the sharp cold of her piercings, breasts pressed against my chest, her warm, throbbing cunt. It doesn’t take long. I start to lose the rhythm as my breath shortens, my strokes shortening too, until finally I can take it no more. I come, hot seed filling her up, bathing my cock, spilling out from between our sexes. Her back arches, a cry ripping from her throat of the most exquisite ecstasy.

Then she dies.

No, seriously, the bot quits all at once. I’m there, still trying to enjoy the feeling of my load making her even tighter and full, when she goes completely limp. Her arms slide down from my back, and the artificial pulse I feel in her cunt just stops all at once. She’s dead weight on top of me. “Fuck,” I spit, trying to readjust her, but she’s goddamn heavy. “Ren? Hey, Ren- man, what the fuck-”

I look up at her sternum to see the aether pump has stopped. The little internal monitor is reading a flatline. I fumble to unlatch the bathroom door, my other hand cradling her back, as I awkwardly shift to try and swing it open. Both of us end up in a heap on the floor when I try to pick her up. I'm apologizing to her slack and lifeless face as I disentangle myself and hastily zip up, then lay her flat on her back. Her perfect round breasts sit in the open air, her still heart glowing between them. I set my laptop beside her and hook up a USB into the command port hidden behind her ear.

There was no tip off in her crash reports, but looking now, I can see the absolute mess of code in the last few lines she ran before arresting. I clean up some of the irregularities, get rid of the redundancies, and hit reboot. Two small circular nodes glow within her chest, then snap against the chambers of her heart. Basically built in defib units. Her body jerks, hand twitching in against her cheek, her back arching slightly. Her naked shoulder blades slap against the tile floor as she falls back, limp again. But she doesn't move. Her pump is still. I glance at the monitor and see FATAL SYSTEM ERROR flash across the screen. Fuck, am I going to have to do this manually?

Growling in frustration, I throw my hands against her sternum. It's easy to get the right position when I can see her heart lying beneath a few layers of synthetic skin. Squaring my shoulders, I push down hard. Unlike with real CPR on a real person, depth doesn't matter, nor the risk of breaking ribs. She's basically Wolverine. A hydraulic crusher couldn't break her ribs. They yield though, and bow in against her spine as I rhythmically pump her heart. The force ripples through her whole body. Her stomach pops up, her shoulders shrug in, her head rolls back and forth. I look from her face down to her tits. I can't help it, they're swaying with each compression, the light catching her piercings. I can feel the cool metal rest against my fingers. The position my hands are in leaves my fingertip pressing against her nipple, still standing upright from our exercise. A shiver runs through me. Am I seriously getting hard again? It's hard not to. My eyes drink in her still body, the remnants of our session dribbling down her thigh, her breasts bouncing like they had when she was riding me.

I can almost see the corner of the screen light up with “Kink Unlocked: Reviving Dead Girls”. I glance at the monitor and see the reboot option has lit up again. When I take my hands away from her chest, I see her aether pump jerking as if trying to start again. Once more I charge the internal defibrillators. While they hum to life, I partake in a ritual that isn't strictly necessary. The hero always gets to indulge in mouth to mouth with the downed heroine. She doesn't actually need air, but her lips are slack, full and inviting. I press mine over hers, breathing air she doesn't need into her mouth. I can feel her cheeks puff, and I'm surprised but excited to see her chest rises too. I give her a few quick bursts of oxygen. Her chest jerks up and I only allow it to fall part way before I give her another, making her chest rise and fall in short hyperventilations. My hand finds itself running up her stomach to feel the motion of my breaths, up over her breast again. It fills my palm as I breathe a long, slow draft into her throat, and I roll her nipple between my fingers. She sighs out recycled air against my face when I break the seal of our lips.

Man, how do EMTs not cum when they resuscitate hot girls? The whole tableau is so erotic, I can feel my pulse once more jerk in my cock. The defibs once more slap the chambers of her artificial heart and she thrashes under the current. Her breasts sway and she again falls limp to the tiles.

“Come on, Ren,” I say under my breath, watching her aether pump swelling at uneven intervals. The chambers aren't beating right still, snapping open and closed out of sync with one another. I again check her code on my laptop, using one hand to tap through my options. The other I lay against her sternum. It occurs to me I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Whatever feels like it helps, I guess. Or whatever feels good. I grind my heel in against her heart in slow, rhythmic compressions with one hand. “Come on, work with me here. Breathe for me. Do something, at least let me know you're not completely bricked.” The idea that she might be makes me swallow hard. I like Ren. I don't want to ship her off to the junkyard as much as she doesn't want to be shipped.

When her heart goes still again I lace my fingers together and start pumping her chest anew. I forget my laptop entirely- this isn't a software issue, it's the hardware in her chest acting up. If I can just get the damn thing to reset. Swinging my leg over her supple thighs, I straddle her so I can use my whole body. Like this, I can feel the motion my work creates in her otherwise still body. Each powerful thrust against her pump rolls the kinetic force through her whole body. Her feet swing back and forth. The force rolls from her chest, down her stomach, even rippling her thighs. Each compression makes her stomach roll out, only now I can feel it between my legs.

Fuck it, I'm already fired. These life saving efforts have got me hard all over again, something I would have thought impossible. I unzip and thrust into her almost in one motion. It's next to impossible to actually pump into her while I'm working her heart, so I mostly settle for letting her body rock into me while I do CPR. Only when the prompt for the defibrillator pops up again do I allow myself to roll my hips into her while it charges. The thing whines quietly as I brace my hand against her chest, driving my cock deep inside her. It slaps her heart again and she arches her back, filling my hand against her sternum. Her inner walls clench with the electricity and I groan as I roll in and out of her. That's when she draws in a breath and moans all at once. Her eyes flutter open and she instinctively begins to grind her hips in rhythm with me. Before long I'm filling her up all over again and I collapse on top of her. She's back. The thought strikes me as I look down and see her aether pump snapping out a normal, if elevated rhythm. I roll off onto the welcome chill of the tile floors, my arm still slung around her.

“You okay?” I pant, my eyes half lidded as I look at her. Ren nods, smiling weakly in return. Then she’s wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. I hesitate, the shame of what I had done to her when she was basically dead starting to creep up now that the high is waning. But eventually I slide my arms around her in return, drawing her close to my body. “Thank you, doc,” she whispers.

“Don't mention it.” Seriously, don't mention any of this.

#tbh i might not finish bite back. ive had a hard time motivating myself to complete the final part #resus community #resus #cpr #chest compressions #female resus #resus writing #internal defibrillators #mouth to mouth #defibrillation #stething

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