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aphrvdisiac · 1 day ago

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THE BLACKEST DAY.

ellie williams & abby anderson x fem!reader.

part three of off to the races & to lie and love.

synopsis | devotions, crimes, sacrifices. how far will ellie and abby go to make sure you’ll never escape again? what will be the ultimate decision to make for your life, and what is worth saving — your life and freedom, or them and their undying love?

tags | adult language. NC-17 rating content & dark elements; m*rder, mentions of kidnapping, obsessive and possessive behaviors, infidelity, violent behavior from ellabs, manipulation, graphic descriptions of t*rture (even psychologically), threats made with weapons, blackmail. slight adult content; fingering, slight voyerisum, double penetration, asphyxiation, usage of mommy and daddy.

author’s note | i want to say there is not much smut in here due to the fact there is great dominant focus on the relationship; we get a new light of ellabs, but they are 10x more cruel and mean. please proceed with much caution as sensitive and graphic content does exist in this story. if you find anything triggering to your wellbeing, please click off and do not continuing.

if you have decided or do decide to keep reading, you are

hereby responsible for your own media consumption.

Despite how much you did confession, you knew you were meant for eternal damnation.

However, you didn’t know that was being permanently tied to Abby and Ellie’s forever — and having to know what they would do to keep you by their side.

You thought in a span of a year after they had lured you back in, they would lighten up and make some adjustments within their behavior and emotions in order for you to live a more carefree life — which made you an idiot to think that they’d ever do that.

Things had only gotten worse since you returned, and that made absolutely sure you would never be able to escape from them again; not that you planned to, but they couldn’t put it past you anymore.

While you knew you were loved and wanted by them despite all odds, you felt like a hostage — but yet, who would put up with you like they did? They took all risks and sacrifices for you, did what they had to so you would know where you belonged.

That was understandable and reasonable enough, right?

It felt like everyday you had to lie to yourself to keep going on, to have hope and faith within the relationship.

“You cannot stab every person who looks my way!” You yelled, upset about how Ellie and Abby dragged you out of Saks earlier because a man’s eyes moved past you while you were looking at skirts. “He was simply being human by looking around!”

“He definitely wanted you. What are you not getting?” Abby wondered, eyebrows furrowed as she sipped on a glass of bourbon. “It’s common sense and knowledge.”

“This is like when that man at the restaurant last week called you love after he asked if you wanted a refill,” Ellie recalled, and you were about to break open your skull in front of them. “We are simply protecting you. Always will.”

“I’m going to take your gun and use it on myself,” you muttered under your breath.

It was the possessiveness and obsession that you once admired, now become so deadly and uncontrollable that it drove them mad. It drove you insane too, but in the perspective that this is what the rest of your life would look like.

Abby and Ellie took a seat on the couch, a few feet separated from each other as they continued with sipping their drinks.

You stood in the middle of the living room, their eyes set on you with amusing grins dancing on their lips. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at the pair as Ellie cocked her head to the side, Abby waiting for you to speak your mind.

You lifted up your left hand, your fresh manicure set being shown off. “You see this hand?” You asked, and they hummed. “Until it has a gorgeous Harry Winston ring on it, I don’t want to hear you both saying I’m all yours forever.”

“I don’t think we need to give you an engagement ring for you to know and understand that,” Abby stated, and you rolled your eyes, pursing your lips. “I feel like we have proven it enough; it’s you who needs to get that through your brain.”

“It’s unfair!” You said, and Ellie chuckled. “Murdering people doesn’t prove much.”

“No?” Ellie wondered. “You seem to enjoy our devotion to you, little one.”

“You enjoy this, bunny,” Abby followed up, her finger moving along the rim of her glass. “You know it yourself; you love that we would kill anyone for you. It gets you off as much as it does for us.”

You didn’t say anything back, only continuing to glare at them as they stared back. “I’m going to therapy now,” you said, dropping your arms and going to grab your purse. “I don’t want a bodyguard with me!”

“It’s for your fucking protection!” Abby yelled back, the pair hearing your footsteps fade away into the elevator, soaking in their high pride and ego.

You were taken aback when they said you should go to therapy, stating how they felt guilty you had to witness Delilah’s corpse along with the amount of childhood issues you still held, and other amounts of shit to list. You were hesitant on it, but it was good that you could talk about anything, and everything — even about Ellie and Abby.

You could talk about how they were murderers, only due to the fact they paid the therapist to keep her mouth shut — they tripled her pay grade. At least at the end, you could let everything out and cry about it, be vulnerable and honest.

A bodyguard ended up tagging along, staying three feet behind you and staying outside the therapist’s office as you sat inside, looking at your therapist, Jasmine.

“How are you today? Do we need to talk about the girls?” She asked, notepad on her lap with her pen being played around by her fingers. “I know that look. What did they do now?”

“I am so sick of this bullshit where they say I am theirs,” you started off, holding onto the therapeutic plush that she kept on standby. “Of course, I am grossly attracted to it because of the strings that come along with that, but if I was truly theirs, why won’t they propose to me? They only speak of it when we are fucking.”

“Well, have you discussed this with them?” Jasmine asked, and you nodded. “You have to understand, all three of you have your issues that are brought into the relationship; the way your parents were has led you to be in love with toxicity.”

“It isn’t that toxic,” you protested. “We have problems, but.”

“They have killed for you, they had you bare witness to it so they could prove a point,” she added, and your eyes trailed away from hers, looking down at your lap. “Ellie and Abby didn’t have their own maternal figures, they disappeared; they knew abandonment, soaked that into yours, and transformed it into something sickening.”

“You say this, but never encourage me to leave,” you stated, and she tilted her head to the side, giving you a certain look. “I… I know it is not right, what they do, and I do hate it — but my whole life has been centered around them, they have given me everything, and I cannot just dismiss that.”

“You owe them nothing,” Jasmine assured. “You are still you, with or without them. I cannot force you to leave them, but you come in every two times out of the week, crying and complaining about them, what they have done.”

“Well, that’s what therapy is for,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“Have you ever considered that you are in love with what they give, and not them anymore?” She wondered, and your eyes shot back up, locked into hers. “You said that they have given you everything — things that your parents couldn’t provide. You seek out that, not Ellie and Abby. You give into the things that fulfill your cravings.”

You scoffed. “And what cravings may that be?”

“Attention, love, protection,” Jasmine professed, and your brain had gone quiet. “Marriage won’t fix anything. You will continue to be in love with their providence, while they continue to be in love with violence and using you as an excuse to give into it.”

The room went quiet for a moment, being sure your heartbeat was making noise. “I do love them, I am in love with them,” you softly said, unknown to the tears that were coming out. “I do, I know I do.”

“You seem to be trying to convince yourself of that, rather than me,” she frowned, and sniffled, your head in your hands. “This relationship was built with purposes of chaos, manipulation, and violence — and that’s exactly how it will end. You know what they are capable of, and your love for them dissipated when you realized just how sick they are.”

After your session, you decided to go on a walk to clear your head further after your conversation with Jasmine. You knew you loved Ellie and Abby, you never questioned that at any time — the only things you questioned was how far they would go, and what personal sacrifices you would make; how much more your virtue and soul would be further tainted and bruised, just to satisfy their sadistic needs in exchange for their love and attention.

You knew there was darkness that clouded the relationship as they were purely responsible for it, but you gave into it — and somehow, you managed to find light within it all. Maybe it was to protect you from the cruel truth that they were psychopaths that didn’t hold an inch of remorse or mercy within their souls or hearts, not even in their minds.

And sometimes, you did wonder if they used you as an excuse to murder, that maybe this entire time you gave them the perfect key for them to feed into their desires. If that was the truth, you would rather die.

You walk back into the penthouse, taking off your shoes along with your scarf and coat. You heard your name being shouted from the girls' shared office as you careened to the sound of their voices and low jazz music that played.

You stood there at the entrance, giving them a smile. “Sorry I took a while, I wanted to go for a walk.”

“How was your session with Jasmine?” Abby asked, putting down a file onto her desk as the pair made strict and serious eye contact with you, making your pulse race.

They must have known something.

“It was okay, a really good session today,” you responded, picking at your cuticles. “It was one of those talks that just had me too in my head.”

“What did you guys talk about, though?” Ellie questioned, and you swallowed thickly. A haunting smile played on her lips, like she knew something and was trying to bait it out of you.

Because they never ask what was discussed.

They said that was your business, your privacy, and they didn’t need to know about it.

You went quiet, not knowing if you should lie though that would land your ass in hot water. You played with your necklace, fiddling with it as your mouth hung open, but nothing came out. You seemed gobsmacked, because you were.

What the hell did they know?

“I’ll tell you what was said,” Ellie started off, getting up from her desk chair, and slowly moved your way. “That fucking stupid therapist has been putting these lies into your head, and you’re believing her. Aren’t you?”

“No, no,” you shook your head, shuffling backwards. “Nothing was put in my head.”

“You hate what we do for you, little lamb?” Ellie asked, and you were on the verge of tears as she got close enough to grab your face, nearly cracking your jaw. “You think you are someone without us, hm? We can dump you back to your parents, and see if you keep thinking that.”

You sobbed, continuing to shake your head. “I–I was just talking!”

“Don’t fucking lie to us,” Abby approached the two of you, standing on the side while you looked at her. “We don’t pay her extra for no reason, and surely you are not that dumb to think we wouldn’t be keeping record of what your sessions consist of.”

You knew it was too good to be true. They just wanted to hold more stuff over your head.

“You’re really breaking our hearts, bunny,” Abby sighed, but in a faux manner. “Do you think we are sick? Manipulative?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered, and Ellie deepened her squeeze, getting a whimper out of you. “No, no! I was just too in my head!”

Ellie moved her head so you could be looking directly at Abby, your eyes glossy and tearful. “Do you know what will happen if you leave us, baby? If you even dare think about it?” She asked, her face close to yours that you could smell faint alcohol, and you shook your head. “We will fucking kill you. Your death will be guaranteed.”

“You are nothing without me! You have no fucking purpose if I don’t exist!” You shot back, and they chuckled. “You’ll go blue simply because I am the oxygen you breathe and crave; your life will be dull and boring because you have no excuse to fucking kill someone.”

“Oh, look who finally got a mouth on her,” Ellie cooed, pushing you into Abby’s arms, and you were being lifted over her shoulder. “It’s almost like you enjoyed being fucked to the point your brain is sponge; only things you’re soaking up is to remember your place and who your devotion is to.”

You were being led up upstairs, knowing what was to come. You were sure the thumping of your heart could be heard, felt against Abby’s shoulder, and nausea came over you with regret attached to it. You started to cry out a symphony of apologies, trying to find any use or way to get out of Abby’s grip but the eyes of Ellie’s was proof that it wasn’t such a good idea to do.

The wind was knocked out of you when Abby settled you roughly onto the bed, your clothes stripped off your body with the desperate yet furious hands of Ellie. “I swear I am not going to leave you or anything!” You pleaded, trying not to break into tears as your glossy eyes begged for mercy. “I–I’m sorry!”

Abby had already seized a set of bunched-up rope, loosening it as Ellie straddled on top of you to hold you down.

A part of you was getting hot and bothered by this, but the emotional state of you could not take it. After such a therapy session and a conscious part of your brain coming to life during your session, you could not even take the simplest touch of their hands on you.

“Violet!” You screamed.

You hardly used the safe word. Hardly. It has only been used twice in the span of dating the pair, and today it had to be used.

Ellie hopped off your body, Abby dropping the rope. You broke into heavier sobs, your chest moving too rapidly and your breaths were shaky.

They were trying to comfort you, but you only snapped. “Get the fuck away from me!” You kicked and crawled away to where the pillows rest, curling yourself up into a ball. “Get out, get out!”

“Baby—“

“Leave me alone!” You yelled, tossing a flower vase that sat on the nightstand towards their exact direction. To your unfortunate luck, they moved out of the way of it. “I just want to sleep. Alone.”

“Fine. Sleep alone,” Abby seethed, marching out of the room as Ellie stayed behind for a few seconds before following the blonde’s direction.

It didn’t take long until tears came running out of you, nearly drowning in your sobs. You laid down, sobbing into a pillow and brought your knees back up to your chest again, shaking and shivering.

You don’t know why it was today when you felt like you were breaking. It had been three years now, and the good girl act you kept up for them was coming to a crash, feeling it in your bones.

You couldn’t bite your tongue anymore, but you had to. Because you were much of a bad person as they were; everyone they killed or harmed was because of you, because you tattled and wanted to see how far they'd go.

And this was it. You reached the final level, and it caused you to have a psychological breakdown. You were now trapped in love with them, not in love.

Your need for love, attention, and desire caused you every sense of dignity and self worth you carried. You were nobody without them because they stripped you of who you were before them — and that made you fucking sick to your stomach.

You couldn’t stand a night in the house with them as you boosted yourself up out of the bed and moved back to the front door where your shoes and coat hung with your scarf.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Abby asked, noticing her and Ellie staying feets away from you. “It’s late.”

You turned your head to them. “I’m not a fucking child; if I want to be one, I’ll go to my parents.”

“The ones who don’t fucking care?” She spat back, and you rolled your eyes as you adjusted your scarf around your neck.

“Well, when I left you both and asked for haven, they offered it without hesitation,” you stated, grabbing your purse. “I’m sick of this shit.”

And like that, you walked out of the house before they could further protest.

Which was only the beginning of the end.

You were four dirty martinis in, elbows rested on the bar countertop as old blues music faintly played throughout the dingy bar.

A body sat next to you, hearing the man order bourbon on the rocks. There was significant silence as it was you, three other strangers, and now him sitting around in the bar smelling of old musk and lemon.

“So you’re here alone?” He asked, eyes focused on the basketball game that played on the laggy TV in the corner. “Or are your girlfriends waiting around?”

Your eyes snapped to him on cue as he met yours. “What?” You managed to sputter out. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Well that depends,” he mumbled, slouching forward with his arms crossed onto the countertop. “You see, your girls did a great deal killing my friend, Brandon. I mean, h—he was gonna go to fucking Princeton!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, pushing away your drink. “I have to go.”

“Oh, but I’m not going to let you,” he told you, grabbing a hold of your wrist as he viciously gripped it and leaned in closer to the side of your head. “Unless you want your pretty brains blown out.”

He had a gun.

You stayed firm in your seat, his hand removed from your wrist. “How do you know me? Who are you? What do you even want?”

“Karma. Payback. Whatever they call it,” he admitted, clearing his throat as his drink finally arrived. “See, I did some good research into you and your girlfriends. Whoever is protecting them has a good way of keeping anything about them completely clear and hidden.”

“No one needs to protect them. They are good people,” you said, brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Oh, but you— you fucking New York princess — no one is protecting you or your family,” he grinned, and nausea consumed you. “Now, you have a good record. I guess being a goody-two shoes will do that. However, those parents of yours… well, fuck.”

“My parents have nothing to do with anything,” you said, ready to break your martini glass for shards to stab into his eyes. “You leave them the fuck out of this.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

“I don’t even know your name, freak.”

“Vincent Hayes.”

“Well Vincent,” you said, getting up from your chair, and threw down a few twenties onto the stained countertop. “I don’t give a fuck what agenda you have planned or want to succeed at, but leave me alone or I will take a gun to your head.”

“You might want to care,” he suggested, grinning. “No one wants a father who commits tax evasion and bribery, and has multiple affairs.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, inching yourself closer to him. “And if you dare to come after my family, I’ll come after yours. Whatever you have, I’ll take it.”

“You didn’t have this much spunk before Ellie and Abby,” Vincent reminded you, and you dug your nails into the palm of your hand, a method you’d had to come to use to prevent any harmful flashbacks.”If I remember correctly, you were a loser bitch.”

“And so was your buddy,” you said, giving him a pat on his arm before you walked out of the bar, and back home. Once you were only a few miles away from the place, you took your phone out of your purse, and went to your phone app, contacting your dad immediately.

“Hello?” He answered after a few rings. “Are you okay?”

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” you started off, exhaling heavily. “Nothing’s bad happening, right? Like you would tell me if you were okay, or in trouble?”

He went quiet for a few moments, only static making prominent noise over the line. “You have nothing to worry about, okay? I am taking care of everything for this family, and I need you to continue staying with the girls because of that. Okay?”

Continue staying with the girls.

When you wanted to be out, there was always going to be a reason why you had to stay. You hung up the call, and continued to walk back to the penthouse, stifling your sobs as you walked past strangers and a violent urge to puke everywhere.

You didn’t want to go back home; in fact, you were okay with staying at a hotel or anything else for that matter. You disabled the tracker on your phone, and went on to call Jasmine. “Good evening,” she picked up after only two rings, and you sighed. “Why are you calling this late?”

“I… I don’t want to stay with them tonight. And I know this is inappropriate to ask, but may I stay with you this evening?,” you wondered, sniffling, and looked at the ground. “There is just so much that has happened tonight since the session, and I don’t have anywhere to go because they’ll find me.”

Jasmine gave you her address, and you sighed in relief, minimal anxiety being lifted off your shoulders. “I’ll run a kettle of tea for you, and I’ll be sure to give the doorman your name.”

You were curled up with a soft throw blanket on Jasmine’s couch, a warm cup of tea sitting in your hands. “Did anything particular occur today?” She asked, and you sighed, soaking in the sweet smell of lemon. “Seems like you’re extra fragile today.”

“They recorded our session today, they know what I said,” you sniffled, looking up from your tea. “I don’t know how, and of course I know they pay you to keep things a secret, but… Yeah, they know.”

“I would still be silent even if they didn’t pay me,” Jasmine confessed, and you grinned, your ears perking up, too. “Not for their sake, but for yours.”

“You’re a therapist, not my savior,” you stated, taking a sip of the tea.

“When will it be enough for you?” She asked, placing herself slightly closer to you. “You are exhausted, scared, and finished. When will you draw the line?”

You wish you had the answer to that, but you never would. You should have drawn the line the second they killed Brandon James or Delilah, but instead you ran back to them, and caved in you; you were indefinitely trapped forever, and the only way out would be death.

“You deserve better,” she whispered as you noticed her body leaning in towards yours, her head dipping to a side angle. You knew what was going to take place, and you reckoned with your loyalty as Jasmine didn’t hesitate to put her lips onto yours, you caving into the kiss.

You were loyal and submissive to Ellie and Abby — you had been for years. If they knew you were with another woman, letting her kiss you and tell you that they didn’t deserve you, they would be cutting her apart before your bare eyes.

You shifted onto her lap, the kiss turning into a messy, desperate makeout session as Jasmine’s hands found their way under your shirt, and unclasped your bra. “I got you, you’re safe with me,” she whispered between a kiss, your shirt and bra coming off during it. “I won’t let them hurt you anymore,” her lips dragged down along your neck, to your collarbones.

Guilt and shame should’ve come so sudden to you, should have allowed you to push away but you only wanted more.

It wasn’t like you were sex deprived because you weren’t — Ellie and Abby made sure sex was a continuous routine in your everyday lives. But it was the gentle touching, the soft reassurance and kisses that you missed, and Jasmine was filling that void, and that is what she was only doing.

You were using her to fill your satisfaction.

The sun cracked through the windows and flared across your eyes, forcing them open and adjusting to the brightness. An arm was wrapped around your waist, and you noticed the tattoos on Jasmine’s arms, your fingertips following the traces of them.

Your touch awoken her, and she hummed, smiling the moment she saw you. “Hey,” she whispered. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

“I think she feels just fine,” Ellie’s voice came about, causing you and Jasmine to both jump up, your anxiety spiking. “Considering the fact our girlfriend’s clothes are off, and scattered in your living room.”

Abby stood aside, seemingly irritated and disappointed in you. However, you made out the gun that was in her front right pocket, and you swallowed thickly, nauseous and scared of what was to come. “I think Jasmine here thought she was her property,” Abby said, gesturing to the hickeys on your neck.

“Just leave her the fuck alone,” Jasmine spoke up, and you cringed to her defense, only knowing she was making it worse. “She wants nothing to do with you.”

“Oh?” Ellie grinned. “Is that true, lamb?”

You felt small and weak suddenly, not responding or moving.

“She won’t answer that,” Jasmine continued, scoffing. “She is scared of you, and she is done loving the two of you.”

“I’m really done hearing you whine, you bitch,” Abby chuckled, stomping towards Jasmine’s side of the bed, and grabbed her by a fistful of her hair. She tried to fight off your girlfriend, but it was impossible as she then dropped her to the ground, kicking her repeatedly in the lungs. “This is just the beginning of it.”

“Come on, sweet girl. We have to take these affairs somewhere more private,” Ellie said, and you glanced at her, shaking your head. You seemed like a scared, afraid puppy who had just been kicked again, and the auburn cooed at you, giving a faux pout. “You know something like this would happen, baby. Did you really think you would get away with this?”

Abby was in the background forcing a coat around Jasmine’s nude body, and slipping on her shoes. You couldn’t make out what the blonde was saying to her, but you were sure it wasn’t kind things, and possibly reassuring Jasmine that she was going to meet the end of her life.

“Get on up, sweetheart,” Ellie pulled out her gun, clocking it. “Or do I have to re-train you all over again?”

You got up hesitantly, but moved your yesterday’s clothes back onto your body as Ellie made sure to keep the gun in your eyesight. “Are you going to kill her?” You asked, voice hush and soft, on the brink of crying. “You should hurt me, not her, Els.”

“We’re gonna find out together, baby,” Ellie grinned, and cocked her head for you to start following her.

Minutes later, you and Jasmine were tossed into the back of a limo with your girlfriends. Abby had to securely put tape around her eyes and mouth the moment the doors closed behind you all, and you had to do your best to ignore her sobs.

“We weren’t paying you to fuck our girl,” Abby blurted, and Jasmine let out a sniffle. “Miss Hills… You should have known better, even after you knew how Brandon Jasmes died when he decided to be a stupid fuck.”

“But you aren’t going to kill her,” you defended. “Not her — she does have people who will miss her, and someone will find out?”

“Like who?” Abby wondered.

Your brain registered the night of last, how you met Vincent Hayes who was a friend of Brandon’s, and was warning you of what he knew, and was going to do.

“Someone’s threatening me,” you stated, and the girls shifted their eyes entirely onto you. “When I left last night, I went to the bar and this guy started threatening me – saying how he had stuff on my dad that could land him in prison.”

“And you decided to what — fuck your therapist? How fucking cliché can you be, sweetheart?” Ellie asked, and you rolled your eyes, visibly irritated and frustrated. “What’s his name? What does he know?”

“He knows your guys’ slates are clean, and you killed Brandon,” you recalled, and they hummed. “But he said my dad is committing tax evasion, bribery, and more. And then he…”

Your girlfriends shifted closer in, panicked but alerted.

“Spit it out, bunny.”

You sighed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “He then threatened to blow my brains out.”

Abby looked at Ellie, an unsettling laugh leaving her mouth. “Jasmine… Today is your lucky day,” Ellie said, Abby giving her a curt nod. “But we still need to take care of you for fucking around.”

The car came to a sharp halt as you looked outside to see an empty warehouse. Ellie opened up the door, stepping out while Abby grabbed and dragged Jasmine out of the car, the girl kicking her legs and screamed. “Bunny, you need to see this for yourself. This is your new punishment.”

It's not like you had a choice, you had to oblige and obey. You already put yourself in a grave for letting someone else fuck you, although you continued to see it as you using Jasmine. You got out of the car, following behind all the girls, and saw a table that had multiple objects on top of them; a wrench, hammer, pilers, and rope.

Abby shoved Jasmine into a chair that stood in the middle of the large, empty warehouse. You eyed around, seeing dried blood spots scattered everywhere, and your body cringed and shivered.

So this is where the killing takes place, you thought to yourself. This is where people I caused to die last saw before they went away.

And Jasmine was possibly next.

“I don’t want to see this please,” you cried, shaking your head. “Please don’t let me.”

“But you will miss all the fun,” Ellie said, frowning. “And I told you that this is your punishment.”

Abby binded Jasmine’s arms and legs, putting some around her waist to the chair to keep her entirely strapped down. “You think we must be exaggerating when we say we would do anything for you,” she started off, grabbing the wrench. “Or when we say that you lead all these people to die, and we just have to take care of them for you.”

The wrench then hits Jasmine in the stomach, a muffled scream coming out from behind the duct tape.

Ellie stood behind you, her gun pointed to your back as her hand held and squeezed your jaw, forcing you to watch closely and attentively. “Some of those fingers of hers have to go,” she cooed, sighing dramatically. “It’s unfortunate. She was a good therapist for a while.”

The wrench went on to beat down on her legs, Abby taking a fun swing at every inch and part, bones cracking and breaking.

“Abby, take off the tape,” Ellie suggested, and the blonde obeyed, ripping both pieces off. “We are going to give Jasmine a show, baby. Take off your bottoms.”

You nodded and sniffled, your shaky hands reaching to the waistband of your jeans and underwear as you snug them off down to your ankles. Ellie’s hand went from your jaw, down to your stomach and cunt, her fingertips grazing over it. You shivered to her touch, whimpering for more — it was sick how your body immediately responded and gave into her touch, wanting and needing more.

“Who’s your daddy, angel?” Ellie asked, loud enough for Jasmine to hear. “Go on, and say who is. Let her know.”

“I–It’s you, Els. Only you,” you moaned, her fingers dipping inside of your cunt and perfectly curled in, moving at a harsh pace. “My body is yours and Abby’s.”

“You hear that, Miss Hills?” Abby wondered, dropping the wrench and picked up the hammer next. “Did you fucking hear that!” The hammer struck at her feet, a harsh scream escaping her but Abby got a cruel rise out of it, taking the hammer to her hands.

Your brain ran around with what was happening around — Jasmine being tortured, Abby finding it humorous, and Ellie fucking you for her to see.

Your climax approached you instantly, not giving Ellie a heads-up as you let it go, and continued to cry from how you wanted to cover yourself up and repent for how your body gave into Ellie’s demand.

Abby shifted from the hammer to the piler’s in the blink of an eye, and used them to break and half-amputate a few of Jasmine’s fingers. You knew what they were doing, though — they were also torturing you, wanting you to understand that they could do worse than this next time.

You knew about them being murderers, so why wouldn’t they give you a show.

Jasmine Hills ended up being discarded in an alleyway hours later with a pulp face, dangling fingers, damaged palms, and a bruised and broken body.

You decided to stay at your parents house for a few days after what you witnessed and endured. You didn’t know what to do about your girlfriends, almost terrified to even sleep around them, and you were already experiencing nightmares

“Amore, you have a guest!” Your mom shouted, and you groaned, getting up from your bed. You had been sinking in your comforters for those days, garbage of foods and cups dumped in mindless places, with you in days-old pajamas.

You shuffled into the main living room of your parents Manhattan’s penthouse. Thinking it would be about anyone else, you were met with Vincent Hayes.

You couldn’t curse him out in front of your mother, without making it suspicious. “Um, hi?” You said, and he smiled, taking a close look at you. “How can I help you, Vincent?”

“We need to have a conversation,” he told you, and you sighed. Your gut wanted you to listen and have the conversation, a part of you feeling like it was something you needed to hear. You only nodded and gestured your head for him to follow you out to the terrace.

You stepped into New York’s cold weather, sitting down at the small coffee table as he sat across from you. “So, you’re stalking me now?” You wondered. “I could have you arrested for that.”

“You’re barely with them,” Vincent said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “I have eyes on you and them. Last thing I know is you were in some dingy warehouse.”

You sucked in tears to the memory, and he noticed, only tossing his pack and lighter to you.

“They needed to do what they did,” you defended, lighting up the stick. “Nothing horrible happened.”

“The girl is in the hospital — the NYPD categorized her as a Jane Doe because she was that unrecognizable,” Vincent professed, and you let out a heavy puff. “You don’t want part of this, and I can help you.”

“What? Who said I want your help?” You scoffed and shortly chuckled, shaking your head. “Abby and Ellie are everything to me — you just don’t understand our relationship. They have done so much for me, more than my parents ever have.”

“A friend of mine in the DA office knows who has eyes on your dad, snitching him out and stuff,” Vincent started, lighting up his own cigarette as he dazed out for a second when he let go of his first puff. “You see, there is corruption in the justice system. Some of the prosecutors in the DA office know that the girls paid somebody to plant evidence on that other person, and that they are killers.”

“And you are telling me this, why?”

“You exchange information about Anderson and Williams, and the DA office will drop everything on your dad,” Vincent confessed, and your eyes widened, your heart sinking. “You don’t want anything to do with what they are doing. You were seemingly unaware until Brandon.”

“So let me get this straight,” you paused, deadpanning at him. “You want me to betray my girlfriends — the only people in my life who truly love me — just to save my dad’s ass? For all I care, my dad deserves to be there more.”

Vincent sighed, irritated and in disbelief. “I can see that you are struggling with what to do,” he stated, almost as if he wanted to sympathize, but just couldn’t. “If they get caught, you will be in just the same trouble as them. Imagine how that will look on your parents? What will it do to them?”

“It's like you said — I didn’t know what was happening until Brandon,” you repeated, nearly out and done with your cigarette. “The reason why your friend is dead is because he decided to be a prick, and think he was a high value man or something. If it wasn’t the girls going to take care of him, someone else eventually would.”

Vincent kept a calm demeanor, but with his hands tightened into vein-popping fists, it was sure he was going to blow at any moment. Minutes passed and his hands unclenched as he stood up from the chair, and burned out the bud of his cigarette. “There’s going to be a memorial for Brandon tonight at the St. Peter church,” he told you, and you raised a brow, tilting your head to the side. “Tomorrow will be one year since he was discovered dead. Just come by… I encourage you to do so.”

He excused himself out, and you continued to sit outside, staring at the skylines and sighed heavily. You felt an immense amount of guilt for Brandon’s death, it is something you couldn’t ignore, even as you tried to justify why he died or how he came to it.

You were the only person at fault.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you took it out, seeing Abby’s contact name. For days, they have tried to ring you, text you back to back, and do anything they could to get an ounce of your attention.

You decided to answer it this one time.

“Bunny.”

The line was static for a few moments.

“Bunny, come home,” Abby pleaded, and you sniffled. “We only mean to take care of you, love you — however we mean to do that.”

“I… Tonight’s not good,” you mumbled, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “I have something to do, and I’m not just ready to see you and Els yet. I need time.”

Abby was quiet, and it caused you to shiver. Any silence that came from your girlfriends was not a good sign, and it could only mean they were a plot being made, or they were going to do something beyond inhumane.

The line went dead, and you were left with the bustling noises of New York, your heart sinking into your stomach.

How could anything get worse?

You stood outside St. Peter’s church, frozen and paralyzed in your spot as you watched people walk in. You swallowed thickly, your fingernails clawing into the palm of your hand to give yourself any hint of ease and calmness.

Then you heard your last name being called out to you. You turned your head, seeing two older figures approaching you, a female and male. “I’m Detective Ramirez, this is Detective Adams. We are with NYPD Homicide, and we are revisiting a case involving Brandon James,” the female spoke, a smile playing on her lips to seem pleasant and kind. “It’s surprising to see you here.”

“His friend invited me,” you answered. “How can I help you?”

“Miss, you know why we are here,” Adams said, and you hummed, nodding. “You were declared a misfit for the trial, that’s why you weren’t in it, but you know what happened. And you can put them away.”

“If they were already found innocent, why retry them?” You wondered. “Doesn’t the justice system grant innocence to those who are innocent?”

“The DA wants a retrial, but it is only possible if you agree to be part of it,” Adams added, and you scoffed. “If you consent to it, the DA will let go of your dad, and stop sniffing around.”

“You are some corrupted fucks,” you laughed. “Now if you excuse me, I have to get inside.”

Ramirez momentarily stopped you in your tracks, shining a small card in front of you. “Here are our contacts if you decide to change your mind.”

You stared at her and the card, back and forth, before your hesitant hand seized it and you nodded. You walked off, putting the cards in your purse and continued inside, a crowd filling the pews while some stood off to the side talking.

“Welcome, child,” you heard the priest approach you, and you smiled, greeting him. “You are a friend of the deceased?”

You nervously smiled. “I guess you can say that, Father.”

You two shared a small, curt laugh until his eyes shifted a deep focus on you. “Something is troubling you however,” he stated, and you shivered, stumbling on your words as you tried to deny it. “The Lord never lies, my child. You are tackling something.”

“I believe I cannot confess here, Father,” you told him, and he hummed, nodding. He gestured his head for you to follow him, and before you knew it, you were in the confessional booths.

All you could think about was getting fucked in one by the girls about last year.

“Forgive me for Father, for I have sinned,” you began, blessing yourself and kissing the side of your hand shortly after. “Forgive me for I am not that religious but–”

“God accepts all,” the priest stated. “He forgives all.”

“Well Father, I think I killed a man,” you admitted, looking down at your lap. “My partners, they are protective of me, and it is in their nature. But they have taken it far multiple times, and I wasn’t aware of it until last year. And when I tried to escape them, I only allowed them back in, and now I am trapped in Hell.

“But, I love them, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to go to Hell for things they have done, or for God to hate me over it. They have killed so many people because I tattle-tale on them, and my partners showed no mercy, no kindness. And I just… I am so lost, and scared. Father, I don’t see no way out of this except self execution.”

“Self execution is a sin, I plead you know this,” he stated, and you broke into sobs, hunching over as you held yourself. “There is nothing wrong to love those who God brought into your life, child. The only sins that have been committed here are wrath, greed, and pride; and they have not been done by you. You are not responsible for the sins that have been committed, you are not destined for Hell.”

“But I have fueled their sins. I am their biggest one.”

The priest went quiet for a moment, a frustrated but saddened sigh escaping him as he himself struggled. He sympathized, knowing you were just a girl who was lost and landed herself in a wrong situation.

For the past few years, the high was blissful and could not get better than that. You thought Abby and Ellie were your angels sent from God himself, but after Brandon, Delilah and Jasmine, you realized they were fallen ones, instead. Their fair beauty and success drew you to them, and you were blinded by it so much, you could not see what they were like beneath.

They used you to excuse their drive and need to harm individuals, to let out what they were made up of.

Evil.

“Am I wrong to love the Devil? Is that what this is, Father?” You asked. “I need to know.”

“Jesus loved Judas. God loved Lucifer. Does that make them wrong? Did they let Lucifer and Judas' betrayal and sins affect them?”

You sniffled, and only nodded to yourself, assuring you that this fate was old as time. You were not wrong to come to love them, but it was only about what you were going to do next.

“I want you to do penance — charitable work, twenty hail marys for the next two weeks, and leaving these partners of yours soon,” the priest demanded, his voice tough and stern. “The Lord will then forgive you, my child.”

When everyone wanted you to stay with Ellie and Abby — even made a reason to — the voice of God himself demanded you shouldn’t.

“Thank you, Father,” you said, and walked out of the confessional booth. Walking back into the main center of the cathedral, you saw Vincent, and his eyes immediately picked up on you. You decided to let yourself approach him as a smug look was plastered onto his face, and you rolled your eyes over it.

“Something change your mind?” He asked. “Thank you for coming, it means everything.”

“I just wanted to um… pay my respects,” you assured, and he hummed. “It is my fault he is dead after all. But I can’t stay long, I have some things to situate.”

“Going to testify?” He wondered. “I saw those detectives talking to you outside.”

“Wow, you do stalk me a lot,” you bitterly joked. “I am sorry about Brandon, though. I didn’t know they were so capable of… you know. I didn’t think they would do that.”

“The only way you can truly get forgiveness is if you leave them,” Vincent said, and you knew he was right, but it wasn’t that easy. Everybody made it sound like it was the most simple action you could make, but it wasn’t.

Abby and Ellie had been your whole life, and they had committed so much towards you, and the thought of abandoning them after it all made you want to hurl everywhere. You knew that leaving them would end with catastrophic consequences, and it wouldn’t happen right away nor ever; the last time you tried to leave, you were brought right back in.

You walked out of the church without saying much else, and you were met with your girlfriends right outside. You froze paralyzed, eyes scanning for the detectives as a precaution, and you shivered to their darkening gaze that rage with hunger and madness.

“Come on, baby,” Abby beckoned you over to her car. Ellie fiddled with something in her pocket, and it made you hesitant and nervous. “We aren’t gonna hurt you, we just need to show you something.”

For once, your interest was piqued and you tried to let go of your anxiety, practically shuffling over to the car. Abby opened the backseat door, and you climbed in with Ellie trailing behind you. “I have to blindfold you, honey,” Ellie said, and you eyed her, shaking your head. “Not because of that. We are taking you to a sweet surprise, I cross my heart on that.”

“You could be killing me just for leaving,” you protested, and Ellie sighed, taking out one of her suit ties from her pocket. “No, no! I don’t want to die.”

“Oh, don’t be so hysteric,” Ellie groaned. “It is sweet and you’ll like it. It is what you have been waiting for.”

You wanted to hesitate, but instead slowly gave in and let Ellie blindfold you as your heart raced immensely under your skin, and you could feel a wave of nausea coming to you. They could be tricking you, and as foolish as you are, you had fallen for it and were about to be executed.

Maybe God heard one of your prayers, and decided to cave into it for you.

The car ride went by in quiet, the only thing surely heard being your heartbeat and the sound of you cracking your fingers as a distraction.

Ellie put her hand over both of yours. “Stop that. You know it isn’t good.”

“I’m scared.”

“We would never kill you, bunny,” Abby stated, sincerity drawn into her voice. “We know you get caught up in your head because of things we have done and put you through, but the thought of taking your life has never crossed our minds. In fact, it still stands that we would not exist without you.”

You nodded, unknowingly of the grins that played on their lips. The car came to a full stop only minutes later, and Ellie carefully escorted you out, feeling hands on each side of your waist guiding you; Ellie’s hand was cold, while Abby’s was warm.

They made sure you didn’t trip or fall down while altogether padding up a flight of stairs, always careful whenever they were the ones moving you around; you were that fragile to them. If you were to fall down on the pavement you were walking across and scrape your knees, they would immediately be kissing the wounds and tending to them, angry at themselves for being so mindless with you.

“Okay, here we go,” Ellie whispered, and the second the blindfold was off, a symphony orchestra played a version of Hallelujah – but it wasn’t the original, but by your favorite 1994 version of it by Buckley.

A candlelit path remained in front of you with rows of your favorite flowers being placed everywhere, and you could see the city lights of New York in the background.

Then you realized you were on the rooftop of Faye Academy – where history all started. Your partners moved you down the path as you broke into sobs with your face into your hands, and could not believe what was about to happen.

A proposal.

When you got to the end of the pathway, you were in a circle of roses and lilies that were in beautiful blossoms. Ellie and Abby stood in front of you, noticing them nervous for the first time ever in your life; usually they were so bold and confident, but in this moment, they were shaking and finding a way to calm themselves down.

Ellie started off by stating your name, a shiver running down your spine. “You have been the bane of our existence for a few years now, and you will forever remain as our religion, and our sole reason for living and breathing. Abby and I never thought we would find the same soulmate, but it is one of the greatest and only blessings we got out of God, and we would not want it any other way.”

“Since the first day we saw you, mindful and occupied, we were instantly drawn to you,” Abby continued on, grinning as she could recall that very memory. “The light from the sun graced you that day, and we just knew you were meant to be ours for lifetimes.”

What you had just confessed to the priest fleeted through your head, and his demands for you were sunk into nothingness in this moment. You wanted to believe they were just finding a way to further hold you hostage, but the way their face and voices softened, laced with love and genuinity, you wanted to kiss them and forgive them for everything.

At the end of the day, they were your girls and they did everything for you. They were the ones who always took care of you and defended your honor when no one did, and when you were left abandoned and alone, they came to your rescue.

You were always meant to be theirs, one way or another.

“Will you be our wife, bunny?” Abby asked, and you broke into further sobs, nodding. Ellie took the ring box out of her pocket, and you saw a beautiful Harry Winston ring that made you nearly choke onto your sobs.

“I love you!” You shouted, jumping into their embraces as they both managed to hold you close. “Yes I will marry you– Fuck, I want to be your wife.”

A wife. You were going to be a wife to the loves of your life, and your brain managed to forget everything that had happened for the past year until only a few days ago. You believed that everything was worth it to lead up to this moment, and now everything would get better and healthier; you would be wives, and you would have to live a happy marriage if things were meant to be, or if a kid would come into the picture.

“Our pretty little wife, hm?” Ellie teased, and you nodded again, earning a soft laugh out of them.

In an hour, you were between the two of them back at your shared home, Abby kissing on your neck as Ellie groped your ass and bunched your dress up to your waist to get a feel of your soaking cunt. “So soon until we put a fucking baby in you, little one,”

You purred at their touches and kisses, any ounce of purity and doubt moving out of you. You would let them desecrate you every time, and you would feel pure heaven and bliss in it, letting them own and control your body.

“We missed you so much, baby,” Abby said, kissing behind your ear. “Make us proud and get on the bed.”

You hummed, maneuvering yourself onto the bed where you slowly removed your dress as you gave your girlfriends a strip tease, with your undergarments coming off last. You bent your body down, knees and elbows sinking into the mattress, able to feel it dip heavier from behind you.

“Look at this pretty cunt,” Abby cooed, her fingertips grazing along it. “Will never be able to get enough of this; you just know how to make us want to destroy you, bunny.”

Ellie came onto the bed in front of you, her strap in front of your face as she pushed any strands of hair out your face, and gripped onto your chin. “You gonna be good for us, doll?” Ellie wondered, and your eyes softened before her primal ones, nodding.

“Yes, daddy.”

“That’s our girl. See, you still remember who you belong to,” she praised, and you giggled, putting your hand around the silicone, licking the tip. “There we go, baby. Jus’ like that.”

Abby spat down onto your cunt, rubbing it in before she roughly pushed herself into you, and you gasped harshly, eyebrows furrowing. “Left us hanging for a bit, baby. You let another girl touch you and everything; can’t lie to you, it made us wet and turned on. We knew she wasn’t better than us.��

Ellie grabbed your head and forced a mouthful of her cock into yours, earning immediate gagging noises and a glop of drool forming around the object. Your eyes rolled, light breaths coming out of you with each thrust from Ellie and Abby, your head already dizzy and cloudy.

“Oh, look at you, sweetheart,” Ellie teased, petting the top of your head with each thrust she put forth into your mouth. “She just always gets so messy, doesn’t she, Abs?”

“She’s fucking soaking and milking my cock,” Abby groaned, feeling her own wetness form under the harness. “Just needed us to fuck her and break her all over again, make her remember she can’t leave ever again.”

Abby pounding into you always feel intoxicating, you always needed to be bouncing on her cock and letting her know how desperate you were; you wanted to suck and gag on Ellie for hours, and let her fuck the back of your throat until it was hoarse and raw.

You needed them in each, every little special way that could satisfy your needs to the fullest extent. They could do that, no one else. They could make you theirs and make you feel worship with their sweet nothings, or cocks breaking into you one way or another.

Drool dripped down your chin, your eyes drooping as Ellie had to practically keep your head up to keep her cock shoving back and forth into your mouth. You allowed her to use your mouth, let her get her own sick satisfaction out of this moment, Abby doing the same thing while your cum was looping around her dick.

“Let’s break her,” Ellie said, and Abby stopped all movements into you, a whine escaping your mouth. “You need another punishment, baby. You must think we are stupid.”

Abby grabbed a fistful of your hair, forcing you to be dragged to the floor before them, and your knees slammed against the hardwood floors. “Jasmine was one thing, baby,” she began, clicking the roof of her mouth in thought. “But the police are another. Where is your loyalty?”

You frowned, staring up at them back and forth. “It’s to you. It has always been to you.”

“And Vincent Hayes?” Ellie asked. “He is awfully close to you.”

“I wanted to pay my respects to Brandon,” you admitted, sniffling. “I… I felt guilty and bad.”

“Guilty? For what? For letting that sick fuck call you a bitch?” Abby questioned, and you shook your head. “Use your brain, sweetheart. You are clearly dumb, and need us to guide you through everything in life.”

“I’m not dumb, I—I just felt really bad,” you neared breaking down, eyes shifting away. “It is my fault he is dead. It is my fault so many people got injured or died.”

“Here is what you seem to forget – and look at us, baby,” Abby demanded, and you slowly peered back up at them. “It is our sole duty for us to take care of you, and protect you. Do you know where you would be in life without us? How sick and lost you would be? People would be using you and taking advantage of you if we never existed, sweetheart.”

“I… I would have minded my own business forever if we never met,” you stated, wiping your tears away. “I won’t talk to anyone, I haven’t spoken. This ring,” you lifted up your hand, “it states that I am yours for lifetimes, and I will do anything as your wife and partner. Nothing or no one could take me away.”

The pair seemed to be satisfied by your answer because in their heads, they got you right where they needed you forever; submissive, trapped, and loyal – like a fucking dog.

It took cunning patience to mold you into this state, and make sure you would never leave again; if putting a ring on your finger was the way, so be it — at least you could not go anywhere and your loyalty was finalized by a proposal, and soon a marriage.

They could not risk you fleeing from them, and they had to keep as their pretty hostage for the rest of your shared lives; if they had to repeatedly kill, torture, and remind you where your lifetime stood, they would do just that.

After all, they loved you. They cared. Who else would?

A backhand came from Abby as she dragged you back to the bed, and in moments, you were stuck between Ellie and her. Ellie bent you slightly forward as spit went down your ass and she shoved her into your ass, and Abby wasted no time getting back into your swollen cunt.

“Tell us who you belong to, sweet thing,” Abby said. “Come on, use your fucking brain.”

“I belong to Abby and Ellie, I be—belong to you!” You cried out due to their rigorous, violent pace, being able to feel them literally and physically break your holes.

“Yeah, baby? Nobody else?” Ellie taunted, eliciting a breathy laugh. “We could fucking kill you, you know that? But we just love you so much, and wouldn’t want that.”

You shook your head, too spaced out to closely listen to what Ellie was saying; it should’ve been a sign, but you were focused on the feeling and motion of them pounding into you. “I—I love you so much, so so much,” you moaned, your back arching, and fingernails clawing into Abby’s wrist the second she put a tight grip on your throat. “So much, mommy. You don’t understand how much I love you.”

“Oh, we know baby,” Abby told you, grinning and panting. “Going to do anything for us, right?”

You nodded. “Anything for you. My loyalty and life is to you.”

“Then you are going to kill, baby,” Ellie stated, and the sexual high was shifted into terror and panic. “We are gonna teach our pretty baby how to kill, and take care of business.”

“N–No, please no!” You cried, their laughs ringing in your eyes as they sounded like maniacal psychopaths.

“You need to– hey, focus!” Abby yelled, having to keep her hands on your waist to keep you up. “You need to take care of that boy, angel. That silly idiot, okay? We’ll teach you.”

That’s when you realized — you had taken the bait. You caved right into what they wanted and needed.

And you would never have any way out every fucking again.

You broke into sobs, the sick high of pleasure and despair mixing into the heat of sex that lingeried and fully thrusted into the bedroom. Your body shook with anxiety, your climax rattling in you and took control over your nerves, the girls always finding a way to take a note.

“No, you don’t get to cum,” Ellie spat, her hand wrapping around your neck from behind you, and you gasped when her fingers pressed into your throat; hard enough to leave bruising or any fingerprints. “Be a good girl, lamb. Don’t disappoint us more than you already have.”

“Please let me cum,” you managed to cry out, her strength tightening around your throat, almost slowly cutting off any airway. “Please!”

“Why should we let you cum, bunny?” Abby panted, pinching at one of your nipples. “You don’t think this is fun? Us using and breaking you?”

It didn’t take sex anymore in order for them to find their cruel ways to psychologically torture you, but rather mock and taunt at you for everything and anything. They did it with Brandon, Delilah, and Jasmine — everyone would be killed in front of you because it was the only way for them to break you into submission.

You came anyways, and despite that they would usually stop and punish you further, they used it to their advantage and Abby’s put her hands on top of Ellie’s, both of them choking you and fucking harder into your sore, ruined holes, and your vision went blurry and you were croaking out cries and moans. It was sick that a part of you truly liked them being this vile and vicious with you, and that it would always get you off, but it was scarier that they would go further than this in the future.

The violence was covered by affection, and now by marriage.

Abby and Ellie spent weeks teaching you how to use a gun on someone, be sleath and quick with it. They wanted you to kill Vincent Hayes at the very second you could, and be out of sight when you did it. You knew you couldn’t do it; you weren’t like your girlfriends. That’s why they liked you to begin with, because you were the complete opposite of them, and at some point, that must have changed.

For those weeks, you spent time in isolation wondering what to do, what you could do without getting yourself or others killed in the process. You would stare at the ring, playing with it, and break into tears whenever your partners were around.

You were a hostage in a relationship for eternity, and the thought of escaping once more did cross your mind, but you knew what happened last time when you tried to; who knows, they could kill your parents just so you could come crawling back to them.

You avoided any discussions about the wedding or future plans because you were slowly coming to terms with your decisions, with what you wanted to do, because you just simply couldn’t think about that.

You sat in your parents home, telling the girls your mom wanted a spa day together in order to avoid suspicion; after all, you were doing well playing the sweet fiancée.

Vincent sat next to you, a cup of coffee in his hands. “You can talk to me.”

“I want out,” you mumbled. “But I need you to do one thing.”

“Well, what is it?”

You gnawed onto your cheek, inhaling sharply. “I need you to kill me.”

Silence filled the room.

“What the fuck did you say?” Vincent asked.

“I said I need—”

“No, I heard you. You just must forget that your girlfriends are insane, and will do worse to me,” he stated, and you looked at him. “Why do you want to die?”

“Not actually kill me,” you said. “I—I just need a way out, and death sounds fleeting and the only way.”

Vincent joined the quiet that tumbled back into the living room, the two of you now staring down into your cups of coffee. After what felt like hours moving by, he hums. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he tells you, and though your heart sank, you nodded. “Think of it as an eye for an eye because of Brandon. I’ll take what is most precious to your girlfriends.”

“Okay, so how should we do this then?” You wondered.

Vincent got up from the couch, putting down his cup. “You’ll come to find out. I have to make this even. But you should talk to those detectives if you want a full clean slate.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to do this,” you started, taking a sip of your coffee. “My death could be planted on them. I’m a heiress, and that would be bigger news. I’ll leave something behind to admit Abby and Ellie’s full guilt for Brandon's death.”

“No way you would do that. You wouldn’t betray them like that,” he shot back, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t leave anything behind; how do I know you aren’t setting me up?”

“I am betraying them by finding the only way out, and I know you want revenge,” you professed, realizing how calm and collected you were talking about potentially dying for good.

It was a suicide ideation, yes, but maybe Vincent would find a way to sympathize; you believed in that.

“This is the revenge I had in mind.”

You tilted your head. “It’s the perfect revenge. We both get something out of it.”

“Do you want to actually die, or are you trying to fake it?” Vincent wondered, and you shrugged your shoulders. “Do I get something from you for admission either way?”

You nodded, putting down your coffee and stood up. “I will leave something behind in my bedroom after it is done. But do not betray me, or I will fucking kill you instead.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“It is fair,” you said, brushing past him as you took the cups to the kitchen and he followed behind you. “Now if you excuse me, I have to prepare any finalizations.”

Vincent found himself out, and you went back to your bedroom, spending hours putting together forms and transferring money into offshore accounts, and even called over your family lawyer to discuss a will. The lawyer sat in front of you at the kitchen table, files out in front of you. “May I ask why you are doing this?” She asked, sliding over the paperwork. “I mean, you are so young and people usually prepare a will when they are about to die. Your parents have a will with your name in it.”

“I understand that, but I just want to be prepared,” you said, grabbing your pen. “I want all my profits to go to charities for women in shelters, to under class schools for children where they will be rewarded with new books and computers for them; along with fixing up any structures they need done. A grand total of 20K will be rewarded to research, world troubles, and more. I have put it all down.”

The lawyer knew not to pry any further, and pointed to where you exactly needed to sign, and you did it with such ease, finally accepting what was coming to the end. You were tying up all loose ends that you needed to before Vincent would take charge of your fate.

After the lawyer left and you signed away your destiny, you went back into your bedroom and grabbed a hard drive stick, putting it into the side of your computer.

You turned on the recording, and you sucked in a harsh, deep breath that came out shaky and unsteady. “Abby Anderson and Ellie Williams killed Brandon James. There was a bloody-stained shirt that had his blood on it that was burned by them only a year after his death. I know this because I told them what Brandon was doing, and they got killed. I know the other people they have injured and killed before and after him. This is my admission of guilt.”

You paused, staring blankly at the computer screen, and you cleared your throat shortly after. “They are violent killers; there is no innocence in them or this case. By the time this has turned over to the courts, I will be gone. But I will not leave without confessing the only sin that has been killing me for months.”

You stopped the recording, and made sure it was filed into the hard drive, putting it in a box on your vanity; easy access for Vincent to get ahold of.

After your admission, you took a walk into the bustling city of Manhattan, having your own headphones in to take away distractions or thoughts of anything that was to come. The girls spammed your phone, but you decided to go on airplane mode, and let yourself cruise around the city you were raised and born in.

If your death would be soon, you rather take in any last memories. Your walk went on and on, losing any track of time as you were on it. You would go home, get changed for bed, and go to sleep with the decisions you decided to commit to.

You let yourself walk and wander for hours, grabbing ice cream on your way to home. The sweet flavor gave you sweet memories of your childhood; how your dad would take you out for ice cream and sweets whenever you did well in elementary school, or how your mom would let you mix candy into a huge bag whenever you had a bad day. Those were the parents you always remembered and wanted back, but when their careers and success became bigger than you, they had shut and tossed you out.

If they hadn’t, maybe then Abby and Ellie would have not come into your life, and ruined it all.

You tossed your cup of ice cream into the bin outside your penthouse hotel, and the busboy opened the door for you as you thanked him on your way inside. The building felt colder and eerie, seeming as if no one lived inside and you were the only resident.

You were sure you were overthinking it after the day you had, and were just overly tired. After all, it was New York, and people were always going out.

You grabbed the elevator, and selected the floor of your parents’ penthouse, your hands in the pockets of your coat with your headphones and phone tucked inside of it. It took a few minutes until you reached the floor, and when you walked in, you heard the sound of glass clinking together. You paused inside the elevator, hesitating to get inside your home.

Silence entered back into the room, and you assumed it could have been your mom pouring herself a cup of wine and was making a ruckus for no reason. You sighed, walking inside anyways and when you dropped your tote bag on top of the island, you found the horror scene and sight of your butchered parents.

Your scream ripped out of your throat, falling down into their blood as you first moved to your mom. “Mom, mama!” You screamed, crying and panicking. You picked her up, lifting her into your lap, your blood-covered hand brushing her hair. “Mama, please wake up! Come on, come on, you’re okay.”

You turned over to your dad, letting your head rest on his chest which was repeatedly stabbed at. You sobbed into him, grasping onto his shirt. Your jeans soaked in their pool of blood, and you shivered, wanting to cradle into their embrace again.

Now what was there to live for?

“Eye for an eye,” a voice came behind you, and before you could see who it was, your vision went cold and black.

Waking up from a concussion was more hellish than anything.

Your eyes took their time to adjust to fluorescent lightning, feeling loose ropes around your wrists and ankles, a throbbing ache in your frontal cortex. You felt nauseous and feeble, like death was reaching out at you, and about to take you.

The second your vision and memory was intact altogether, you realized you weren't in your home anymore, or hovering over your deceased parents. Instead, you were in a quiet, dimmed room as you were strapped and hostaged to a chair, and you groaned.

“Where the fuck am I?” You groaned.

“I brought you here,” Vincent’s voice erupted through the room, and came in front of your eyesight. “I told you it would happen soon.”

You swallowed thickly, and hummed. “You killed my parents?”

He nodded.

“That wasn’t the fucking deal,” you spat. “My parents had no part!”

“Killing you was just not enough for me,” Vincent stated, and you fidgeted with the ropes. “You need to know what lose truly feels like. How it killed me when my best friend died.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

“The deal was I'll kill you,” he recalled, and you groaned. “But that’s just too easy. I want to have fun with it.”

Maybe he was just as fucked as your girlfriends.

“If you kick or bite, I’ll hit you,” he threatened as he moved over to you and slowly took off the ropes, you staring at him while he did it. “Play nice.”

“I could rip out your eyes and eat them right now!” You snapped, and he chuckled. “You are such a fucking asshole. I hope you see Brandon in hell.”

Vincent could only then grab a fistful of your hair, using it to crane you in whatever direction that he took you in, the two of you leaving the room you were trapped in just a second ago. You moved into another room later, and then found your girlfriends tied to chairs, and clearly unconscious.

“Abby! Els!” You shouted, sprinting over to the middle of them, shaking them by their legs. “Hey hey, wake up, baby. Come on, wake up.”

“I took pride in knowing I was able to overpower them,” Vincent confessed, and you peered over your shoulder back at him, shaking your head. “I just needed an extra pair of hands to help me out; they are a bit feisty.”

Ellie and Abby slowly awoke out of their unconscious slumber, taking their time to adjust to their surroundings. “Baby?” Ellie whispered, and you smiled, nodding. “What’s going on? What the actual fuck?”

“We are about to play russian roulette,” Vincent grabbed a gun out of the back of his pocket; a revolver being loaded with clearly only a single bullet. “I am going to answer questions; if we are all honest, I won’t kill your girlfriend. If we aren’t, I’ll make sure she is tortured in front of you, and she kills herself.”

Ellie and Abby paused, registering what deal he had just made until they looked back at you, pure concern and disappointment in their faces. “What have you done, bunny?” Abby asked, and for the first time in a while, they looked panicked and scared.

You retreated backwards, and stood up, now standing center in the middle of the room. Vincent came to the side of you, feeling the cold tip of the gun pressed up against your temple, and you sucked in every despair and anxiety that ran through you.

“How many people have you killed?” Vincent asked.

Quiet. Silence. An oath of silence.

“I’ll blow her brains out right now.”

“About a dozen, maybe fifteen. Including your shit friend,” Ellie confessed, and you sighed in relief. The revolver luckily didn’t click. “We tortured every one of them, some of them were taped.”

“What?” You gasped.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ellie brushed it off, clearly unfazed.

“What did you do Brandon?” Vincent asked another.

“Just fucking killed him, man,” Abby answered, and revolver clicked, but nothing came out. “Fuck, okay! We burned a cigarette, cut his tongue — it was a while ago, we honestly forgot.”

“You killed my best friend like he was just cattle,” Vincent spat out, and you trembled. “You’re lucky I don’t kill your girlfriend, even after she betrayed you.”

“What is he talking about?” Abby asked.

You would rather kill yourself at this point because he knew what you were referring to. You were the reason you got them into this spot, that they were so blinded by their love for you, you casted them under this spell that had caught them in these chairs, and were possibly about to witness you die in front of them.

“I… I signed my will. I told Vincent an eye for an eye,” you sucked in a harsh breath. “You were part of that agreement, but not this shit. He even killed my parents.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Ellie shouted; she had never shouted like this before. Her voice was laced with pure distraught and anger, like she was willing to kill you herself at this point. “What the fuck, what the fuck! Are you fucking stupid!”

“Oh, don’t act like you are such saints yourself!” You seethed, scoffing in disbelief. “You only married me so I wouldn’t leave your asses again! You didn’t marry me out of love, you married me out of pure Stockholm syndrome! You use me to fulfill your need and drive of violence; you need me as an excuse to kill people!”

The pair went absolutely silent, and that validated everything Jasmine had told you long ago.

“New game; I am going to leave this gun with you,” Vincent took it out, showing it off as he untied you a few seconds afterwards. “Your little girlfriend will decide who gets to live.” He slowly walked out of the small four by four room, only then tossing the gun your way shortly after he walked only, the trigger off and the door closed and locked.

It was you, a gun, and the loves of your life. It was now a sicker, cruel game between the three of you. You put the gun in your back pocket, going on to untie your girlfriends as they massaged their wrists and glared at you with utter betrayal, and slight disgust.

You made sure to careen yourself backwards at a steady pace, getting the gun out and instantly got the gun out of your pocket, pointing it up and direct at them. They took rapid notice, both of them raising their arms up in self defense and protection.

“Okay, bunny… I know you are probably really scared right now,” Abby started off, and your hands became shaky, the sweat from your palms forming around the handle. “Just give us the gun, and we will figure it out together, okay?”

“Please don’t make this any harder,” you whimpered, sniffling. “I should do this — you guys have put me through Hell.”

“Little one, we care about you so much,” Ellie added, and your gaze shifted over to her. “You know we do; from the first moment we saw you, we finally understood our purpose for existing in this world, and that was to protect you, to care only for you.”

Your body shivered with anxiety, your brain trying to refuse anything they were both saying to you. “You don’t understand anything,” you whispered, and you tackled with multiple options to end this moment; shoot them and kill them, shoot them in the legs and run off, or end your own life.

If you were to shoot them and run away again, where could you possibly hide? There would never be anywhere for you to go. You needed a way out but there wasn’t any, and that made you face only one true fate for yourself; you had to take yourself out.

You turned the gun onto yourself, the head kissing your temple.

“Angel, no no! Put down the gun!” Abby shouted, and Ellie carefully stepped over to you. “Els is gonna take the gun, and we are gonna get out of here. We are gonna go home and pretend none of this happened, and move on to our happy lives.”

“I have to do this, I have to!” You sobbed, and they shook their heads. “If I leave and run away, you guys will find me and kill anyone who stands in the way! You always do that, and make me witness it as your sick punishment!”

“Baby…” Ellie beckoned, and her eyes softened to you. “No more killing, no more hurting. We promise. We knew that chapter was over when we asked you to be our wife. We want to move elsewhere with you, and begin our exciting new life.”

You couldn’t decipher genuinity or manipulation that played a role in her tone, and you could not tell if she was being honest with you, given how many epiphanies you’d been having ever since the proposal. Maybe Ellie was being right for once; the way she glanced at you was pure and worried, almost like she wanted to embrace you, and let you cry into her hold.

Maybe that little hope that danced in your heart was right, and going to come true.

You slowly put the gun down, sniffling and nodding. “No more killing please,” you begged, hiccuping and sniffling. “I can’t take any more of it.”

“Just us and our happy life from here on out, babydoll,” Abby reassured, and you nodded, frowning. You held the gun out into her reach, and the second she grabbed it, the door swung open to reveal Vincent with his own gun.

“Eye for a fucking eye,” he said, and an immediate pain stung to the middle of your abdomen. You stood in shock, every nerve going numb and your brain falling quiet on you. Your hand touched down to where the ache and throbbing sensation formed itself, only to reveal a coat of blood.

Vincent ran off before the girls could get to him, and their attention landed back onto you when they heard your body thud against the ground. You stared up at the ceiling, your vision blurring in and out, and you felt eerily cold.

“Eyes here, baby,” Ellie coeed, Abby ripping a piece of her shirt off and putting it over the wound, and applied pressure. “There we go, you are gonna be just fine.”

“There’s too much,” Abby panicked. “Too much fucking blood— I’m gonna fucking kill that fucker—”

“It hurts,” you muttered, breathing heavily. “It hurts— Please, make it go away.”

“We’re trying, angel, just keep breathing,” Abby worriedly smiled, Ellie stroking the top of your head. “You are gonna be okay.”

You just nodded, even though the fluorescent lighting was dimming and their panicked voices slowly turned into echoes, your ears ringing. If there is a Heaven, you hoped it’d be kinder to you than all your years were.

Privilege does not give you anything; you have to exchange many of it, just for a little something beautiful.

ONE YEAR LATER.

“Please rise before the court,” the judge said, and everyone stood. “This trial was once again complex and complicated, I will say that. The tape we got from the deceased was hearsay, and without her here with us, the jury had to make a decision based on other testimonies. Jury, do you have a decision?”

“Yes, your honor,” a juror lady stood, a card in hand.

“What is your defense?” He asked.

“On behalf of the New York vs. Anderson and Williams, we hereby find them not guilty on multiple counts of first degree murder, manslaughter, torture,” the juror said, and the pair sighed in relief, knowing that their plans could fall back into place.

When the tape was stolen and found from Vincent, he turned it over to the police which then resulted in the girls arrested. The trial took a while to begin, evidence being enough to upstart one, but they knew it would not conclude how Vincent intended for it, too.

You died horrifically before their eyes, and a funeral was held for you, and everyone attended for you; they knew you would have loved the turn out. You would have loved how Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley played for you, and how it is the only way they can easily cry.

But Vincent decided to go hide away, and what they did best was play cat and mouse. Vincent Hayes thought he could escape by murdering you, and trying to turn over your partners, but they love a good chase, and better yet – a needed murder.

“Miss Anderson and Williams, you are hereby dismissed and free,” the judge announced, and they cheered, hugging their top-tier lawyers.

When Abby and Ellie left the courthouse, they took a trip to the cemetery and visited your grave. They sat down on the moppy gross, setting down flowers near your headstone.

‘Beloved Daughter, Friend, and Wife’

“We did it, angel,” Abby said. “We did it – and now we are going to avenge you. We promise.”

Abby and Ellie knew what they were going to do, and how they were going to get Vincent Hayes. They knew at the end of the day, it was the only way to remember you, and seek justice for your soul.

To the ends of the Earth.

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aventurineswife · 3 days ago

Note

Requesting Reader pampering Dan Heng (especially in his Imbibitor Lunae form). 🙏 Washing and brushing his hair, drawing a bath for him after the shower, helping Pom-Pom cook healthy meals for him, leaving snacks and drinks for him at the door outside of the archives (and telling March to ask first before taking any bc March’s room is right next to the archives lol), reminding him once in a while to drink water and stretch, massaging his back and neck, making sure the temperature in the archives isn’t too warm or cold—

I just really need Dan Heng to be pampered, he deserves it.

As the Lotus Floats, So Shall You

Summary: You quietly care for Dan Heng, particularly in his Imbibitor Lunae form. You take the time to pamper him, washing and brushing his long hair, preparing his bath, cooking healthy meals, and offering gentle reminders to care for himself. Despite his reserved nature and the weight of his past, Dan Heng allows himself to be cared for, slowly finding comfort in your presence and your attentive gestures.

Tags: Dan Heng IL x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Soft Caretaking, Slow Burn, Quiet Devotion, Light Domestic.

Dan Heng was always difficult to care for—not because he rejected kindness, but because he often didn’t know how to receive it. In his Imbibitor Lunae form, the weight of past lives pressed heavier on his shoulders, making him even more withdrawn, more hesitant to accept the warmth you so willingly offered. But that never stopped you from trying.

It started small. A cup of tea left outside the archives, a careful arrangement of his favorite snacks placed neatly beside it. You made sure to leave a note—March, please ask before taking. Because while you adored her, you also knew her appetite for anything remotely edible was insatiable. Dan Heng never said anything about the offerings, but you noticed how they always disappeared by morning, the cup emptied, the snacks gone.

Then came the gentle reminders. Drink water. Stretch your legs. The stars will still be there if you take a break. Sometimes, you caught him actually following your advice, rolling his shoulders with a sigh as he took slow sips of water. Other times, he merely glanced at you with that unreadable expression of his—fond, if you dared to hope—before returning to his studies.

But tonight, you were taking things a step further.

Dan Heng sat at the edge of his bed, his long still damp from his shower. His horns glowed faintly in the dim light of the archives, curling elegantly above his head. He looked ethereal, otherworldly, but also exhausted.

“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he murmured, even as you settled behind him, fingers threading through his hair with practiced ease.

“I know,” you said simply, reaching for the brush. “But I want to.”

He let out a quiet sigh but didn’t protest further, leaning slightly into your touch as you worked through the tangles. His hair was silk beneath your fingertips, heavy with the scent of lotus and green tea—something you had picked for him, knowing how much he preferred subtle, soothing fragrances.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence. You brushed with slow, deliberate strokes, making sure to be gentle around his horns. Dan Heng’s shoulders gradually relaxed, tension melting away as you worked.

“You’re warm,” he admitted after a while, voice quiet, almost drowsy.

You smiled. “Is the temperature in here okay? I can adjust it if it’s too cold.”

“It’s fine.” A pause. “You always make sure of that.”

The admission sent warmth curling in your chest, but you didn’t dwell on it. Instead, you set the brush aside, fingers moving to massage the knots in his neck. He tensed briefly at the first touch, then sighed, his head tilting slightly as he allowed himself to relax under your care.

“Turn around,” you coaxed gently.

Dan Heng hesitated but obeyed, shifting so that he faced you, his eyes half-lidded with weariness. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze held something soft, something vulnerable that he rarely let show.

You reached for a towel, carefully dabbing at the ends of his hair before moving to his horns, wiping away any lingering moisture with delicate precision. Your fingers brushed against the smooth, translucent surface, and Dan Heng exhaled sharply, eyes flickering shut for a brief moment.

“Sensitive?” you asked.

“A little.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You softened your touch, mindful of the sensation. When you finished, you stood, moving toward the small bath you had prepared for him earlier. The water was just the right temperature, infused with calming herbs meant to ease fatigue.

“Come on,” you said, offering him your hand. “It’s ready.”

Dan Heng eyed you for a long moment before exhaling softly. He took your hand, fingers cool against your palm, and allowed you to guide him toward the bath. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t have to. The way he looked at you—the way he let himself be cared for—was more than enough.

And when you left a final note by the archives later that night, reminding him to rest well, you knew he would see it. Just as you knew, without a doubt, that he would take it to heart.

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dissociativewriter · 1 day ago

Text

Unnatural Affinity- Part 2

Isekai!Reader x Love and Deepspace

wc: 2.8k

cw: angst but not too heavy this time, allusions to self harm, questioning of worth i guess?, reader wonders if she’s supposed to be there and what’s going on, kinda awkward interactions tbh, lots of confusion; not proofread

Synopsis: You soon find yourself filling in the role of Em’s friend and roommate, and try to fit into your new life and new (?) job at the Hunter’s Association. At lunch break, you and Em eat lunch with Xavier only to find some… odd behavior from him.

author’s note: I really need to be updating my Once Upon Another Time PoTo x LaDS series but this has taken all my inspiration :( i feel like this is kinda weak but it has some good lines. i don’t know how to write xavier so ill try to figure that out before i write more of him

tag list: @animegamerfox @ixloom819 @magennta09 @an-ever-angry-bi @corvid007

Series Masterlist

Em certainly knew how to hold a conversation, you quickly realized.

She was the exact opposite of you. Where you were quiet and reserved, she was loud and outgoing. She could talk to anyone, and it seemed as though she held all the energy in any room she entered.

That wasn’t a bad thing, of course. You almost envied her for it, the way she could so easily navigate social situations. She was charming and witty where you were shy and sarcastic. It was far from a bad thing, it was just something you weren’t used to.

And why would you be?

This is the life of the Main Character.

“So, anyways, I was trying to get him to switch with me so I could have a turn, but he insisted that he keep playing!” Em was complaining about one of the men wrapped around her finger, and you had honestly lost track of which one she was talking about now. For having five objectively attractive men practically at her feet, she certainly didn’t appreciate them all that much. “He said he’d use his Evol and it’d be fine, but then he still missed!” Her expression was exaggerated, her pitch rising as she kept talking. A small pout formed on her lips. “All that to say, we didn’t get a plushie,” she sighed.

“I’m sorry, who was this again?” You decided to just bite the bullet. You’d learned that Em was aware she could talk fast sometimes and skip out on details, so asking for clarification wasn’t that anxiety-inducing anymore.

“My friend Xavier. He’s a hunter, you might have seen him? Silver-white hair, big, blue eyes, tall, really quiet?” Em cocked her head.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve… seen him around.” You nodded. You couldn’t exactly explain he was a Love Interest in the only game you played daily.

“Yeah, it’s hard not to notice him. I think most people in the Association have at least heard his name, even if they haven’t seen him.” Em suddenly stopped, grabbing your arm and pointing to a small shop with her other hand. “That shop looks so cute! We have to go there.”

You didn’t argue, simply following her lead like a lamb as she guided you to the store. Another thing you’d realized: Em was used to getting what she wanted. But she was never rude or entitled about it. No, that’d be too negative for a Main Character. She could be a bit bratty at times, however, a trait often showed in memories with Sylus or Caleb. Clearly, though, this wasn’t something she only did with them. You’d fallen victim to her pouts, puppy-dog eyes, and guilt-tripping in the mere three hours you’d been together.

Despite all this, your differences, your slight annoyances, your envy, you’d managed to become somewhat comfortable around Em. Maybe it was her Evol helping her resonate with everyone, but it’s like she just knew how to make people like her and be comfortable. You weren’t sure how you felt about it. She couldn’t read you and your emotions, something you were thankful for, but she was clawing at the walls you’d put up defiantly, like the kitten Sylus so often compared her to.

After a few stops at a couple more shops, you two finally headed back to your apartment. You were filled with some kind of rotten eagerness. A person’s home can so easily show their secrets: their struggles, interests, and happiness. You wanted to see how you lived in this life. You wanted to see if it really was better than what you’d had before.

You wanted to see if what you were losing when you entered this world was really worth missing.

The apartment was… nice. Like the rest of Linkon, it was sleek and innovative. You recognized a lot of it from the screenshots in the back of the main storyline or memories, but there was something unnerving about the whole place. It reminded you of Em’s eyes. Pretty at the first glance but lacking substance when you look further.

There were a few things here and there that weren’t in the original art of her apartment. A stack of books here, an extra pair of shoes there; Your mark was evident. You weren’t just shoved to the side to make room for the main character. You were allowed to self-express in your own (new?) home.

“Why do you look so shocked? I mean, I know I straightened up, but it wasn’t that messy before,” Em laughed.

“Nothing… just thinking.” You shook your head. “It’s not important.” Em cocked her head but didn’t say anything more.

You hovered in the entryway for a moment after kicking your shoes off, taking it all in. Em stayed in the living room, scrolling her phone as she laid sprawled on the couch. Then, as if your body knew what your mind did not, you entered what you could only assume was your room, dropping your tote bag in the chair in the corner and shrugging off your jacket. You performed what felt like second-nature, like your body remembered this life where your mind didn’t. It seemed like force of habit, so you could only wonder if adapting to this new world would really be all that difficult.

“I’m going to sleep!” Em yelled outside your door. “You should soon. We’ve got to get back the Association tomorrow and I just know Jenna’s going to overload everyone with work after that whole issue in Skyhaven.”

Habit was a funny thing.

It was as if some things didn’t need a second thought, just something you did because your body knew to.

But how did your body know your exact routine in this life? There was nothing inexperienced about any of it. You didn’t bump into any furniture, didn’t look for where your shirts were kept for twenty minutes, didn’t question anything.

What was going on here?

You grabbed a bag you didn’t even know existed before and a travel mug from the counter before leaving with Em. This was routine, you realized, but whose?

As you were leaving the apartment building, Em turned around, zeroing in on a specific window. You curiously followed her gaze, only to find the curtains drawn.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

Em’s gaze suddenly snapped back to your own, as if she forgot you were there next to her. “Oh! I was just going to see if Xavier was leaving too and let him walk with us.” She laughed. “Of course, knowing him, he’s probably still asleep!”

I didn’t think Xavier usually went to the Association, you thought. Didn’t he just take missions without showing up?

What else is different?

You shrugged. “We can wait for him, if you want,” you offered. You didn’t know if you really should be interacting with any of the Love Interests, but if you both worked at the Hunter’s Association, you couldn’t really avoid Xavier.

You couldn’t change things that much anyway, right?

“No, it’s fine.” Em shook her head. “Let’s just go. I have a meeting with Jenna first thing and I do not need to be late again,” she groaned.

With bright lights and wide windows, the Hunter’s Association certainly left no stone unturned. There were no shadows to hide in, no darkened corners to find refuge, not even a closet to hide the skeletons you knew the Association had.

You subconsciously adjusted the tote bag on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your laptop and the folders containing God(Astra?)-knows-what. You’d tossed your copy of Frankenstein in before you left, too. You didn’t know why. It wasn’t even your favorite book, but it was something real. The annotations were fragments of another life. A life where you hadn’t been happy, so why did you find yourself missing it so much?

Your hands itched at your thighs again, feeling the healing cuts rub against the fabric of your pants.

“Well, I’m gonna go.” Em’s voice, bright like the Association, broke you from your thoughts. “Say hi to Nero for me!” You nodded and returned her wave as she walked away.

Wait.

Nero?

What did he do…? You wish you had the guide from the game giving you descriptions on everyone and everywhere. What did they say about him? He liked Wanderers… and didn’t he have social anxiety?

Your feet took your where your mind couldn’t and you saw Nero sitting at a slightly cluttered desk with an empty one directly across from him.

His little portrait in-game did not do him justice. He was honestly cute, especially with his slightly oversized glasses. He was shy, sure, giving you a weak wave of acknowledgement, but he was by no means lacking confidence. He dodged eye contact, but his shoulders were back and his posture straight. You could tell he was confident in himself, just not in others when it came to socializing.

“Hey.” His voice was soft, almost unsure. “I left a report on your desk for you to read over… just, whenever you have time!” he quickly clarified, as if he didn’t want to put unnecessary pressure on you.

“Alright, Nero,” you smiled, your grin only growing as he glanced away.

You quickly fell into a rhythm after getting settled at your desk. Nero was in data analysis, you finally remembered, which meant you were, too. At least, in the same department. You had a different job from Nero, compiling and proofreading all of the information from the reports. It could be confusing here and there, especially trying to decode any shorthand used or even just some messy scrawl, but it was overall easy work.

Now you understand why Em had mentioned you helping her by giving data. You had access to all the data that went through the Association. Even what they hid from the Hunters.

In a world where knowledge was the only thing you had, this realization held unimaginable power.

Between what you knew about a few characters from the game and what you could learn from all these reports, it didn’t seem like you’d be scrambling for some footing.

You and Nero fell into a rhythm, too. He would complete his reports, pass them over to your desk, where you would edit and transfer into the database. Not many words were exchanged, maybe a quick “here” or “thanks” muttered occasionally. With such a loud life next to Em, it was nice to find these quiet moments of reprieve with him.

A few hours passed quickly before the clock hit 1:30. You straightened up your pile of reports before rising from your chair. “Nero? Aren’t you going to lunch?” you asked.

He shook his head. “I’ll just stay here for my break. You have a fun time, though.” He gave a weak smile.

“Alright, if you insist…”

Em met you at the entrance to the Association, a tall blond in tow. “Hey!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw you. “I wanted to introduce you to Xavier since you said you’d never met, so I thought, why don’t we all get lunch so you two can properly meet!” She grinned widely, quickly glancing between both of you.

You gave a polite nod and introduction to Xavier, not expecting much from him. He never paid much attention to anyone beyond Em, you knew, and you didn’t want to incite any unnecessary jealousy if he thought you two were too close. You were roommates, after all, and you’d seen Xavier get jealous over only a neighbor.

You didn’t think his jealousy would stop at only men, either.

To your surprise, however, he grabbed your hand, giving you a chaste kiss on the top of it and a small smile. “Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

Okay, what?

You hadn’t expected him to be rude; he would never be rude to someone important to Em. But this was a bit kinder than you’d expected. Just a bit.

You, Xavier, and Em left the Association, walking down the street after Em proposed some hotpot. She was slightly ahead of you and Xavier, extremely enthusiastic compared to your relaxed pace. You thought it odd that Xavier had stayed back with you instead of hovering next to Em, but what was odder was the hand ghosting at the small of your back.

This was a comfortable motion, maybe not practiced, but definitely not awkward. You felt his eyes on you as you kept looking forward, his chin tilted up as he looked at you through his bottom lashes. He was searching for something. You could feel it, though his face betrayed nothing.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was just as confused as you were with the amount of attention he was giving you compared to Em.

Hotpot was nice, if a little chaotic. Em and Xavier sat together in a booth, with you across from them in a chair. You were directly across from Xavier, and you noticed him watching you closely as the meats and vegetables cooked. There were even a few times when Em had to frantically tap him to get his attention and say it was done.

Conversation ended up flowing easily between the three of you, once you got settled. You and Xavier were putting in as much as Em, something extremely unusual for the both of you. Right now, Em was in the middle of telling of an interaction with a civilian during a mission, which was apparently so funny that she couldn’t breathe for a few minutes before beginning.

“He kept insisting that he be let past, like he knew what was going on!” She howled with laughter. “I said, sir, you don’t wanna be involved in that and he just held his hand up and said how can you know that, I’ll do as I please! Obviously, he took two steps, realized what was happening, and got out of there as fast as possible. Honestly, I don’t know what people are thinking sometimes.” Em wiped the stray tears from her eyes.

“Wait,” you chuckled. “So he was just like: ‘oh i can do this, i’m better than a trained hunter, step aside little girl’?” You raised your hand, the back of it facing you, just as Em had done to get your point across. Em didn’t say anything, merely laughing as she nodded. You laughed, too, keeping your hand raised although it faltered.

Xavier, who had completely dissociated for the entire story, snapped back into focus. He zeroed in on your outstretched hand, immediately drawing a conclusion you weren’t sure how he reached.

“Mind if you borrow my hand?” he asked, his brows slightly furrowed. He leaned forward a little, raising his own hand. “…Like this?” He tapped his hand against yours in a weak high-five.

Watching your hand falter, out of sheer confusion and shock for how this was playing out, a slight frown grew on his face. “It seems you had something else in mind.” He shook his head, his lips now curling up at the ends. He quickly entwined his fingers with your own, holding your hand tightly. “Can I borrow your hand, then?”

Your mouth was slightly agape. He was supposed to be acting all cute like this with Em, not with you!

“Is this what you call borrowing?” Xavier chuckled as he released your hand.

You stared at him, barely noticing Em glancing between you both. A frown was playing on her lips, and she shifted closer to Xavier. You watched him closely as he absentmindedly chewed his food. You were trying to figure out why he did that.

Why did it feel so familiar?

What was it so comfortable?

You figured it out later.

Finally, after a few more hours the Association and a quick dinner back at the apartment where Em was uncharacteristically quiet, you figured it out.

It was a Relax Time in the game. One of those little interactions you unlocked as Affinity increased. It was identical down to the dialogue. Except, those were always little couple-y moments shared between the MC and her Love Interest in Destiny Cafe, always adorable, always invoking your somber envy.

So why was Xavier doing it with you?

You didn’t think Em liked it much either. She wasn’t bitter about it, you could tell, just… confused. She isn’t officially dating any of the Love Interests as of now considering just the Main Story has happened, but it’s still odd for any of them to be doing something remotely romantic with anyone, man or woman.

You just hoped you wouldn’t run into any of the other men. Who knows what that could lead to?

You didn’t know what exactly was going on, or how you could deal with it, but you knew one thing: Something was wrong.

Maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you’re not supposed to be here. Maybe your very presence is throwing everything off-kilter.

In a game so based around Fate, unexpected events don’t seem very welcome.

And what were you, if not unexpected?

comments and reblogs appreciated! <3

masterlist

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musingsofheaven · 1 day ago

Text

BLESS THIS MESS

summary: cruel intentions inspired but make it stanford, tennis and country clubs. pretty lies, perfect masks, and a bet between the two of them that’s will lead into something more deeper.

pairings: art donaldson!sebastian valmont/lucien belmont x reader!kathryn/caroline merteuil.

warnings: 4.6k words. mature themes. non-biological step-siblings. emotional manipulation. power imbalance. voyeurism. recorded sexual acts. sexual self-indulgence. toxic relationship dynamics. d/s undertones. morally gray behavior.

note: this one’s been living in my head rent-free ever since i rewatched the movie. i swear i’m not like them (promise), but i love writing about fucked-up people. so i might keep this going. (if people like it) should i make a specific tag for it? (and reposted… the last one is shadowbanned.)

Introducing… Reader!Kathryn/Caroline Merteuil. You’re the sweetest girl at Stanford. Everyone says so. Because how could they not say that? You just have that face that people… People feel comfortable being with, the one people trust. That soft, approachable, pretty, not intimidating… God no! You don’t even have a resting bitch face, and not too sexy, just right. Your lips? Always glossed but not over-lined and not messy. Never messy. Your lashes curled, and you even have extensions, but not the kind that will cover your beautiful eyes. You have a smile on your whole face like you mean it. You practiced smiling perfectly so that people don’t know it’s fake. You smile and pretend you don’t know what they want from you.

You RSVP early, you make them feel special because, aw, you remembered! You send handwritten notes using an expensive pen and it shows how expensive it is. You bake when you’re stressed, of course, you know how to bake. Your mother made you take lessons for it to cure your boredom because she couldn’t give you attention. Making the actual shit from scratch and leaving extras in the kitchen like some fairy. You show up to worship on Sundays with a notebook in your designer bag and you make sure that your hair is fixed enough to show your face like you’re ready to listen, to repent, to believe.

You wear dresses that hug your curves and touch past your thighs. It looks sweet, but not slutty, never slutty… unless it’s for parties. But not much that your soul will show. You love that beige heels. Don’t start with pink nails… always your color. Not a single hair tie on your wrist, that looks cheap. You are not cheap. When you hug people, you mean it. Or do you? Maybe you are rolling your eyes behind their back when you hug them. When you speak, you’re careful. You don’t want the wrong people to hear you talking shit, right? You never drink too much. You don’t black out drunk like other girls. Pretty girls know how to handle their liquor, you always say. Never talk too loud. The whole world doesn’t need to hear your voice. Never post anything that could get you called out, or canceled. Your digital footprint is so squeaky clean, that it makes your stalkers angry when they can’t find anything about you.

You are, to put it simply, perfect.

And the thing about being perfect is? Everyone wants a piece of you.

They want to be you.

Or they want to be inside you.

Either works.

It’s not old news to you when you overheard that line because it happened more than once, blurt out like a joke but meant like a prayer.

“Dude, I’d sell a kidney to fuck her.”

“I wanna be her or be in her. I don’t even care which. Is that too lesbian to say?”

“She’s, like… wife material. Just look at her. But she’s also…? Kind of terrifying.”

You always play dumb. You love to make people think you’re some dumb girl. You just tilt your head. Blink at the words you are hearing. You give a sweet smile like you don’t know what they’re talking about. That’s part of it. That’s what makes it work because you act clueless.

You are the definition of classy. Elegant. Polished. That’s what they call you. The kind of girl their moms would trust because of how you present yourself and how your reputation reflects and their daughters side-eye in secret because your name has been brought up to compare to them when they do shit and their mother found out. They think you run your sorority because you're kind, you’re a leader, and you’re inspirational. Well…

They think your power comes from being likable. That’s adorable. So fucking cute.

It’s hidden behind the curtains how you move every piece like a chess. They don’t see the way how you play girls off each other while you hand them the tissues because they teared up. You knew they would cry because you made sure to hit the right spots. The way you just play dumb and act you like don’t see how those stupid frat boys humiliate themselves just to talk, sit, or get a piece of you. You will hear those girls change their tone when they asked how you do it, meaning, how you stay so nice, so cool, so together, and you just bat your lashes and smile like you are saying that it’s a secret, like it’s luck, like you didn’t a personal notes, journal, or board to plan every goddamn inch of it. Maybe people will tell you to have OCD when they discover how obsessed you are with details when you plan something.

Because being the perfect girl? That’s not luck.

It’s precision. It’s strategy. It’s control.

But hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Like they don’t know that you blackmailed three girls off your rush list this rush season alone. It didn’t cause any scandal, not really. It didn’t happen accidentally. You pulled the trigger as if you already knew the weight of consequences, you don’t have consequences, only them because they fucked you up.

The first girl? She just happened to hook up with one of your girls' boyfriends. What a home wrecker. She’s sloppy, too sloppy. She left with hickeys and even got caught on someone’s finsta at 3AM in his hoodie, sneaking out of the house in Rowan Neighbourhood. Such a reckless girl. What's worse is you don’t enjoy it much because you don’t have to dig for that one. You just watched your sister cry in the bathroom stall and thought, what a shame that bitch did that to your girl. She would’ve looked cute in your color if she got accepted. But the betrayal? Off brand. You don’t need another stress. So you crossed her off the list with a note beside her name saying she’s a home wrecker bitch. Sent her that cute letter of yours saying that she’s “not the right fit.” Before you sent your sister’s cheating ex-boyfriend a screen recording of her DMing one of the frat pledges two nights later. You have to put a little extra touch.

Oh don’t get started with the second girl. It’s humiliating when you find out. She had an academic record from high school that looked clean, too good to be true. Your guts just told you something is wrong so you ran it through the software your ex-boyfriend built you to find dirt about someone. Cheating scandal. What in the hell? Almost expelled for buying an exam answer key from a user from Reddit. As usual, covered up. By who? Her parents. Use a donation move. Money is power. But you smiled when you found it. Nothing screams “walking scandal” like an academic shady record before you even step into college. Of course, you could be a little bit dramatic. You printed out the report you found and put it in her rush envelope with a sticky note, a pink one, saying, “Maybe next year.” You don’t want girls who cheat in your circle anyway.

Ah. The last one. Well, this is kind of funny and petty. She clumsily spilled a full glass of red wine on your white silk Valentino at a welcome dinner for the rush. You noticed the nervous hands. Shaking apology. Hm. You didn’t yell even yell, didn’t scream at her face even if you wanted to, didn’t even flinch. Just smiled with teeth… nodding before you said, “Don’t worry about it.” Then her name was gone off the list the moment the dinner was over. That dress was custom-made only for you. She was clumsy. It will be funny if it’s not on a special day or when you won’t get humiliated. It’s not that deep, you know that, but deep enough to be memorable, enough to remember the stains on your dress. People don’t like humiliation especially when you have an image in that place. If you let one girl get away with embarrassing you in public by just acknowledging and accepting her awful apology, the rest will start to think they can too. You can’t have that. Never.

You didn’t lie. Well, not that they can catch your lie, right? You didn’t threaten. Not in a way they can pick up that it’s a threat you are saying. You didn’t even raise your voice.

You just let them spiral on their own.

Stanford runs on the image. Reputation. Control. You don’t want to be a social suicide. Ew. You don’t just maintain yours, you crochet it little by little like a kid needs a hobby to focus on. Your hands are clean, it’s like you wear expensive princess gloves just not to let them get dirty. Your hands? They never touch anything directly. Everything goes through someone else because they are desperate to do your favors. You let everyone else dirty theirs trying to reach you.

Because you’re the girl everyone wants to be.

Or be inside.

Or both.

And they will never know how ugly it gets underneath.

Except him.

And when something calls for a messier touch?

You have Art.

Your stepbrother, unfortunately. Stanford’s favorite golden boy. Tennis prodigy. He’s good to the point you will wish he would shove his racket inside you and rearrange your guts. Even he walks in soft clothes, all sweat and baby curls, and the kind of smile that every grandmother loves? Expect that people are giving him the fuck me eyes. But he’s yours. Not officially, not publicly. He’s yours in all the ways that count. He knows that too.

He follows you. Lapdog is the word you will describe him. Too eager to please you. Too desperate. You use that in your favor. You send him out like a dog in heat. He fucks who you tell him to fuck. Mostly the girls from your list. Sometimes the ones you hate. And he records them. What a sick fuck, people will say if they know it.

Not for blackmail. (Okay, sometimes for blackmail.)

You give him the name and a smile. Sometimes it’s just a text saying, “Kappa legacy. Show me if she moans loud enough compared to when she's talking shit about me.”

What’s good about him is he does. He always does.

The first time he sent you the video of the girl you asked him to ruin, the video was shaky, awful quality, and loud. You watched it once. Just once. That’s it. But you saved it.

Now there’s a folder named, “Summer files.” Lame folder name but with a history behind it. One summer when the first time he… yeah. But it’s password-protected. Only you and him have access.

You know that sometimes he fuck around in and out of campus not just for the blackmail anymore, just because. But mostly for you. For your eyes. For your enjoyment. Because he knows what it does to you. He finds it hot, and he gets off by it. Just because you like seeing it.

He’s aware you watch them at night. Your hand under your panties. Legs spread in your sheets, head thrown back while you’re flicking your pretty fingers with pink-colored nails over your clit as he fucks some girl in the recording with a camera angled just right. Sometimes, he looks straight into his phone when he’s inside them. It’s like he’s pretending it’s you. Like he’s thinking about you when he groans, low and pretty, when he holds back a whimper. His hand gripping their hip while they whine like they’re the lucky ones. Oh, they’re not. You enjoy watching those girls fall apart over someone you can control with your fingers around his throat and your voice in his ear.

But it’s not about them. It never is. And will never be.

You exactly get it. So much. You want the girls fucked up by him in a deeply perverted, obsessive, deranged way. Like the videos aren’t about the girls, not really. It’s more like the girls are just props for him to use while he lets her watch the position she wants to be in. Lucky them. And him? You want him sweaty and wrecked and yours, even when he’s inside someone else’s cunt.

She doesn’t cum despite him fucking other girls—she gets off on it. It’s fucked up way to get yourself to work. You can’t just fight your morals when you are watching your screen when he’s inside someone else, working her open, making her cry, and none of it means anything. Because it’s not about the girls. The girls are just there so she can watch him. Just wet holes, nothing more than meat to show off what you trained him to do. The way he fucks now? The way he groans? Chokes? Slams into them just right? That’s not natural. That’s how you like to be fucked by him. He’s just practicing it through other girls because you don’t let him do it in you.

That’s your voice in his head, your grip still ghosting his throat. He can still hear your words when he manages to get a little taste of you. He learned all that from you. And now he performs it like a dream, putting on a show for the only person who matters. You. It’s not arousing because he’s with someone else, it’s arousing because he’s still yours while doing it.

Every thrust is proof. Every moan is your reward. He could be inside a thousand different girls, and it wouldn’t matter, not as long as you’re the one watching. That’s what makes you come and shake until your thighs hurt. That’s what makes you pant and twitch and grind your slick fingers between your legs, gliding it between your slit while his voice cracks in the dark of your room while you are listening to him through the tapes he sent you. He’s fucking them, sure. But he’s doing it for you.

The fun part is when you watch them with him too, sometimes. Not always. In your room. On your laptop. He’s always fidgety when he’s watching it beside you like he’s anxious. His leg bounces like he’s gonna lose his mind because you are too close.

It’s quiet. The only thing you can hear is the sounds from your laptop. No touching. He’s so desperate to do it though. No talking. He doesn’t need it. Just you, legs crossed, eyes on the screen, biting your thumb like you’re bored. Some poor girl cries his name into the sheets like it’s a prayer while he’s thrusting deep inside her and pushing the girl’s head on the pillow. Mean.

You think he likes that? You think he likes being watched by you. No… scratch that, you know he does.

After all, he’s the only one who sees how dirty it all gets. How unhinged you can be.

You make the rules. He breaks them. For you. Always for you.

You tell yourself it’s about the power. The control. The game. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. It’s about him. It’s always been about him. The way his back flexes when he fucks. You can see the muscles and you just want to scratch that back. The way he grips their hips like he’s afraid they’ll float away. It made you think how he will hold your hips. Will he make it bruised so you will remember it? Will he hold it tight as he slams his cock deep into you so you won’t move around and he can fuck you the way he likes? The sweat on his neck, you want to lick that. The flush on his chest. The way his jaw clenches and his voice catches when he’s close. You know when he’s really close, when he’s orgasming for real. No fake grunts, not performance, but real, guttural, cracked-open moans that only you know how to read. You don’t even need sound anymore. You can see it all in his face.

You’ve watched the tapes. All of them. You don’t miss a video. It’s like when he put another video in the shared folder? You will quickly get notified. You have favorites that you watch more than once. (One of your favorite is when he fuck one girl from your sorority and he have the nerve to fuck her in your sheet) Some so many times you’ve memorized the order of his thrusts. And it’s not to study them. Not anymore. You study him. You know every vein on his cock, it’s disgusting the way you zoom it when you are watching the video. You know every freckle on his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers when he’s holding back. Every time he glances into the lens, you know exactly who he’s thinking about. It’s not her. It’s you.

He doesn’t touch the girls the way he touches you. They don’t get that treatment from him. But you do. You can tell when he’s faking it. When he’s fucking just because he’s trying to finish what she said to him, hips moving just enough to pass, eyes flat, mind somewhere else. The way he looks more on the camera. And you know exactly where that somewhere else is because that’s when you’ve been texting him. (He always message you when he’s going to start recording in his phone. You both don’t video call, no. He just records on his phone while you send them) During. Sometimes just one word at a time: slower. say her name. touch her throat. good boy. No emojis. No punctuation. You know he can see the messages in his notifications even though the sounds are silent. Just on vibrate. And he does it. Of course he does. Because he knows you’re watching.

When he nods, just barely, just enough to let you know he got the message although you don’t see it. You squeeze your thighs together and whimper without sound because you can only imagine what’s he’s doing with the girl. After all, he will only show the tapes after he fucked them.

The girls don’t matter. They never did. Why would they even matter to you? They’re faceless, replaceable , nothing but background noise to frame the real subject. He’s the center. The reason. Your brother. Your masterpiece.

Sometimes you come before he does when both of you watches it together. Bite the inside of your wrist just to stay quiet, panting into your sheets while he’s still pounding into someone else in the background of your laptop like it means something. And still, you keep watching. You like it too much. You don’t look away. You can’t. Just. Can’t. You don’t come for her. You don’t even come for you. You come for him. For the way his rhythm falls apart when he’s close. For the way he bites his lip like he’s trying to hold your name back. For the fantasy you’ve fed yourself so many times it feels like truth—that he’s not really fucking her at all. He’s fucking you, just through someone else’s body, just until you finally let him have the real thing.

You know he wants it. He yearns of it. Its’s too obvious anyway. You see it in how eager he is to please. To perform. Sometimes you just want to tease him about starting an OF because he basically has the talent for it. To be good for you. He thinks you’re the camera. But no. You’re the mirror. He’s always been looking into you.

And god, you love it. You love being the reason. The center of him being crazy. The god behind the curtain, legs sticky, heart steady, watching your perfect boy ruin someone else just to make you feel something. You’re not the audience. You’re the director. The producer. The pervert in the front row, getting off behind the curtain like it’s a private showing just for you. And you. do get off every time.

And the worst part? You don’t even feel guilty.

You feel alive.

And sometimes, only sometimes, you reward him.

Like the night he got that footage of the girl you couldn’t stand. You loved that one. He did a good job. She ended up whining and babbling through her orgasm like a dumb little puppy in his tape. You let him stay over that night. Pulled him into your bed. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t kiss him. You just tugged his shorts down and stroked his dick off while still watching the screen with you.

It’s filthy. Your hand is slick with his pre cum. So wet like a girl. Your eyes never leave the video. The girl crying. Him pounding her cunt from the back. You? Silent while rewarding him for a job well done.

You didn’t even look at his face until he came. You just run and circled your thumb on the slit of his tip while squeezing his cock. And him? He bit your neck a little too hard afterward. He even left a hickey, but you let him. He earned it.

He thinks he’s the corrupted one.

Thinks he’s the problem.

Thinks he’s dark for wanting you to see all of it. For wanting you to see him.

But that’s the joke.

He was already fucked before you. He’s already messed up. You know it. He knows it. You just made him honest about it. You made him embrace it around you. Taught him how to weaponize it. How to use it to his advantage. Put a mirror to his want and made him stare until he broke skin. It’s not sex. Not really. Just control. Yours. Always.

And maybe that’s why he comes to you that night like he’s got something to offer. (He always has, sometimes you just made hints feel he doesn’t) Like he’s got chips to play with when he’s already flat on the floor, bleeding out beneath your heel like a bunny that has been abandoned by his owner.

He leans in, smelling like cigarette smoke and some girl’s perfume he never even touched. Voice low like a secret, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers like a hedge in a fucking movie, and says, “About that little wager of yours?”

There’s that twitch in your smile. The one you trained to look polite. Your eyes twinkled. Curiosity sparkling. But you know. You fucking know, he’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet. He never does. And that’s the part that turns you on the most. Both of you like to play.

“Count me in,” he adds, with that cocky smirk that means he thinks he’s a game changer in this. Thinks he’s playing the game like you didn’t design the fucking whole thing, put the puzzles together, and made it possible to happen.

You don’t answer right away. You just hum while you trace the neck of your wineglass in a slow and lazy motion. You tilt your head like you’re thinking of continuing it or not. He stares. He always stares. You were made to be looked at.

“What are the terms?” he finally asks, and god, even his voice sounds fucked. Like it’s straining to stay casual. Like he’s grounding himself. Like it’s already halfway into a whimper. He always seems trying to hold back a moan when he’s around you is he not?

“If I win…” you start, and then you leave it. Just hang it in the air like a mystery. Heavy. Sticky. Sweet. Enough to tease him and you can already see it on his expression. The way his mouth parts a little and nods.

Then you finish it, “Then that hot little car of yours is mine.” Yeah, you know he loves it so much because it comes from his father.

He goes still, thinking, thinking, and thinking while jaw twitching, tongue pushing against his inside cheek like he’s trying to process it. Tries to act cool. Fails. You see it all, the flicker in his eyes, the pulse in his neck. You can see him getting worked up. Angry? Irritated.

“And if I win?” he manages, voices rough and deep.

You lean in like you’re gonna kiss him. Face inches close to him. But you don’t. You just stay close to him. You just breathe across his cheek and lean more so you can whisper in his ear, “I’ll give you what you’ve been obsessing about ever since our parents got married.”

And that? That’s the piece of chess you don’t say with a smirk. You say it flat. Mean. Nonchalant. Almost mocking. Like truth.

He stiffens, and you swear you can feel the temperature shift. Maybe he’s just turning you on.

“Be more specific,” he says, but it sounds like begging. He always begs.

You laugh. “In English…”

“I’ll fuck your brains out,” you smirk at him, almost testing him if he will quickly agree. He always does. Always. You feel like you wouldn’t be persuading him that much.

Silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that crackles. The kind that begs.

He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just somewhere near your mouth. “What makes you think I’d go for that bet?”

You shrug like it’s boring. Like it’s easy. He always agrees to the bet. Especially that price? She knows how badly he wants to fuck her in her pussy, deep, and her clenching him around his cock. She knows he dreamt of it.

“That’s a 1956 Jaguar roadster.” He huffs a laugh, but it sounds hollow. Like he’s already halfway to yes.

You tilt your head and say it. “Because I’m the only person you can’t have, and it kills you.”

That gets him. Gets him good. You watch it happen, his throat working around nothing, his fingers twitching, the way his knees shift like he wants to crawl under the table and beg. He masks it with a defensive “No way.”

But you lean back. Spread your legs just slightly beneath the table like it’s a reflex. Like you want him to look. Like you want him to lose. You even lift your skirt a little so he can see enough of your see-through panties that are hugging your cunt, which made your clit can’t breathe.

“You can put it anywhere.”

And that’s the fucking break. That’s when he snaps.

His mouth parts, eyes going blown black, and he breathes the words out like a fucking prayer.

“You got yourself a bet, baby.”

And just like that, you win again.

You don’t feel guilty. Not when you’re the one he wants. Not when every girl he touches is just a poor man’s version of you, so easy, so grateful, so forgettable. You don’t feel guilty because he’s the one sending you videos at 2 a.m., saying her name with your face in his head. Because he comes back to you every time, he always does even when he’s pretending not to. Even when he’s fucking someone else, he’s thinking of you.

You don’t feel guilty because you’re not the sidepiece, you’re the goddamn center of him. And you know it. You count on it. Let them call it twisted. Let them say it’s cruel. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. Because what you have is bigger than guilt, bigger than shame, it’s power, and it’s permanent. He’ll never shake you. Not when every orgasm is a confession. Not when every breakdown has your name buried in it. You don’t feel guilty. You just get horny and turned on.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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murdocksapostasy · 11 hours ago

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bob reynolds x therapist!reader

tags: use of pharmaceutical drugs, mentions of mental health struggles, slight fluff, mentions of depression, involuntary taking of medication kinda.?

warning: i’m not a mental health professional do not take anything written here as professional advice or truth. (i also know bob definitely has bipolar but im not writing about bipolar sry)

after the events of new york with bobs whole void situation, everyone thought it would be best if bob got some support for his mental health struggles, yelena especially. she really cares about bob and didn’t want him to fall deeper into his personal void.

so here’s where you come into play, a licensed psychiatrist who specialises in powered-people, and just so happens to be an old friend of yelena’s, by that we mean..the red rooms

still the dynamic between you and bob was friendly if anything, you were simply there to keep an eye on him, make sure he takes his pills and be a shoulder to cry on that can give him professional advice. and weren’t exactly useless to the other thunderbolts either. again, experience withred rooms and a degree in psychology.

when you first met bob he was very timid but soon enough your calm and caring approach got him pretty comfortable around you.

now, it’s the afternoon at the watchtower and you knock on the door of bobs room for a check up.

“bob.? can i come in.?”

you hear a faint yeah come from inside before walking in, there you see bob sitting in the corner of the room looking out the window. he looks at you with that wide eyed expression he always has,

“hey..”

“hi bob, how are you feeling today?”

you could already tell by his body language it was definitely gonna be a low day.

“uh, i don’t know i think i’m okay..”

“could you put that on a scale from one to ten for me?”

„like a four maybe.?”

your face doesn’t show it but you’re a little disappointed, not in bob. you’re very proud of the progress he’s making, you just don’t like when he’s upset.

“that’s alright. can i give you your pills bob?”

you say taking out a little plastic cup with a little white pill inside, you extend your hand towards bob kindly offering him the pill. (even though he has to take them)

bob hesitates, before nervously brushing off his resistance.

“i don’t know..i just”

“is everything okay?” you ask a little surprised

“yeah it’s just… is it normal to feel weak? for taking anti depressants i feel like i should be able to handle myself. i can’t help like feel im doing something wrong?”

your gaze softens, and silence fills the air only for a few seconds while you think of an good way to phrase your response.

“you’re not weak, whatsoever and this won’t last forever, we all need some extra support sometimes, i used to take tablets too.”

“really?” bob tilts his head in curiosity.

“mhm”

silence fills the room again only for a brief moment before an idea pops into your head.

“come here.”

bob is a little caught off guard by the request but complies anyways walking over to you.

you turn over the small plastic cup letting the singular table fall into the palm of your hand, you put your free hand on bobs chin opening his mouth before placing the tablet on his tongue and watching him swallow.

your hand stays on his chin a bit too long before you finally take it away handing him a bottle of water.

bob looks at you a little confused taking in what just happened, you’re not sure either it just felt right.

“t-thank you”

he says giving you a small smile.

“i’m proud of you”

you say walking towards him before placing a little kiss on his forehead.

#thunderbolts #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x reader #sentry #marvel fanfiction

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genderoutlaws · 10 hours ago

Note

hello. i would like to preface this by saying i am assuming you have good faith when doing this, and i do not mean to come across as aggressive or mean or anything else other than trying to inform you of something you may not have been aware of. i am on anon purely to avoid facing harassment. you may simply call me 🦞 anon if you wish to refer to me.

as a transmascneu person, please do not use tme (assuming you mean transmisogyny exempt). it is a phrase used to minimalise our struggles and is often used in a misogynistic/transmisandristic manner (check out the tag "transandrodorks" for examples of this) (normally it is stuff like "these stupid tmes dont know what real oppression is!!!"). a lot of the time, tme/tma are just used in the same way agab is. it isnt used in productive discussions about gender or bigotry. its normally just used to deny peoples experiences and get them to shut up.

transmasculine and transfeminine and other trans people do have some differences in oppression, but one is not more or less oppressed than the other. plus even statistics are unreliable, as many trans people are misgendered after death so they are never included in those statistics.

(tw for mentioning violence and transphobia) many trans men are forcibly impregnated and not allowed access into shelters if they come out because theyre "for women only". likewise lots of trans women are harassed in bathrooms for being visibly trans or if someone just knows theyre trans, and also not allowed in shelters because theyre not "real women". nonbinary people can face similar consequences depending on the society theyre in and how theyre perceived. i would not say either fate is better or worse than the other. theyre somewhat different experiences, sure, but would i say being murdered is worse than forcibly impregnated? absolutely not. theyre both awful things that happen because of misogyny, transmisogyny, exorsexism, and transmisandry.

transmisogyny can affect people who arent transfeminine (and vice versa for transmisandry/exorsexism). despite not being transfem, i myself have been affected by it in many ways. i am also a person of colour, so i get affected by it simply for being hairy or having a larger nose than most of my white peers. this is why transmisogyny-exempt isnt a useful term to describe people that arent transfem; lots of poc, nontransfem trans people, butches, and intersex people can be heavily affected by transmisogyny! even cis perisex men can be! to say that theyre not at all is denying them their experiences and their ability to talk about their own oppression.

if you do want to talk about people who are nontransfem, imo its better to just say nontransfem because that puts a better point across than "these people that are not affected by transmisogyny". for example, we say white and people of colour. we do not say racism exempt and racism affected. racism can affect white people (personal prejudices plus also being perceived as a person of colour). however it is generally understood that racism is more likely to affect poc. likewise, transmisogyny generally affects transfems the most, but nontransfems can definitely experience it! i would say it is probably better to put cis/transmasc/trans man/nonbinary/transneu/queer/another way to word your relationship with gender than tme, if you would like others to know. if you dont then your pronouns are fine cuz tbf it isnt actually anyones business to know anything except how to politely refer to you.

i am not here to preach how transmascs or nonbinary people are actually "more oppressed" than transfems. i do not believe this at all. all i would like to say is that i think the language of tme/tma is neither productive or used productively and we have better ways of putting our points across and talking about our relationships to gender or society. thank you and good night.

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godmadeaterribleerror · 20 hours ago

Text

Chapter 11 - Twice The Heart

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: field trip episodes i love you. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 14k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Bucky makes a call, and you both go on a... friend date.

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

Chapter 10 - Chapter 12

Read on A03!

Precautions were being taken.

That had been the first, blatant, obvious attack. Not just cryptic letters to induce fear. An attempt to take Her.

Hogan was upping the building security. Same-grade metal detectors they’d used at Stark’s compound, before it got blown up. Increased vetting on bags, and a panic button in Her office. Firm and thorough background checks into every single person who directly reported to Her, and new badges issued to select staff, allowing them up to Her office. If anyone else wanted an appointment, they’d have to do it online.

It had been floated that they simply stop allowing Her to have meetings. Hogan, Sam, and Bucky had been sat around a table to debrief, Hogan had floated shutting down all non-vital appointments, and Buck hadn’t bothered to try and hide his snort.

“Something funny, Barnes?”

Sam had sighed, and Bucky had just shrugged.

“Just how horribly that’ll work out for you.”

Hogan had said Her name with a glower. “She’s in danger. She’s afraid. If we tell her this is to keep her safe-“

“You think she’ll roll over and take it?” Bucky had raised his brows. “You’re just gonna be making more work for all of us. She won’t stop working unless we tie her to a chair, and I don’t think any of us want to do that.”

“You’re a super-solider.” Hogan had snapped. “And she’s got a big bark, but that’s all it is. If we don’t overcorrect then dial back, we might under correct and something will slip past us.”

Bucky’s jaw had clenched. “Nothing’s going to slip past me.”

“Not if we make sure she’s on lockdown, it won’t.”

“Hogan,” Sam had muttered, giving Bucky an odd look before he continued. “Bucky’s right. I’ve known her longer than either of you, and if you force her to sit on her ass, she’s gonna cut off her ass and keep going.”

Hogan’s nose had wrinkled. “That’s a… horrible and graphic metaphor.”

“But it stands.”

“I’m not sure it does-“

“It does.” Bucky had grunted, and he could still almost feel Her in his arms. Shaking and small and nervous, not long after She’d snapped at him to stop telling Her what to do. She’d push it. She’d push it right to the edge, then a little over until She fell.

And Bucky would catch Her. He’d gotten pretty damn good at catching Her. He’d even gotten good at anticipating the fall. If they did put Her on lockdown, he’d be able to keep Her there. He was a super-solider. There was no situation where She’d get this physical up on him.

But She’d glare and sneer and bite at him, if he forced Her to stay down. And whatever they’d been building, whatever had been making Her trust him, it would be smashed. She might never smile at him again. If She spoke to him, it wouldn’t be like some sort of loud, consuming cure.

Bucky was good at his job. And his mission was to keep Her safe, so he wouldn’t fail. Not for anything.

That wasn’t what he said though. Hogan had been glaring at him, and Sam had been giving him an even odder look, but Bucky hadn’t wavered on his position.

He just kept the real reason he didn’t want to lock Her up to himself. Sam and Hogan didn’t need to know that half of Bucky’s thoughts now just circled around Her. All the things he could do for Her, to Her, with Her. How whenever he saw Miles with Her, even heard the asshole’s name, he could taste fucking bile.

It might be that jealously he wasn’t supposed to be feeling.

He didn’t really care either way.

Bucky had bigger things to worry about than how��every time She looked at him, laughed with him, said his name or brushed Her fingers over his arm—he was made of a wildfire that burned only for Her.

“If we try to lock her up,” Bucky had grunted, holding Hogan’s gaze. “We’ll just lose her. She’s smarter than us. She’ll slip out, and we’ll lose any chance of keeping her safe.”

“So don’t let her slip out.” Hogan had snapped, and Bucky had shaken his head.

“I’m not looking to let her slip out. But she’s quick, and even these are going to be hard to get her to agree with. Don’t push it.”

Hogan had scowled. “I’m not doing a negotiation, Barnes. This is for her own good-“

Sam had snorted. “Yeah, tell her it’s for her own good. I’m sure that won’t end with a stapler in your forehead.”

“I don’t care if it does.” Hogan had sat a little taller, glaring between Bucky and Sam with a tight sort of destress. “We already slipped up once. That guy was one of ours. Director of marketing. If he’d gotten her, that would’ve been on my hands. And I promised Tony I’d look after her. It was in his fucking will. That if she’s doesn’t live to a million years old with a hundred cats, he’ll rise from the grave and murder me.”

Sam had frowned. “That ain’t how wills work-“

“Didn’t matter to Tony.” Hogan had grunted. “She not allowed to get fucking killed-“

“They weren’t trying to kill her.” Bucky had cut Hogan off with low words. “That was a knockout gas. They were trying to take her. Whatever they want from her, they want it alive.”

There had been a long, taut movement of silence, all of them staring at each other as it sunk in.

“That’s… a hell of a lot worse, isn’t it.” Sam had muttered. “Hydra doesn’t do prisoners.”

Bucky had given a tight nod. “But I’m not going to let that happen.” He’d focused on Hogan, trying to do the raise your chin and leave no room for argument thing She did. It didn’t feel that effective, so Bucky moved all his command into his voice. “But if you make it so I have to keep her safe from herself and Hydra, it won’t end in our favor.”

Hogan had scowled, eyeing Bucky wearily. “You’ve been taking days off?”

“Sunday and Monday.”

“Fine. I’ll give up on some of the measures, if you either drop your rest-days, or get a substitute guard-“

“I’ll drop the days.”

That had been an easy decision. More time with Her. More reasons to see Her, and talk to Her, and look at Her.

More chances to keep Her safe.

Because She really was in danger. That was the one thing they’d all been able to agree on. If Hydra wanted Her alive, She was in a lot more danger than they’d thought.

Bucky had never seen a case of that before. He’d done a lot of fucked up shit in Hydra’s name, but kidnapping had somehow never made its way onto the roster. The Soldat often scratched with memories of when Hydra wanted something, but they’d only ever wanted information. Information that would be on a hard-drive Bucky could steal, or in a head that Bucky could torture open, kill, and then report back. But they’d only been looking to knock Her out. That could be to bring Her to a secondary location, but if they just wanted information, Bucky couldn’t imagine what it would be.

They obviously had plants in Stark Industries. And She didn’t have any ex-S.H.I.E.L.D connections, or any access to the kind of Stark Technology that Hydra would want. She worked for the charity. And if Hydra wanted money, they’d be putting their efforts into getting it fast, instead of risking this exact scenario. Where everyone on Her side was on high alert, and they were going to have to work harder for what they wanted.

That didn’t line up either. When Hydra wanted something, they were never this sloppy about it. This desperate. In any other case, Bucky would’ve had a solid estimate for what all this meant.

But he didn’t have a goddamn clue. None of the information he had was lining up. She certainly didn’t have that doomsdays weapons Sam had mentioned, or access to any previous Hydra projects. She definitely wasn’t Hydra herself—Bucky dreaded the moment She remembered he’d thought that, because She might rip him in half—and She didn’t really have anyone that would sell Her-

Miles.

Fucking Miles.

Bucky needed to keep a harsher eye on Miles. He might still be unsure of when he’d have enough of a place to say something—about how Miles treated Her, about how She deserved better, about how when She was ready for better, Bucky was right fucking here—but this wasn’t about Bucky’s growing hunger for Her. This was about his mission.

Keep Her safe. From Hydra, and Herself, and anything else.

He had no evidence Miles was up to something. Just the boiling and twisting feeling in his gut. But he’d work on that.

For now, all Bucky knew was that whatever Hydra wanted, it started and ended with Her.

And he’d been getting nightmares.

New nightmares.

Where the face of whatever long dead person Bucky had tortured as the Soldat shifted into Her face, and he couldn’t stop himself for carving Her up. Where they were on the street, Bucky looked away for one fucking second, and then She vanished. Then Bucky would tear through crowds, but he could never fucking find Her.

Worst, where Bucky did find Her, and all the life was gone from Her beautiful face.

And She wasn’t dead.

She was just a shell. And Pierce or Rumlow or Karpov—no matter that they were all long dead—were wrapped around Her with venomous smiles. Touching Her. And She just stood there, a hollow void in Her eyes where the Moon used to be.

Bucky wouldn’t let that happen. He’d rip off his other arm before he let anything like that happen.

So Hogan got almost all of his measures, save for the one’s She’d actively fight against. Sam was going to be moving all his efforts into working on the Hydra code. Bucky was going to keep by Her side.

And Her secrets. Their secrets.

Bucky had somehow worked himself into a position where they had secrets.

“I hate this.” She muttered, lying flat on the floor with a cute little scowl. “I feel like I’m in a fucking prison.”

“You wanted to be here, Butterfly.” Bucky drawled, letting his amusement creep into his voice. “You coulda stayed at home-“

“No. We- I’d rather be here.” She wrinkled Her nose at the ceiling. “Doesn’t meant I have to like it. And don’t,” She leaned Her head back a little further, narrowing Her eyes at Bucky. “Tell me it’s for my safety. I got the lecture from Sam and Happy. If you give it to me, I’ll throw you off the roof.”

Bucky chuckled. “I don’t think you could pull that off, kid.“

“I could. I told you, Buck. I’m wily. So don’t fucking test me.”

Her glower was adorable. All of this was adorable. Her finger pointed up at Bucky, the slight pout of Her lips, and how She wasn’t moving from the floor as She threatened him. Hogan really had been right about that. Her bark was loud and strong, but Her bite seemed to be limited to Her words. And whatever threats She was making, Bucky knew they were hollow.

That didn’t seem to stop Her from making them.

And Jesus, it only drove him a little more insane. Made him imagine Her tackling him, and he’d pry Her off his body with ease before laying Her back down and pinning Her to the floor. Just like She’d been on the couch, during the attack. Just like She was now, only Bucky wouldn’t be keeping himself at a respectable distance. He’d be pulling Her apart with fingers deep in Her cunt, making Her shake with pleasure rather than fear, and She’d shine for him. Bucky would work Her until She was relaxed and glowing under him, and he’d take good fucking care of Her-

He needed to stop. He couldn’t think about Her like that. It barely made him better than the suits, or the men in his nightmare. She was more than that. She was a smart mouth and a lot of giggling.

But maybe She’d giggle under Bucky. Maybe he’d tease Her, and She’d giggle for him-

He was going to throw himself off the roof.

“James-“

“No testing you.” He said, smirking down at Her because he couldn’t fucking help himself. “Got it.”

“Good.” She frowned up at him, and he didn’t break Her gaze. At least he had a good excuse to look at Her, now. “I’ve got the papers, by the way. Do you- Can I show them to you?”

He gave a short nod—looking at the papers was the whole point of the meeting, but She was too cute and nervous to correct or tease—and She let out a long breath, pushing up on Her palms.

“Have you-“

“Sam doesn’t know.” Bucky muttered, offering Her a hand.

She took it.

She let Bucky help Her up. And he’d used the metal hand, but it was still spreading the fuzzy, aching warmth over his body.

Christ, he was fucked.

“Okay. I brought the papers. And Miles- Don’t make that face.”

Bucky scowled. “I didn’t make a face.”

“Yes, you did.” She crossed Her arms, raising Her chin. That was how the no room for argument thing was supposed to look. “You made the disapproving face.”

“I don’t have a disapproving face-“

“Yes, you do.” She took a step forward, and Bucky froze as Her hand lifted up to his face. “You get lines here, and your mouth does a line like that.”

She was touching him. Tracing over his nose and cheeks. This was worse than Her touching his arm. This was so much fucking worse. Bucky could only stare at Her with wide eyes, trying not to lick his lips when She was this close. He could smell Her shampoo again. And when Her feather-light touch moved over his brow—pushing it into a wrinkle as She kept talking about his alleged disapproving face—Bucky felt a little fucking dizzy.

He didn’t know how to move away. He should move away. This wasn’t helping him hold onto control, and She had a boyfriend. A boyfriend they were talking about, right now.

A boyfriend who wouldn’t touch Her like Bucky could, if he grabbed Her wrist and crashed his lips into Hers. Miles probably didn’t give Her anything. Bucky would give Her whatever She asked for, then have Her begging for more—bouncing on his cock with Her tits in his mouth, and Her face open and fucked out as Bucky gave Her everything—and his cock was twitching in his pants, but he couldn’t think about his friend like that-

“I know you don’t like him.” She mumbled, still not drawing Her hand back. “Sam doesn’t either. Just please don’t make that face.”

Bucky just grunted, forcing down a shout of then why are you with him.

It didn’t slip past him, though. How She wasn’t asking Bucky to give Miles a chance. Just to not make that face.

He added that to his log. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he added it all the same.

“Bucky-“

“Fine.” he grumbled, keeping his eyes locked on Her’s. “What were you gonna say.”

She sighed, and—in both a mercy and a torture—drew Her hand back. “Miles thinks I’m here to do work. I still haven’t told him about this, and if he shows up, I need you to hide.”

Bucky blinked at Her. “To hide.”

“Yes, please.” She gave him a smile that was filled with sorrow. And he didn’t understand why, but the Moon was rolling around in Her eyes, She was slumping slightly, and there was something so soft and sad all over Her features, to the point it might drive him insane.

He could push it.

He could demand to know why the hell She was so sad.

But Bucky was already about to push it. To test his luck. And She was still so fragile.

He couldn’t afford to break Her. It might be the worst sin he’d ever commit.

“Fine.” He muttered, and Her smile grew.

“Thank you.”

Bucky grunted. He didn’t want Her thanks. He just wanted to make things better. “Papers?”

She nodded, walking back to Her desk and pulling out a stack of loose papers from Her bag. “I, um- I didn’t think anyone else would be reading them. So they’re kind of in a shorthand, and-“

“I’ll figure it out.” Bucky took the papers, scanning over the top one. “Lotta numbers.”

“Yeah, um, most of it is numbers.”

Bucky hummed, dropping down onto the couch as he continued to read.

She was silent above him. Too silent. And still. When Bucky glanced up at Her, She had her hands behind Her back, Her head slightly bowed as she watched him, and Her lips were in a tight, nervous pout.

It made Bucky’s gut clench and twist. “Sit down.”

She blinked at him, but listened. In barely a second, She was right at Bucky’s side. Legs folded under Her, fingers rubbing at Her own skin, watching him with wide doe-eyes.

Jesus Christ.

She’d never listened to him that fast, without some sort of threat bouncing over their heads. The wildfire was searing, where Her knee was bumping against his. Bucky’s fist curled at his side—hidden from Her sight—because all he could think about was grabbing Her. Pulling Her right into his chest until Hydra was something blurred in the distance for both of them. Until She had to be safe, because Bucky was wrapped around Her all the time. The same way Miles had been in Sam’s kitchen, only he’d never shove Her away. And She’d be doing most of the talking, and Bucky would just kiss along Her neck, sucking little marks for everyone to see. To know She was under his protection, and they wanted to even look at Her in a way She wouldn’t want, they’d have to go through Bucky first.

Bucky was looking at Her in a way She might not want. He wasn’t any better than the suits, and all the men who’d been forced into bed with. He might be worse. She trusted him, and he was fantasizing about shoving his face between Her legs-

Control.

Bucky cleared his throat, making sure any lingering want was gone by the time he spoke. “Here’s the deal, Butterfly. You ready?”

She nodded, Her eyes still wide on his, and Bucky raised his brows.

“Words would be nice, sweetheart.” He made his voice a drawl. A taunt. Those always spurred Her on the best. “Where’d that smart mouth go?”

All he got was a fucking flush. She wasn’t making this easy. “I’m ready,” She whispered, and Bucky really wanted to know where this version of Her had been the whole time.

It was a little like a bird. Sweet and beautiful, with an enchanting voice and so high above Bucky. Even if it landed on his shoulder, it could flutter away with one wrong move. He liked it almost as much as the feral parts of Her. Maybe he could blend them together, with the right touches and words.

He really was losing his mind.

“Alright.” He cleared his throat again, forcing his attention back to the papers. Focus. “We’re not gonna tell Sam. Business as usual, as far as he’s concerned. And it’s not cause we’re hiding it from him, but-“

“That sounds exactly like hiding it from him.” She said, a small, teasing smile back on Her face, and that was better. Bucky liked this version of Her too, even if it drove him insane.

He’d been insane before anyway.

At least this kind of insane had Her. Felt good.

“It’s not.” He grumbled, and Her grin grew. “We’re just forgetting to tell him.”

“And if he asks?”

“He won’t.”

She giggled. “Solid plan, Sargent.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Smooth-“

Bucky drawled Her name, narrowing his eyes, and She cut herself off. Fucking hell, She might actually just be a Hydra asset, sent Her to be beautiful and give Bucky a heart-attack. “You gonna listen?”

Her nod was small, and the doe-eyes were back. “Yes.”

“Good.” Bucky forced himself to ignore Her flush. Friends. “If Sam finds out, he’ll stop us from looking into this. He obviously doesn’t want you tangled in the actual operation, and I’ve been told to focus on keeping you safe-

“Awww.” She grinned at him. “You want me to be safe-“

Bucky covered Her mouth with a hand and shot Her a firm glare. He’d seen the nerves all over Her pretty face. Knew that if they were talking about Her personal safety, she wouldn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t even sure She could help herself from pushing it, from trying to squirm Her way out of the conversation, even if She’d started it.

But this was Bucky’s mission.

He wasn’t going to fail it for anything.

And She didn’t push him away. The look in Her eyes wasn’t afraid or angry. It was only the Moon shining, and a triumphant sort of pride turning with it. The wildfire was going to turn into a fucking hurricane of flame and need. Bucky was screwed.

“Of course I want you to be safe.” He grumbled. She wasn’t allowed to think anything else of him. “So listen. If Sam finds out we’re doing this, he’ll stop us. So, until we’ve got something solid, we keep this between us. Got it?”

She nodded, and Bucky sighed, pulling his hand down.

“Sorry.” He scanned over Her carefully. “Needed you to listen.”

She just shrugged, and Bucky wasn’t sure if that was another flush, or if he was going insane. “That’s okay. I wouldn’t shut up-“

“Don’t care about that.” He grunted, forcing his gaze back to the papers. “You were tryin’ to see if you could distract me.”

She gave a mock gasp. “I would never.”

Bucky shot Her an amused look, a chuckle escaping his chest before he could stop it. “Sure, Butterfly. Here.”

She frowned as Bucky reached down to his bag, but he’d come prepared for this. She wouldn’t try to talk her way around things if he distracted Her. Occupied Her with her order from the deli, and a cherry coke, and-

Her eyes widened as Bucky pulled out the paint pens, and shoved them into Her hands.

“James-“

“You can draw on my arm if you fucking listen. Deal?”

“But the tech-“ “It’s resilient. I’ll clean it after. Deal?”

She looked between Bucky’s set, determined face–he would get Her to focus, even if it fucking killed him—and the pens. Then She nodded, and Bucky grinned.

He won. She would listen.

Bonus—horrible, selfish bonus—She’d be touching him.

“Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Bucky extended his metal arm, and She hummed, tracing over the metal plates with too gentle fingers.

He took it back. This was already a horrible idea. She trailed over the hook of his elbow, and he was going to lose his goddamn mind.

Control.

Bucky coughed, and forced himself back into control.

“I’ll look over these, and see if I recognize anything. Then I’ll work out what we’ll do about Zemo, but I’m telling you now,” he said Her name, and She looked up to him with big doe-eyes again.

Shit.

“I, uh-“ Control. “I’m not bringing Sam here. And if it can be avoided, we’re not talkin’ to him at all. Got it?”

“Okay.” She nodded, looking back down to Bucky’s arm and drawing a little pink heart on it. “What else?”

“Uh.” Bucky cleared his throat, staring at the pattern She was starting to make around the black and gold of his arm. It was made of more hearts, and flowers, and strange little star shapes. It was almost half as beautiful as She was. “We need to have a conversation.”

“We’re having a conversation right now, Buck.”

Fuck. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He could do this. He could push it, and deal with the consequences. “It’s a… personal. Conversation.”

She paused, blinking up at him with Her hand still on his forearm. It was a goddamn miracle he was thinking straight at all. “What kind of personal conversation?”

“We need to figure out why Hydra might be targeting you.” He muttered, holding Her gaze. “And I know you’re private-“

“No, I’m not.”

It was Bucky’s turn to blink. “Yes, you are-“

“No, I’m not.” She looked back to Her pens with a slightly softer voice. “We just weren’t friends. And I… I dunno. I how what you’ve been through. Bitching about how I tried to kill myself a few times felt... uncouth.”

Bucky could only stare at Her, even his head stuttering over words. All he could manage was a slightly dumb, “Uncouth?”

“Really rude.”

“Ah.” He still felt a little like his brain was doing a sort of scratching, uneven short-stop. Like a bad record on a player. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe Bucky was a cyborg.

“Are you-“

“I’m fine.” He grunted, forcing himself to find some words. “What- Uh- Does anyone know about it?”

“The killing myself?”

“Yeah.”

She paused, scanning over him carefully. “Do you want the real answer, or the comfortable one?”

“Real.” Buck didn’t hesitate before he answered. He didn’t care what She offered him, as long as it was real. And he didn’t back down, as She stared at him for another long second.

She relented with a sigh. “My parents knew about two of them, when they were with me. Charlie knows about one. Sam knows about almost all of them.”

That was good. At least Sam knew. But- “Almost?”

“There was one during the blip.” She mumbled. “I just… Never told him. He’d get annoyed that I hid it for so long, then angry at Tony for letting it happen, and that wouldn’t be helpful cause Tony’s dead, and I never told him either. I was just lonely. In a lot of pain, and really- It was hard. And Sam shouldn’t blame himself for not being there.” She paused, frowning up at Bucky. “Please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t.” Bucky grunted, and he wouldn’t. She’d trusted him. He wouldn’t break that. He’d only file it that deep in his log, and highlighted safe from Herself on the bylines his mission. “I have a question.”

“I might have an answer.”

“Charlie is your… brother.”

“Sibling.” She pressed another flower onto Bucky’s arm. “Non-binary. That means-“

“I know what I means.” Bucky muttered. “Sam made me take a sensitivity course. Not that I needed it.” His words were quick, but if Bucky was going to stick around—and he wanted to—She couldn’t think that he wouldn’t be good to people. Bucky was angry and bitter at people, but he’d always tried to be good. Wasn’t much point in better if he didn’t. “But Sam still wanted me to.”

“Okay.” She hummed, offering Bucky a small smile that nearly knocked the air of his lungs. “What am I supposed to tell you?”

Bucky stared at Her for a little too long before he realized what She was talking about. The personal conversation.

The whole point of this.

“Whatever you can.” He said carefully, watching Her for a reaction as he spoke. “Anything. I mean, I still don’t know how you met Sam”

Bucky tried to offer Her a smile, and it came out too tight, but She didn’t seem to mind.

She just hummed, matching it with Her perfect, artful smile and slow words. She was thinking, as She spoke.

And it didn’t seem to be to hide something.

She was just taking this seriously.

“My dad was an engineer. Air force. He specialized in experimental technology.” She gave Bucky a pointed look. “Can you guess something he might have invented?”

Bucky frowned, the pieces moving too slowly in his head, and- “Ah.”

“Yep.” She looked back to Bucky’s arm. “Sam and Ron were his favorites. His pseudo-sons. My cool big brothers who could fly, and my mom hated, because she hated everyone. Especially people my dad liked. Then Ron got blown up, and my dad took it… hard. Started drinking. Sam tried to help, but it wasn’t something that started with Ron. Just got worse, until it hit a breaking point. Then it was just my mom, and I’d only see Sam whenever it was too much, and he could help me slip away. After Hydra collapsed, I took my siblings on the run to avoid the government separating us, and he lost me for a while. Then Steve Rogers found my new contact in a notebook of some Hydra big-name, and he tracked me down. Took care of us until I turned eighteen, and I became by sibling’s legal guardian. And even then, he was still family.”

Bucky nodded slowly, moving things around in his log. Sam was basically Her brother. Her parents were dead, and She’d taken care of her siblings.

Sam had done for Her what Bucky had tried to do for Steve.

She’d said Sam hadn’t known what She’d done, but Bucky was willing to bet Her name wasn’t in that notebook for reasons that didn’t make him sick.

A few leads. Hydra big-names had hurt Her, and Her mom had been involved. But Bucky doubted the would’ve seen Her as more than just a body, or told Her anything of substance. And Her Mom had been dead since Hydra fell—Bucky needed to sit down and do some math later—so there would be no reason to strike Her now. He needed more information.

“What about your extended family?” He asked carefully. “They didn’t take you?”

“Nope. My mom burned a lot a bridges. On both sides.”

“How many siblings do you have?” This wasn’t going to help Bucky figure out the Hydra thing. He wanted to know anyway.

“Two. Charlie and Tommy. Charlie’s finishing up grad school, and Tommy’s in his second year of college. Neither blipped.”

Bucky grunted. “Do they know about your history?”

“No.” She mumbled, frowning at the flowers. “Charlie knows I had a job. They don’t know what. And- All the Hydra guys were before Sam found me again. I was younger. More desperate.” She let out a long breath. “Those are the only ones I wish I could take back. They hated me just as much as they… liked me.”

She was shrinking Her into Herself, and Bucky wanted this to be done. He had almost enough.

God, he wished it was enough.

“What about your childhood?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I- I don’t really remember it. There were long periods in the hospital. And these- Images. Snapshots. But they’re all glossy and-“ Her fingers curled on Bucky’s arm, Her voice suddenly a little urgent. “Have you ever seen like, a plastic plant? Or a person who’s done a lot of plastic surgery?”

“Yeah-“

“They’re like that.” She whispered, Her eyes wide on his. “I mean, some of them are. And they’re my memories, I know they happened, but I- I don’t know. It’s mostly just a lot of color and sound.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched, and he stored it in his file.

But that was enough.

“Alright.” He looked down at his arm. “Good job. I look like I got attacked by a pre-school.”

She flushed, tracing Her fingers over one of the flowers, and Bucky was going to break his teeth. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” She mumbled, and Bucky couldn’t stop his grin.

“You can take it however you want, Butterfly.”

“I will.”

“I know.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her flush deepened, and Bucky’s grin grew as the wildfire ripped through him. He was barely fucking better than a fucking dog. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

She gave him a confused look—pouting and teeth between Her lips—and Bucky was going to go insane. “Bucky, tomorrow’s Sunday-“

“We still doing the aquarium?”

He tried to ask the question carefully. Like it didn’t matter at all. If She didn’t want to go to the aquarium, he was a grown ass man. A war vet. And he was doing it for therapy, so Bucky didn’t need Her there at all. He wanted Her there. He wanted Her there so fucking much.

He wanted to watch Her move around and talk like at the hospital, but it would just be them. Just Her and Bucky, and everything in his head would be quiet because She’d be there and beautiful, and goddamnit, he wanted to tease Her about the fish thing again and see if She flushed and played with Her hair-

“Yes, please.” She whispered, and Bucky nodded.

Please.

She wanted to be there. He wasn’t making Her. Bucky didn’t want to be in the business of making Her do anything. He’d toss Her around and hold Her down when it was about objective safety, and Her being insane, but even then, he’d find Her line and never cross it.

It wasn’t touching him. Or sitting next to him. Or looking at him.

She kept talking to Bucky all day, too. And She talked to everyone, but Christ, he wanted this to be different. He wanted Her to tell him whatever She wanted. He wanted to keep being safe for Her.

Bucky hadn’t been safe for someone in so fucking long. And She had too much going on for that to be a light choice. She’d been hiding the Hydra code stuff the whole time—and he’d need to have a firmer conversation with Her about that, once he stopped feeling so dizzy when She smiled at him—and trusted Bucky to tell first. She’d asked him to help Her. No one else. Just Bucky.

And he was Her friend. That was getting bigger by the second.

Being Her friend meant something. Maybe not what Bucky wanted it to mean—with his hands skimming on Her bare skin whenever he wanted, and his lips brushing her’s just for the hell of it—but something. She wanted to know about it. She wanted him around. To talk to, and joke with, and share things with.

Bucky liked sharing things with Her. He wanted to tell Her more and more about himself, because it wasn’t like with Raynor. He wasn’t trying to justify it, or pretend it didn’t scratch at the back of his skull all the time. He was just saying them because She was easy to tell.

She tended to get them.

And Bucky was starting to really get Her.

All the colors and cracks and woven patterns that made Her up.

Art.

All of Her seemed to be art. And Bucky needed to get better at that stuff. For Her.

He wanted to start doing stuff for Her.

That was new.

Bigger than a crush.

He could never have Her—for some many fucking reasons, the images and ideas in Bucky’s head would have to stay fantasies—but he wanted Her.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. She tended to wipe Her face with her hand when She ate, and Bucky wanted to grab them and clean them, then lecture Her about manners while She smiled at him. It was getting late, when he looked at his watch. And he wanted to stay with Her longer, but he knew he’d see Her tomorrow.

He liked that She smiled at him all the time now. Bucky hadn’t been drunk in a damn long time, but he was pretty sure the closest he was going to get was Her smiling at him. About nothing but him opening the door for Her, or making a grumbling joke, or giving his thoughts on something. That last one always made Her fucking beam. Bucky wanted to make Her beam all the fucking time.

He didn’t like that he had to bring Her back to Her apartment. Back to Miles. Back to someone who wasn’t going to look at Her with their full attention, and who didn’t care to try and catch Her as She bounced off the walls. Bucky wanted to have that job. It was one he was good at already, and maybe he’d get to throw Her down onto a bed, She’d giggle at him, and he’d-

Friends.

Control.

Bucky really needed to get himself under control. He wanted to be there for Her, however She needed, but he fucking couldn’t if everything She did made his skin warm and his pants tight.

He wanted Her.

Almost all the time now, some part of Bucky was dedicated to wanting Her. His hands to doing things for Her like opening doors and catching Her. His eyes to watching Her. His skin to trying to brand itself with Her fleeting touch, and his mind to logging everything about Her he could, to have Her a little more.

Bucky was made of want.

It was new. Strange.

Better.

Things were better. Really fucking impossibly, things were so much better.

And he was still angry, but Bucky would be able to use that anger. It wasn’t made of pointless and bitter sorrow about Steve leaving and it’s not fair.

Nothing was fair.

But Bucky wasn’t going to just roll over and take that. And if anyone deserved to have someone be really, truly angry for them, it was Her. Things were shit for Her too, but she was never fully angry about it. Not where anyone could see. Bucky had seen Her annoyed and hurt and shaking and furious, but never angry. She’d bitch about those dumbass lawyers, but never just fire them, because they had families. When Sam had shoved Bucky on Her at the start She’d been pissed, but She’d forgiven him too. When Bucky had made a face about Miles, She’d just sighed.

Bucky had seen the Moon, rolling and shifting and swirling with Her moon. During the Hydra accusations. It had been furious. A little terrifying, like it could rip into him and shred him apart. But even then, She’d pulled it back and forgiven him. Too fast.

But Bucky could be unforgiving for Her. He could use the anger for Her.

And he more than planned to.

“You know I am quite busy, Sargent Barnes-“

“Bucky.” He muttered, glaring at the laptop She’d made him get. Handed to him. Insisted he take, or She’d set on fire right fucking there.

Bucky could’ve called Her bluff. It would’ve been really damn easy, because She really was all bark and no bite.

But She’d gotten him something, and if he didn’t take it, She might’ve been sad. Or offended. Or stopped giving Bucky things.

So he’d taken it.

But it was still annoying as hell. Shuri was in a little box, and Bucky was in a smaller box, and it had taken five minutes for Shuri to tell him how muting worked.

“My apologies, Bucky.” Shuri grinned at him—eyes still dancing with amusement about the muting thing—and he sighed. “If your arm is experiencing issues, I can request that Mr. Wilson have it sent-“

“No.” Bucky sat a little taller, shaking his head. “The arm is great. Amazing. And Sam cannot know about this.”

Shuri raised her brows. “Are we keeping secrets?”

“Yes. No. It’s-“ Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frowning at the air. “I need a favor. And it’s one Sam’s gonna be pissed about.”

“What is a favor?” Shuri gave Bucky a firm look. “Is it a gun or a new addition to the arm? Because then I will do it happily. But there are other things that might not be as easy.”

Bucky braced himself, giving Shuri a grimacing look. “You’re not gonna like it. And let me explain, before you say no.”

“Bucky-“

“I want Zemo.” Bucky pushed right through the look of shock on Shuri’s face. “I know. But this isn’t like last time. I want him on a monitored call or in a secure meeting place. The Dora Milaje will be there. But I’ve got some questions for him, and I need them answered soon. It’s life or death.”

Shuri didn’t say no. She just studied Bucky through the screen for a long moment, before saying, “Whose life or death?”

“My- My friend.”

“You do not have friends, Bucky.”

He scowled. “You’re my friend-“

“I am a princess from another continent. We do not speak frequently. Your only other friend is Mr. Wilson, and you wish to keep this from him.”

“It’s our mutual friend. She’s known Sam a while, and if he finds out about this, he’ll be angry. But it’s really important, Shuri. Wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that.” Shuri shrugged. “I will speak to my brother and Okoye and see what we can do. But,” the grin returned to her face, and Bucky swallowed.

That couldn’t be good.

“Who is your lady friend?”

“She was Sam’s lady friend first.” Bucky grumbled. “Kinda like his little Steve. And it’s not important-“

“You do not get Zemo, if you don’t tell me.”

Fuck.

He was cornered.

Bucky had to grumble Her name, keeping his face perfectly fucking blank instead of covered in want. “She’s been getting Hydra threats. We think Zemo’s involved, and we have to check.”

Shuri frowned. “Why do I recognize that name-“

“She worked with Stark.”

“No,” Shuri shook her head. “It is not that. There is another reason-“

“She’s been talking about some Wakandan vaccines a lot.” Bucky said carefully. “Could be that.”

“That is it. I’ve been researching her office before I approve the bid.” Shuri’s face morphed back into the mocking grin. “I’ve seen some pictures. She is quite beautiful.”

Bucky sighed. Shuri didn’t know the half of it.

“And her bids are well written. Moving.”

“Yeah, well, she writes them all herself. Do I get Zemo or not?”

“You’ll get Zemo. I will want more information though, before I present it to my brother-“

“I’ll email you.”

“Do you know how to email-“

Bucky grumbled Her name, ignoring how Shuri’s grin grew. “I’ll have her email you. And-“ He paused.

It might not be worth it.

He might be pushing it.

Shit, he was going to do it anyway.

“Could you toss in the vaccines, too? She’ll be good with them.”

“Alright.” Shuri shrugged, and Bucky sat up a little straighter.

He hadn’t made this for Her.

It was still really fucking something. Something that She’d wanted. That Bucky had gotten for Her.

Shuri hung up after that, and Bucky was still sitting tall. With pride.

He’d done things for Her. He was going to get answers out of Zemo, somehow—he wasn’t sure yet, but he’d figure it out in the moment—and She’d be safe.

Things were getting better.

For the first time, Bucky could say things were better, and fully fucking mean it.

That was sort of terrifying.

He didn’t want it to stop.

——————

Weekends are Hell, when Miles is home.

The Show never stops. Smile and sickly-sweet words, touch him like you want to and never speak out of turn. Move and move and freeze when you need to, rest only when it can be afforded because he’s busy.

Navigate the Labyrinth of whatever mood he’s in today, and know that—if you’re lucky—you’ll curl up with the Boy on the bathroom floor when the minotaur goes to sleep.

If you falter one step, Miles catches it, and it ends in makeup and long shirts.

You’re trapped with him.

Nobody knows how bad it is, so you’re locked in the cage with the monster you made, and there’s never been a reasonable excuse to escape. Miles wouldn’t stop you from going to work before—the less he actually sees you, the less he has to speak to you and hear your whiny, weird voice—but Happy would.

You don’t blame him.

He doesn’t know by design.

Nobody knows by design. You don’t want their pity. It’s the only other thing that you never tell people. And even then, sometimes you’ll pull out the prostitution card to win an argument. Nobody needs to know about this. There’s too much to explain. They’ll try to make you leave him, or they’ll get the cops involved, or Sam will throw him off a roof, and they can’t. It’s a matter of survival, that the weekends stay horrible, and you stay a little too alive on the bathroom floor, and you survive.

It was supposed to be all about Survival.

Secrets and the Show and no friends was for survival.

Keeping Bucky at a distance was supposed to be about survival. And this… Going to the aquarium with someone Miles has told you he doesn’t trust. Doesn’t want you near or around.

It will end badly, if Miles finds out your office weekend ban didn’t get lifted.

So you’ll just be careful.

If you’re being this fucking stupid about a crush, you have to be careful.

It’s just the aquarium. Friends go to aquariums together all the time. And you’re really going because you get in free, and Bucky’s bad at name dropping.

But he could make Sam go with him. Sam probably gets in free too.

He asked you.

And it’ll be fine. You’ll be careful.

You’re perfect and compliant, the whole morning. Miles is working today—he always works on Sunday mornings, something about them being good for business—so you make him breakfast and kiss his cheek and swallow your vomit. He tells you about how he’s made good deals, and how they’re going to affect global trade, and then reminds you that don’t worry your pretty little head about it, honey. You wouldn’t understand if you tried.

You manage not to scream that you do understand. Not how the Dow Jones works—nobody knows how the Dow Jones works—but how supply chain boosts can be good for the economy, because you’re not a fucking idiot.

But that wouldn’t be careful.

So you smile, and take it. Then whatever he wants from you, you give. You just have to hold on a few hours, until Bucky gets here.

“I thought you were driving your bike?” You’d frowned at him yesterday, when he’d mentioned he’d grab you tomorrow.

“I’m driving whatever you’ll go in with me.” He’d muttered, glowering out at the road. “You can even drive the car, if you want. But we’re stepping up your security. No going out alone.”

You’d swallowed, and nodded. “Do you still get days off?”

“No.”

“James-“

“Would you rather have me, or some random assholes?”

He’d shot you a challenging look, and you’d stuck your tongue out at him. “Shut up.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I-“

“I want a real answer, kid.” Bucky had smirked at you. “C’mon. You want me around.”

“Bucky-“

“Say it.”

He’d been looking at you, and using the commanding voice, and you’re too far gone.

It’s not controlling you. You don’t think he even knows how easily you fold when he does that. How he’ll pierce right into that fluttering thing, it will burst fireworks over your ribs, and by the time the Mist has started to climb you’re gone. You just want him to keep looking at you like it’s something you want to see. Telling you things that you trust him not wield like blade against you later. Bucky wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t grab chunks of you then turn them into weapons to control you.

He doesn’t need to.

“Butterfly-“

“I want you around.” You whisper, and you’re rewarded with another Look. Only the nostril flare, and the stone-like neutral features.

His voice is rough, when he speaks. You want to hear it forever. “Good. Car or bike.”

“Do you want to ride your bike?”

“That’s not-“

“Bucky.”

He’d shot you a glare—blink, nostrils, tongue-thing—and sighed. “Yes.”

“Okay.” You’d shrugged, turning your hair between your fingers. “Bike.”

He’d grunted, and the conversation had moved on.

Bucky would pick you up in the bike, and that was it.

You’ll be free when Bucky gets here.

That’s a thought that’s dangerous to have. Lines have begun to weave together in your head, and they’re so dangerous.

Bucky’s tied to the idea of freedom. He’ll be here and you won’t have to put on the Show, and that’s freedom. He’s woven with the idea of comfort, as well. You’ll be able to eat more, and better, because you’ll be sharing the food with him. He’ll see you, and that doesn’t hurt anymore. You’ll just keep fluttering and smiling under his attention, and you’ll bite at him, but he’ll just chuckle and take it. Talking to you like you’re a person.

Listening to you and looking at you like there’s not anything ugly and burning in you.

Grinning at you, and playing the game.

You’re losing.

And winning.

Your crush is starting to barrel out of control, slipping through your fingers into an intoxicating mist before you can stop it, and the lines and rules of any game are far too blurred.

“Catch.” Bucky tosses your sandwich at you in the garage, and you squeak, flying back to avoid it.

The sandwich splatters on the ground, and you and Bucky stares at you.

He’s grinning.

It’s handsome and strong and shining in his eyes, and the Mist is building and building and building in your spine without relent.

“What happened, Butterfly?”

“I- You didn’t warn me!” You glare at him, kneeling down to clean up the mess, and he shrugs.

“I said catch.”

“I wasn’t ready-“

“Obviously not.” You feel him grab the hook of your elbow, and when you look up, he’s right above you.

Something in your body starts to go molten and loose, as you just stare at each other. Bucky’s doing the fucking tongue thing again, and it’s taking a lot of effort not to slump forward against his legs. But you just want to see what he does. If he tangles a hand in your hair and mutters low praise like in your dreams, if he kneels down so that you’re on the same, even ground. Then maybe he’ll wrap you in the heat you can feel from his body, if he picks you up and carries you to safety-

Safety.

The biggest thread making up Bucky is safety. From Miles—even if just for an afternoon, it’s more than you’ve been offered before—your own too loud thoughts, and Hydra.

Bucky said he got you.

And you believed him. In every way, you believed him. He was going to help you with the Hydra thing, and you’d be fine, and Bucky got you.

You should be more afraid, after the Hydra thing. And you are afraid—although the tension and fear of longer shadows isn’t really anything new—but you’ve adapted. Hydra’s trying to kidnap you, and you don’t know why, but Bucky’s got you. He said you’ll be fine. He’d held you, you hadn’t felt like you’d been locked down.

The crush is starting to really, fully bloom.

The Mist feels like it’s spreading over your nerves.

Bucky’s still holding your elbow, and when you close your eyes you can see your dream from last night. Still hear his voice—a mimicry of the rough one, from the car ride yesterday—telling you to take it, babydoll. So fuckin’ pretty, sucking my cock. Don’t know what I did to deserve you.

Probably see you, and not run. Pull you to your feet with a vaguely amused look, while doing the fucking tongue thing and keeping you steady against his body.

“I’ll clean it up.” He mutters, nodding over his shoulder to his backpack, resting against-

“Is that your bike?”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “You still want to ride it?”

Another image—a dream from a few nights back, where Bucky was on his back and his hands rested on your hips as you bounced on his dick and he groaned your name—flashes through your head, and you swallow. “Yes?”

He snorts, and in some small miracle, he mistook the softness of your voice for apprehension. “It’s not too late to back out, Butterfly-“

“I’m not backing out.” You snap, raising your chin. “It’s just new. And what if you drop me-“

“I won’t drop you.” Bucky rolls his eyes like the thought is insane, and you believe him too quickly. “Go eat your sandwich.”

“But you-“

“I made the mess. And I’m not that hungry anyways.”

You don’t believe him. Your eyes narrow on his, and he just gives you a flat look.

“If you don’t eat it, I’m throwing it in the goddamn trash.”

Fuck. “You suck.”

“I know.” He grins again, and you’re going to fall over. “Go eat, sweetheart. It’s in my backpack.”

You shuffle over to the bike, carefully opening Bucky’s bag as he deals with the fallen sandwich on the ground. There’s one of the metal forks you gave him, and the mug you gave him, and the laptop you gave him, and all the Hydra notes, and the sandwich.

It’s the same as your usual order.

It’s better not to think about that too hard.

“Any updates on the thing?” You ask as Bucky returns to your side, wiping his gloves with a small frown.

“Called with Shuri last night.” He shrugs. “She’ll see what she can do. Until then it’s just us, letting me keep you alive.”

“Letting you keep me alive-“

“Yep.” Bucky leans against his bike, his gaze never leaving yours. “No more keeping shit like that from me, Butterfly.”

You flush, but keep your voice bored. “I have no clue what you’re talking about-“

“Yeah, you do.” Bucky leans down, and suddenly he’s only a few breaths away. “We’re a team. It’s dangerous to keep information from me.”

You blink at him. “We’re a team?”

“Yep.”

Bucky says it like it’s simple. Obvious. You’re not the job. He’s not the problem or danger that’s going to end in a bigger mess for him to clean up. He’s your friend, and he’s helping, and you’re a team. Together.

He’ll keep you safe. If you let him.

You really want to let him.

He mutters your name—you’ve been staring too long—and you clear your throat.

“Are you keeping anything from me?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Not that I’m aware of. You keeping anything from me?”

Yes.

So many things.

But if you tell him about Miles, you’ll have to tell him about the bond. And if you tell him about the bond-

You’re not sure what will happen, if you tell Bucky about the bond. He might try to free you of it, like Tony would’ve. He might try to just free you of Miles, like Sam would.

He wouldn’t try to take it, like Miles did. That’s one thing you’re positive about. He’ll be disgusted by the very idea of it.

And things are so good right now. It’s not a secret that will do any harm. You’re doing Bucky a favor, by not giving him more reasons to worry about you.

So you just shake your head, and give him a wide, free kind of smile.

One blink, clenched jaw. That’s the Look that means he’s seeing through you. That he knows your smile is a fucking lie.

But he doesn’t call you on it. And his brows quickly furrow, followed by three more blinks before he sighs, shaking his head at nothing at all.

“You ready?”

“Ready-“

Bucky pats the seat of his bike, and you swallow.

“Oh.”

“We can take your car-“

“No.” You stand a little taller. It’s just a bike. Bucky rides it all the time, and if you’re a team, you need to be slightly matched with him. Not just the strange, annoying, feral girl he’s been saddled with to protect and work with. Useful.

Even if your only use is letting him ride his bike, getting him into the aquarium for free, and cracking code during bought of insomnia, you will be useful.

“I can do this.” Your words are firm, and Bucky just grins at you.

“Sure-“

“Shut up.”

He chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush, and the Mist, and Bucky’s standing so close. His arm is brushing yours, and leaving small fevers you don’t want to be cured from, all over your skin.

“I’m gonna wear the backpack,” Bucky says—his words gentle and slow and fuzzy in your gut—and you glance up to find him looking right into you. “And you’ll sit in front of me.”

“Is that safer than behind you?”

“No. They’re pretty much the same.”

“So-“

“You’ll freak out less, in the front.”

You swallow, and he’s probably right. If you’re in the back, you’ll spend the whole time worrying about letting go of Bucky, and-

Letting go.

If you’re in the front, you’re not going to be holding onto Bucky. He’s going to be holding onto you. He’ll be all around you. Pressed against you.

This was a horrible idea.

It’s too late to back out.

“Alright.” You give a firm nod, and Bucky’s still just grinning at you. “Let’s do this.”

He looks far too amused. The whole fucking time, Bucky looks to be enjoying your torment, and God, it’s making you dizzy. It’s not like when Miles laughs at you. Where it’s cold and mocking.

This feels soft.

Gentle.

Safe.

Bucky helps you onto the bike with his flesh hand, big and calloused around yours, and he’s grinning at your scowl and pout the whole time, but it’s not hateful. You don’t feel like a problem. The light in his eyes is all focused on you, and it never moves away.

Bucky never moves away. You stumble a little, and he catches you with an even wider grin.

“You alright, sweetheart?” He drawls, and when you tip your head back to glower at him, your knees feel a little weak.

He looks like a fucking god from every goddamn angle.

It’s not fair.

“I’m fine.” You grumble, and he chuckles, the sound rolling through you and causing the Mist to spread.

“You seem it.”

“I hate you.”

“Uh huh.”

His grin doesn’t falter for a second. He knows you’re full of shit. If anything, his whole face is lit up with something easy, and it’s intoxicating.

You’re fucked.

Bucky places you on the bike. Picks you up like you’re a sack of feathers and maneuvers you onto the seat, and he really needs to stop doing that. It makes the Mist glow, and it makes your face go dumb and slack because it shouldn’t feel so good. But his touch is always careful, and there’s never any tension in your body made of wrong—not what you want, not what you need, and there’s no choice so it’s wrong—because most of Bucky is really fucking right.

And he knows you. He’s climbing on the bike behind you because he knows you. He didn’t get pissed or grumpy about you saying you hate him, because he knows you. He’s always so ready to catch you because he knows you.

It’s a relief he can’t see your face, for the entirety of the ride. Can’t see how your eyes are already squeezed shut, before you even get out of the garage-

“Put your face in my arm.” He grunts in your ear, and you stare up at him.

“What?”

“Your face,” he mutters, and you can feel his attention again, even from behind his sunglasses. “There’s gonna be a lot of wind, Butterfly. Don’t want you to get blown away.”

You roll your eyes. “Smooth words, James-“

“Yeah, yeah.” His grin returns in a second. You’re going to explode. “Just listen to me, for once in your damn life.”

If the engine wasn’t revving, and your heart wasn’t loud in your ears, you would’ve argued that you do listen to him. All the time. More than anyone else, at least.

But instead you just obey. He’s barely using the voice, and you can’t even see that glint in his eyes, but you turn your face and bury it in his arm before you can think too hard about it, and then you’re gone.

Maybe it was the smell of him—something rainy that might be cologne, and a little bit of mint—acting as anesthetic over your senses, making you to stupid and reckless things. Maybe it was how he’s the perfect kind of balanced warm, where he’s not suffocating and sticky, but comfortable, the metal arm acting as a kind of summer breeze. There’s a strong chance it’s how strong he is around you. How his muscles keep flexing around you as he drives, and you don’t feel trapped by it.

He’s like a shield. Not a cage. You don’t want him to move away.

That might be it.

You just don’t ever want Bucky to move away. The wind is rushing past you, and everything is sharp movements and a little unsteady, but you just keep your face tucked into Bucky’s arm. Nothing will happen, as long as you’re safely burrowed into him.

Bucky’s got you, so nothing will happen.

This isn’t helping stomp down the crush. It’s only making the Mist expand and move into your nerves. And he knows you, so when he pulls to a stop, he doesn’t move until you do.

“That was horrible.”

Your words are muffled in his arm, and Bucky chuckles. “You know we’re gonna have to do it again, sweetheart. Unless you’re plannin’ on living here.”

You groan, shaking your head against him. “Can you knock me out next time?”

“No.”

“That’s not very team oriented of you-“

“I think it’s perfectly team oriented to not want you passed out.” Bucky still isn’t trying to move you away. If anything, his hand has found your lower back, holding you steady in the seat.

It’s just making you dizzier.

Bucky doesn’t need to know that.

“Maybe I will live here.” You mumble, pulling back with a challenging glare. “You’ll see. I’ll be one with the ocean. Maybe I’m secretly a mermaid, you don’t know.”

Bucky’s grin might knock you out on its own. His sunglasses are gone so you can see him looking at you, and his smile lights up his whole face. It makes you sit a little taller to hold his gaze, and gives you a strange, hot feeling over your chest about how he’s looking at you like that. No one else. You didn’t even know his face could have this kind of clear, simple ease and joy.

It makes him look younger. Almost boyish. The smirk dripping with teasing charm and his gaze so focused you might as well be the only person in the world.

You’re not. You’re maybe the person least worthy of being looked at like that.

But that doesn’t stop Bucky. And it makes you feel fucking invincible.

“I don’t think you’re a mermaid, Butterfly.” Bucky drawls. “Mermaids aren’t real.”

You snort. “But aliens are?”

“Yep. There’s more science behind aliens. Far more likely than fish-people.”

He’s right. But he doesn’t get to win. “Okay, nerd.”

That just gets a laugh. A loud, full laugh that would make you fall over, if Bucky wasn’t holding you so tight. “You feel good about that one, sweetheart?”

“Yep.” You glance around the parking lot. It’s mostly full, and Bucky’s wearing his gloves and a jacket, but- “Are we just… going inside?”

“How else is it supposed to work?”

“I dunno.” You mumble, fidgeting with the cuff of your shirt. “I just don’t want you to worry about be recognized.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’ve got a hat. It’ll be fine.”

“A hat.” You repeat, giving him a flat look. “James, a hat isn’t effective-“

“I managed to stay on the run from Steve and the government for damn near two years with a hat. Don’t worry about me.”

“But-“

“Listen,” Bucky says your name firmly, and it’s not good how quickly your body relaxes. “People aren’t here to look for me. They’re here to see the fish. Trust me.”

You let out a long breath, and give him a small nod. “Okay.”

“Good g-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a cough, his eyes widening for half a second. So fast you almost don’t catch it at all. “I- Uh- How does this work.”

“What-“

“I dunno what we’re doin’.” Bucky glances past you, to the aquarium entrance. “Never done something like this. A public thing. Where I wasn’t-“

“Punching butts?”

He snorts, and looks back down to you with a small grin. “Sure, Butterfly.”

You whack his arm thoughtlessly, and try to form a slow, concrete plan to ease Bucky into this. It’ll be loud. And crowded. He’s here for his therapy and biology class, so you’ll just find a few exhibits he likes and roll with them. Avoid the places kids tend to flock, just because there will be less people, and that’ll probably be better for him. You want to see the otters, but this isn’t about you. If Bucky wants to just stare at the sharks, you can be down with that. Sharks are cool. Although you don’t really know Bucky’s taste in animals, and he might not either if he’s never been to an aquarium, so you might be taking a lot of gambles-

“Stop thinking.”

You blink up at Bucky. “I wasn’t-“

“Yeah, you were.” His hand is still on your back. You’re losing your mind. “I just need you leading the way, kid. We’re walking around, not invading a Hydra base.”

“Oh- Okay.” You swallow, shifting carefully against his body.

His grip tightens, and all you get is the nostril flare.

Fuck.

“What’re you-“

“We need to walk, Buck.”

He coughs, his grip loosening. “Right. You need-“

“I’ve got it.”

And you do. You can climb off the bike all by yourself.

But Bucky keeps his hand on you anyway. And it’s grounding. Your brain stops circling around all the ways to make this easier for him, to make it as efficient and enjoyable as possible do maybe—just maybe—you’ll get lucky, and Bucky will want to do it again. It can only hone in on Bucky.

Touching you. Walking with you. Talking to you.

And listening. He wants to talk to you and listen, because he’d tell you to shut up if he didn’t. You don’t doubt that for a second.

But he wants to.

So here you are.

“What ocean animals have you seen?”

“Fish.”

You give him an amused look. “That it?”

“Uh,” Bucky frowns at the air. “One shark. When I was the Soldier. Some scientist was keeping it as a pet.”

“As a- Were you working with a fucking Bond villain?”

“I was killing him, not working with him.” Bucky shrugs, scanning over the lot as you walk. Watching. Always watching.

His hand is still on your back, and he’s matching your pace exactly. It’s secure. You feel like a nuke could drop on you and you’d be fine.

“And I don’t know what a Bond villain is.”

“James Bond is a super-spy. 007.”

“Oh. I’ve never worked with him-“

“That’s probably because he’s fictional, Buck.” Before Bucky can glower at you and grumble about how there’s no fucking way for him to know that, you make a mock gasp. “Wait. Are you James Bond?”

“What.”

“You’re a super-spy. And your name is James. Maybe they based the character on you.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

You smile at him. “But maybe it did.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Alright. Whatever you say.”

Whatever you say.

And he’s still touching you.

For the whole day, there’s barely a second where Bucky’s not touching you.

It never goes past a hand on your back or your arm, but it doesn’t go away either. He whispers in your ear and grins at you like it’s nothing, and the crush is moving from one little blooming thing along your spine to a fucking jungle. Life and Mist and warmth all over your bones and nerves, lining the walls of your veins and making all your breaths so easy. The flutter is fucking wings, beating and crashing against your ribs whenever Bucky smiles at you, and the Mist is a haze that’s starting to shine all over your body.

If Bucky can seek it, brilliant and clean and maybe seeping through your skin, he doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t stop touching you either.

“What do you think is bigger than you, Sargent Barnes?”

Bucky’s nostrils flare—you really need to figure out what that means—and his grip tightens on your arm. “I don’t know.”

“Helpful.”

He rolls his eyes, leaning over you to frown at your phone. “They got otters here?”

“Apparently. Says so on the map, doesn’t it.” You grin up at him, and he scoffs, his lips twitching slightly.

“Smart mouth, Butterfly.”

“Shut up.” You raise your chin, holding his gaze. “Do you want see the otters, James?”

Bucky lets out a long sigh. “Yes. Never seen one before.”

Otters aren’t bigger than Bucky.

Most things aren’t bigger than Bucky.

But if he wants to see an otter, you’ll punch and kick your way through the crowd until he does.

“They’re…” Bucky frowns, hanging slightly over your shoulder. “Fluffy.”

“Yep.” You scan over the little plaque, trying not to feel too dizzy from how Bucky is right fucking behind you. “What do we need for your biology class?”

“I, uh-“ Bucky coughs. “Nothin’. Was just another good reason to go Marine biology class. Thought I could test myself or somethin’.”

Just another reason to go.

He would’ve gone without you. You have to remember that he would’ve gone without you.

“Alright.” You look back to the plaque. “How do otters get their food?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“Your fancy class, Buck. I’m testing you.”

He scowls, his voice dry. “We haven’t covered otter food.”

“Shame.” You hum. “They dive for it. Like penguins-“ You cut yourself off, your eyes widening. “Can we go see penguins?”

Nostril flare. Tight nod. “It’s a group trip, Butterfly. I don’t care where we go.”

“I care.” You snap. “We’re here so you can remember how small you are, Bucky.”

“Sure.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma'am." A pause. “We’ll do the penguins. Never seen those either.”

“Awesome. And look,” You grin at Bucky over your shoulder. “Otters are diurnal.”

Bucky snorts. “You sure? Cause they don’t really seem to be up right now.”

“Have you never taken a nap?”

“No.”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “That’s why you’re so grumpy all the time.”

He rolls his eyes, starting to guide you away from the exhibit. “I am not grumpy. I take things seriously.”

“Of course you do.” You can’t lean too close into his touch, no matter how fucking easy it would be. “All play and no work makes James a dull boy.”

“That’s not the quote.”

“Yeah, well-“ You pause, frowning up at him. “How did you know that? The Shining came out in the 80s.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “Sam made me watch it.”

You scan over him carefully. Tense. Glaring at the air ahead of him and pressing out his chest like he’s having an invisible showdown with the air. “You didn’t like it, did you.”

He shakes his head, and you grin at him.

“I told you that you needed happy endings.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You did. Penguins?”

You keep smiling at him, because it’s so simple. You’re smiling to smile, and because it’s at Bucky, and he doesn’t really have anyone who smiles at him.

Same as you don’t have anyone to smile at.

And when he glances back, there’s a flash over his features when he sees you, and he returns the smile. It’s a little cautious and tight, but it’s still starting in his eyes.

He’s gotten better at that. At offering smiles, when they’re not being pulled out of him.

And from here—at least for the rest of the day—it seems to be only up.

“Why are they so round.” Bucky grumbles, frowning at a penguin, and you shrug.

“You tell me, Sargent Science.”

He shoots you a dry look. “You think I’m a lot better that shit than I am, Butterfly.”

“Sorry I believe in you.” You cross your arms, holding his gaze. “And you’re better at it than I am. You won us the whole trivia round.”

“I think you woulda been fine without me.”

“I thought peppers made dynamite, Bucky.”

“Maybe they do.” He gives you a small smirk. “Anythin’ can blow up if you try hard enough, sweetheart.”

You can’t stop smiling at him. I might be making you look like an idiot. “You know, I believe that.”

“Thanks. Means a lot.”

You whack him again, and his grin only grows.

“You gonna tell me why penguins are round?” Bucky drawls your name, and you sigh.

“It’s so they can roll. On the ice. It’s faster than walking.”

“Alright.” Bucky hums, raising his brows. “And the rest reason?”

You flush, turning your hair between your fingers. “For warmth. The roundness is fat, and it keeps them alive.”

He nods slowly, does the tongue thing, and the Mist is warm all over your skin.

“What else do you want to see?” You ask—your voice far too breathy—and Bucky shrugs.

“What’s good?”

Most of it.

Bucky’s walking with you the whole way, and he’s trusting you to tell him things—where to go, what to look at, what to do—so most of it is good.

There are big seals that seem to enjoy staring at Bucky—you understand that—and dead-eyed, sharks that enjoy starting at you.

“Why are they looking at me?” You whisper, the fifth shark in a row gliding past with its attention entirely following your movements, and Bucky shrugs.

“I don’t think-“

“Don’t call me paranoid.” You snap, and Bucky gives you an amused look.

“Wasn’t planning on it. They’re definitely watching you. I was gonna say that there’s probably no reason to it.” He shrugs. “Maybe you’re the best thing to look at they’ve seen in a while.”

You shake your head, falling a pace back so Bucky’s blocking you from view. “No. They’re gonna try to eat me.”

“That works too.”

Bucky grins at your glare, but picks up his pace, and keeps you hidden from the view of the sharks until you’re out of the tunnel.

You linger on the turtles, and when you ask Bucky if he’d like a vibranium shell too, he just rolls his eye. The jellyfish are there, floating mindless through the water and a little enchanting, and the giant fucking crab is going to give you nightmares, but you’ll get over it.

You’re pulled to safety by Bucky anyway.

And it hits you, when you’re watching the sea lion show from a safe distance, neither of you really all that interested in getting closer.

“You think they like doing that shit?” Bucky asks, nodding to the show. “Performing for treats?”

“I didn’t.” You mumble, and before you can hear yourself and take it back, Bucky shrugs.

“Never got treats. Didn’t like it either, though.”

You hum, watching the animal build up to a flip. “Sea lions,” Your words are soft. Mostly for yourself. “Natures snakes.”

Bucky frowns at you. “What?”

“It’s reference. Don’t worry about it.”

“What movie?”

You shake your head. “You won’t like it-“

“You like it. Enough to quote it.” He raises his brows. “C’mon. Tell me.”

He’s looking at you. Into you.

And the Mist is shining.

“Penguins of Madagascar.” You mumble, and Bucky nods.

“Alright. I’ll watch it.”

“It’s not a good movie-“

“I don’t care.”

That’s it. There’s a firmness to Bucky’s tone that tells you he’s not arguing with you about this, and it’s really not worth arguing about.

You want to know why, though. Why he’d be so resolved about something so dumb, and not waver on it, and if it’s you or he’s like this with Sam-

“Think it’s time to prove fish are real, Butterfly?”

You blink up at Bucky, and there’s the fucking grin again. And the tongue thing.

Jesus Christ.

“Fish aren’t real.” You pull out your phone, frowning at the map on your phone. “And it looks like we’re supposed to go, uh- That way, then that way, then there.”

You point as you speak, and Bucky leans over you to frown at your screen. “Two rights and a left.”

You’re not really sure you’re breathing. “That’s- Uh- I’m not-“

“Turn in this way,” he shakes his normal arm. “Twice. Then to the metal one once. Got it?”

You stare up at him, and it crashes through you like a wave.

You’ve never done things like this with anyone.

Talked this easy. Had someone know you like that, and be patient with it, and never balk at all the You that can’t be strangled or choked or smothered. You’re smiling because it doesn’t really feel like there’s another choice. You’re following Bucky because you want to, and having fun, and it’s not for money or foreplay or to keep the Show going for the sake of it.

Miles doesn’t let you drive, because of the left-right thing.

Bucky’s just flexing his arm whenever you forget, and letting you lead the way.

You need to stop comparing them. It’s not helping. It just makes the fantasies of Bucky sweeping you away stronger, and your own heart turn bitter because that won’t happen. Can’t happen. It’s the kind of thought that would get you shredded apart, if voiced aloud, because you’re not supposed to be saved. You’re supposed to save yourself.

You don’t know how to save yourself. You don’t care enough about yourself to save yourself, because you—the real, angry, furious you that has sharp teeth and spits poison—don’t deserve to be saved.

That doesn’t stop the want though. The selfish, vile want for anything else but what you’re going to return to.

The hunger to stop being alone.

And there’s a massive tunnel. Full of countless sea creatures, floating and drifting around you without a care in the world. All in a seemingly endless dark.

None of them seem to mind it at all.

“Do you feel small?” Your voice is soft, and Bucky lets out a long, slow breath.

“No. Think I feel bigger, actually.”

You nod, and that’s it.

You understand him. He seems to understand you.

And you might not be alone anymore.

You have Bucky.

And if you don’t keep that in check, it will get you both really fucking hurt.

“Huh.” Bucky frowns around the parking lot as he helps you onto the bike. “We’re close to Coney Island.”

“We’re in Coney Island, Buck. How- You drove us here-“

“I just studied the directions from your apartment. I’m not a fucking map.” Bucky’s features pull into a scowl, and you let out a soft laugh.

It earns you another nostril flare. And Bucky staring at you like you’re a specimen again, but with something softer in his eyes. It’s the same look from when he smiles.

And his voice is low, when he breaks the odd silence. “Used to go to the island all the time. Would like to go back. See how it’s changed.”

“Would you,” you swallow, trying to force the words out before you think too hard, and swallow them forever. “Like company?”

“Yeah. I think I would.”

“Alright.” You give him a nervous smile, he returns it so fast, and you want to tell him again.

The whole ride back to your apartment, and when he’s helping you off the bike, you want to tell Bucky. You want to tell him when your mumble strange and pointless goodbyes—you’ll see him tomorrow, but in feels like your lungs will collapse when the elevator doors close and he’s not at your side—and when you open your door.

You want to tell him when you get the text, and everything flips and settles so fast.

Miles

heading back to korea

big deal

back when its done

behave

There’s not prior warning, but he’s done that before. Vanished without warning.

And you really don’t mind, because it means he’s gone.

Miles is gone. Not forever—never forever—but for a while, Miles is gone.

You want to call Bucky right there. Explain that you’re trapped in a show like the Sea Lion, and you’d like to keep smiling at him but it’s dangerous, and you’re starving for freedom and safety all at once.

And right now, freedom and safety looks a lot like being known and not whipped for it.

And Bucky really looks like being known.

But Miles will return.

You’ll grow sick again, and Miles will need to come back if only to cure you, and he’ll take whatever price he pleases as penance.

Until then is time you’re safe. Until then you’re grabbing out Bucky’s sweater from the back of the closet, and you curl up with the Boy on the bed. Turning through more and more Hydra code until the world starts to blur, and your head feels a little heavy, and-

“Do you feel small?”

Bucky groans, dropping his brow onto your shoulder. “You gotta stop askin’ me that while you’re on my lap, Butterfly.”

You giggle, leaning back into him. “Got something to prove, Sargent?”

“You know I don’t, babydoll-“

“No fucking on the ferris wheel.” You swat his hand on your thigh, but don’t really try to pry it away. It’s making you feel more secure than any seatbelts or safety bars could. “Sam could see.”

“He’s on the ground-“

“For now.”

“Better not be for now.” Bucky grumbles, kissing over your neck. “Or I’ll toss him into the goddamn harbor for-“

“No murder, James. You promised.”

“I promised I’d stop you from murder. Never said anything about myself.”

You sigh, twisting to drop your face into the dip of his neck. “But it’ll be such a bummer when you get thrown in jail.”

“I’d be fine. My girl would visit me.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

You sigh—he’s right, and you have no argument against it—and Bucky tugs on your hair until you lean back.

“And just for the record,” Bucky mumbles, just a breath from your lips. “I could never feel small with you, Butterfly. ’S why I keep you right here.”

The Mist is flowing, when you wake up.

It’s not just a dizzying, soft feeling anymore. It’s something buzzing and turning and shifting in your fucking body, something building up your spine that trying to break out of your fucking chest, and you can’t breathe.

This sweater smells like a stale version Bucky, but the sheets still smell like Miles. And it’s becoming like a toxic, as the Mist presses over your bones and itches under your chest.

Miles has only been gone a night. But there’s a burning, sickening pain in your whole fucking body that feels like Death.

It’s another night that’s long and lonely. You’re too human, and it hurts, but the power trapped in your body is festering, and it’s fucking eating you alive. Sticky and crushing on all your organs, and the Mist just keeping fucking turning in your body. At some point you shuffle out of bed in a haze, crawling to the bathroom just to ground yourself on the cool tile. It’s just you, the Boy at your side, and a sliver of moonlight through the window, keeping you company until the dawn breaks.

But the dawn does break. The Mist settles after hours of bile on your tongue and scratching at your arms, and the dawn breaks.

It always breaks.

And you always adapt.

There’s still a feeling as if flowers are growing, all over your bones and under a few layers of skin.

Dawn breaks, and it brings a beating of wings deep in your chest.

You’ll see Bucky again in a few hours.

And you won’t be alone.

End Note: Feelings are their number one op fr.

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

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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ambiguous-avery · 2 days ago

Text

Moon Without Stars, Part 5

Sam Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 5448

Summary: Hunters – the people who lived fast and lawless – had one rule they all abided by. No attachments. And in a world where your first touch with your soulmate would leave a brand behind, No Touching was an unspoken second rule. Not everyone followed that, but you did. Or you tried to. The last thing you needed was for fate to be cruel and bind you to someone. Least of all someone like Sam Winchester.

Tags/Warnings: Soulmate AU, sad Sam (that’s a warning all of its own), idiots fighting fate, strangers to enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: Finally we can let these two start getting to know each other. Nothing says relationship building like forced proximity! Moon Without Stars Masterlist

Sam’s words were devastating.

They were a wrecking ball that crashed through the walls you had spent so long meticulously building up brick by brick. A breach that tore through the dam you had spent years building. A match that kindled your entire world to ashes.

And the worst part of it all? He didn’t say a goddamn thing about it. No gloating. No shoving your face in it. No smug smirk would’ve given you all the fuel you needed to hate his guts over it.

Instead, he simply came in the next morning with a plate of eggs and bacon and toast and a glass of orange juice. Freshly showered with his hair still damp, framing his face in soft waves. You wanted to run your fingers through it. He offered you a soft,

“Good morning,” as he held the plate out for you. “You should eat,” he said simply. “Need the energy if you’re gonna walk out of here in a week.” It wasn’t sarcastic. It wasn’t taunting. It was just… a statement. No different than if he had said that the sun was bright or the rain was wet.

“I don’t need your charity,” you muttered, even as you reached up for the plate.

“It’s not charity. It’s breakfast.”

You had to fight the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips and instead chose to stab the eggs with more force than necessary. Smartass. That was a line you might’ve said if the roles were reversed.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

“Doing what?” Sam’s voice was so maddeningly calm. So devoid of the triumph he should’ve been parading around in your face. He set the juice down next to your empty water cup.

"This." You gestured at the food, at him, at the room around you. "Taking care of me. Acting like... like we're..." The words died in your throat because you weren't sure what exactly you were trying to say.

Sam shifted his weight and loosely crossed his arms over his chest, those hazel eyes studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

"Like we're what?"

"Like we're friends," you managed, stabbing another piece of egg. "We're not friends, Winchester."

"No?" There was that small smile again, the one that barely lifted the corners of his mouth but somehow reached his eyes. "What are we then?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren't ready to face. You chewed slowly, buying yourself time.

"We're... temporary allies," you decided. "Sharing space until I can get the hell out of here." Sam chuckled, and the sound did something warm and dangerous to your insides.

“Temporary allies,” he repeated, as though he were tasting the words. “Is that what you call someone who stitches you up and makes you breakfast?”

You crammed an entire piece of toast in your mouth to avoid answering, but Sam just stood there, patient as ever while you chewed. It was infuriating how he could just wait, like he had all the time in the world for you to find your words.

"I didn't ask you to do any of that," you finally muttered.

"No, you were too busy bleeding out in the back of the Impala.” Even though his tone was gentle, there was still a bite in his words. "Look, we don't have to be friends. But you’re stuck here for now, so can we at least play nice while we share space?" You narrowed your eyes at him.

"I don't play nice, Winchester. I hunt alone for a reason."

"Yeah, and how's that working out for you?" He gestured to your bandaged side with a pointed look. You wanted to throw the plate at him, but the food was too damn good to waste. Instead, you took another aggressive bite of bacon and glared.

"Fine," you conceded. "I'll play nice. But don't expect me to braid your hair or share my deepest darkest secrets over a bottle of wine."

The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds – unexpected and annoyingly beautiful.

"I'll cancel the slumber party I was planning, then." Despite yourself, a laugh escaped your lips before you could swallow it down. Sam's eyes lit up at the sound, and something in your chest tightened uncomfortably. You covered your traitorous mouth with your hand, silently cursing yourself for giving him the satisfaction. But the damage was done. He'd heard you laugh, and judging by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"Don't look so smug," you grumbled. "I'm delirious from pain meds."

“Sure you are.” And you didn’t have to look at him to hear the smile in his voice. “When you’re done with breakfast, I need to change the dressings on those wounds and make sure things look okay.”

“I can do it myself,” you said automatically, the words coming out before you could stop them. It was a reflex at this point. A constant need to keep everyone else an arm’s length away.

“Really? You’re going to reach around and take care of the ones on your back?” When you glanced up at him between bites, you could see that he had arched an eyebrow. You chose not to dignify that question with an answer.

“Don’t suppose I can get a shower before the dressings go back on, can I? Feels like I got mauled by a pack of werewolves.”

“Those stitches are fresh. You should probably wait at least until tomorrow before getting them wet,” he said. You sighed and gingerly leaned back against the pillows.

“Fine. But I’d like to get a real shower as soon as possible.”

“I can help you with that,” Sam offered before immediately backpedaling when you stared at him wide-eyed. “I mean– not– I can pick up some stuff for you. Not actually, uh, you know...” His cheeks flushed pink, and you felt a flutter of amusement. He looked good when he was flustered. What else could you do to fluster him like that?

“Careful, people might think you care.”

“Heaven forbid,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but notice the way the damp strands curled slightly towards the ends. “I’ll, uh, I’m just gonna go grab some things. I’ll be back in a bit.” And with that, he excused himself from the room.

Left alone, you stared at the empty doorway, feeling strangely bereft without Sam’s presence. You poked at the remaining food on your plate, irritated by how much you had enjoyed the interaction with him. And how long had it been since someone cooked for you? Years, probably. The life of a hunter wasn’t the most conducive to home-cooked meals. Or any kind of domesticity. You let out a frustrated sigh.

The problem wasn’t that Sam was unkind. He was the exact opposite. He was too kind. Too gentle. Too damn understanding. It would be so much easier if he were some self-assured asshole that gave you more than enough reasons to hate him. But he wasn’t. You didn’t have a single genuine excuse to despise him.

You liked Sam. A lot.

And that was the problem. You had told yourself that leaving those last two times was the right thing to do. That the universe was wrong to mark you as his. That someone like you – broken, sharp-edged, foul-mouthed – had no business being tied to anyone, let alone someone as good as Sam Winchester. He deserved someone who still believed in the magic of soulmates like he did. Who still believed that the mark was a gift. A cosmic reassurance that you weren’t meant to be alone in the world.

Because to you, it was more like a curse. A reminder of what you weren’t allowed to have.

You finished your breakfast, surprised by how hungry you had actually been. The plate had been scraped clean by the time Sam returned with an armful of medical supplies.

“Good to see you’ve got an appetite,” he said, setting everything down on the bed.

“Food’s food,” you replied with a shrug that you immediately regretted as pain shot through your side.

“Careful,” Sam warned, his voice dropping to that low, concerned tone that made your stomach do strange things. “I need you to sit up a bit more and lift your shirt on the right side.”

You hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t that you were shy – modesty wasn’t a luxury you could afford in your line of work. You’d patched yourself up in gas station bathrooms, motel rooms, and the back seats of stolen cars. You’d stripped down in front of strangers when necessary, all in the name of survival.

But this felt different. More intimate somehow. Knowing that Sam’s full attention would be on you. His hands on your skin. If you made a move on him, just how long would his touch stay innocent and gentle?

“I can turn around if you want,” he offered, misinterpreting your hesitation.

“Wha– I’m not some maiden clutching my pearls,” you scoffed before tugging the borrowed t-shirt up to expose your bandaged side and shoulder. You slid your arm from the sleeve and let the extra fabric bunch up at your front to maintain some semblance of your dignity. “I’ve been stitched up by shadier characters than you.” Sam chuckled as he knelt beside the bed.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he said, carefully peeling back the adhesive tape. “Though, the bar for ‘shadier than me’ might be lower than you think.” You tried to focus on the ceiling rather than the jolts of electricity his fingers sent through your skin as he worked.

“What, you got a dark past I should know about?”

“Don’t we all in this line of work?” His tone was light, but when you glanced at him, there was something in his eyes that made you wonder just how many ghosts of his own he was carrying. But before you could dwell on it too much, he gently pulled away the old dressing, and you couldn’t suppress the hiss that escaped you as the cool air hit your wound.

“Sorry,” he murmured, inspecting his handiwork. You looked down at your side, finally able to get an idea of the damage you had sustained. There was a single, long gash that ran perpendicular to your ribs that had been neatly stitched back together with black thread. The edges of the wound were jagged and swollen and angry. “It’s looking better than it did. Less inflamed than when I put the stitches in.”

“You can thank my superhuman healing abilities,” you quipped, trying to keep the tone light and ignore how close his face was to yours. How you could smell the clean scent of his shampoo. Your eyes found the desk that sat in the corner of the room, and you spent way too much effort memorizing the little details of it.

The room fell silent as Sam worked except for the occasional sounds of crinkling gauze packaging and medical tape ripping. Despite yourself, your gaze drifted back to him, studying the concentrated furrow of his brow and the way his lips pressed together as he focused. And his goddamn hands. They were impossibly gentle for their size, careful not to do anything that would lead to unnecessary tugging or discomfort.

Though, no amount of mental distraction was enough to fully tune out the way every brush of his fingers against you sent pure electricity through your system. It was no small feat to hold still, but even when you twitched or jerked slightly, he didn’t say anything. No reprimands. No chiding. Just wordless care. It was unsettling. For you at least.

“You’re good at this,” you admitted reluctantly. “Not your first rodeo, I’m guessing?”

“Dean and I have had a lot of practice patching each other up over the years,” he said, his mouth quirking up slightly.

There was another deep wound that curved from your collarbone, over your shoulder, and down across your shoulder blade, and Sam had a point that there was no amount of twisting or contorting that would let you take care of that one by yourself. Two others on your mid-to-lower back added to that point. When Sam was done, he set about cleaning up the mess he had made, tossing wrappers into the garbage before moving to grab your empty plate from where you had set it down.

“Dean and I are going to do a supply run here soon. I can grab some things for you. Do you still have my number?” Memorized it. Forwards, backwards, upside down, you could recite it in at least three languages. Just in case.

“It’s somewhere around here,” you said nonchalantly.

“Well if you need anything specific, just text or call,” Sam said. “I know being stuck here isn’t ideal.”

You nodded, tugging your – Sam’s – shirt back down. The bunker was stifling in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. The weight of the domesticity, of being cared for, was what made it hard to breathe. You weren’t used to staying in one place for more than a couple of nights, let alone being confined to a bed while someone fussed over you.

“Some clothes of my own would be nice,” you admitted. “And I don’t know what kind of soap situation you guys have here, but if all you have is a five-in-one bodywash-shampoo-conditioner monstrosity, then I’m going to walk out of here by the end of today.”

Sam laughed, the sound rich and warm, and your mark decided that it was singlehandedly the best sound you had ever heard in your entire life. No contest.

“Noted. Text me your sizes. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Hey,” you blurted out before he could leave. He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at you with those patient eyes.

“Yeah?”

Your throat constricted. What were you going to say? Thank you? Sorry for being so difficult? I’ve been running from you because I’m terrified that the second I give in the universe is going to take you away from me? Instead, all that came out was,

“Nothing floral. With the soap, I mean. I don’t want to smell like a flower shop exploded.” You saw the ghost of a smile tug at his lips.

“Got it. No flowers. Any other preferences I should know about?”

“I like mint. Or… citrus is fine.” You fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, suddenly feeling ridiculous for making such a silly request.

“Mint or citrus. I can manage that.” And with that, he left.

You sank into the pillows with a heavy sigh, your weight sagging into them with a tiredness that permeated through your bones. You drained your glass of water before pulling the blankets up a little higher over you and letting the warm feeling of safety lull you into a surprisingly peaceful sleep. Thoughts of Sam’s hands on you chased you into your dreams.

When you woke, you found yourself bathed in darkness. The lamp on your bedside table had been turned off, and without any windows in the room, it was hard to say how long you had been out for. Everything felt stiff and sore from sleeping in one position for too long, and your mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. You fumbled around for the lamp, wincing as soft, golden light flooded the room when you found it.

Your water glass was full. And four pills had been set out in one of those plastic dosage cups that came with liquid medicines. You groaned as you sat up and swung your legs over the side of the bed, testing the give of your wounds. You were achy for sure, but not so much that you couldn’t manage a small walk. Anything to get out of bed. You downed the pills with a happy gulp of water, sighing in content as you did so.

There was a small bag sitting on the chair Sam had occupied earlier, and curiosity got the better of you. When you peeked inside of it, you found clothes that weren’t yours but were definitely meant to be. A simple pair of black sweatpants, a soft gray t-shirt, and a pack of underwear that still had the tags on them. There was also a small toiletry bag with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of citrus-scented body wash. No floral nonsense, just as you had requested.

You went back and double checked the tags on the clothes, realizing that you hadn’t ever texted Sam. You had meant to, really. But he seemed to have guessed your size just fine regardless. You grabbed your phone off the bedside table and checked it.

2 New Messages

1 Missed Call

You navigated to your calls, and you swore your heart skipped a beat seeing HIM on your missed call list. The call had come in several hours ago. Unsurprisingly, the two texts were from him too. When had he gotten… right. When you had texted him in a moment of weakness during the time you had spent avoiding him. How could you forget?

What size shirt and pants do you wear?

I guessed on the sizes. Hope I wasn’t too far off the mark. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stared at the messages, warmth spreading through your chest despite your best efforts to squash it. You glanced at the time on your phone: 9:43pm. Jesus… you had slept the entire day away. You changed into the fresh clothes, hesitating when it came to stripping out of Sam’s shirt. You weren’t ready to give that up so soon. So you simply changed into a fresh pair of underwear and the sweatpants.

It hadn’t even been a full 24-hours since you first woke up here, but it would be nice to get to know the layout of the place a little better, especially if you were going to be stuck here for the next week. Not to mention there was an uncomfortable pressure in your bladder. And the idea of leaving the confines of your room was too tempting to ignore.

The hallway outside your door was well-lit. The bunker was quiet except for the dull hum of electricity and the occasional creaking that every old building seemed to make. You moved slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for support, bare feet against the cold bunker floor. The place was much larger with far more rooms than you had initially expected. There was a number ‘20’ on your door, and you briefly wondered how many other people called this place home. Or at least home base.

You had no idea where anything was, but your stomach growled. It echoed in the hallway and reminded you that breakfast had been your only meal of the day so far. Okay, new plan. Kitchen then bathroom. Sam had brought in freshly cooked food earlier which clearly meant there had to be a kitchen around. Or a hot plate. Maybe a stash of MREs? It took you a few wrong turns before you finally found the kitchen in question. But not before you had stumbled into a library of sorts. You filed the location of that away for later. For now, food.

You flipped the kitchen light on and dug through the cupboards, trying to find something edible that wouldn’t take much effort to put together. Just the walk to the kitchen had quickly burned through what little energy you had, though you weren’t sure if it was the lack of food or your body healing that took it more out of you. The cupboard was surprisingly well-stocked. Whoever lived here clearly shopped regularly, which struck you as odd for hunters. Most of the ones you knew lived off of convenience store food and booze, you included. Then again, Sam had mentioned earlier about a supply run, so more than likely it was just the aftermath of that.

You moved to the fridge and opened it, the light inside casting a soft glow that spilled onto the tiled floor. Carefully, you scanned the shelves, reaching for an apple but pausing when you spotted something better on the top shelf. Sitting in the corner was a pie tin with a single slice remaining. It took you all of three seconds of consideration before you reached for it. Leftovers always tasted better at night. It was a secret of the universe that anyone would’ve agreed with you on.

You moved with quiet precision, a habit you had developed in your years of hunting. It had been ingrained in you from the very beginning to never make more noise than necessary. As your fingers closed around the pie tin, the cold metal of it bit against your skin. You slid it from its spot carefully and set it on the counter before closing the fridge door with a soft thump, sealing the pie’s fate as your prize. Lost in the sweet indulgence of stolen pie, you missed the way your mark had warmed, and it wasn’t until Sam cleared his throat that you swiftly pulled one of the kitchen knives from the block on the counter and whirled around to face him, your stitches pulling uncomfortably with the sudden movement.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there!” Sam’s hands went up in a gesture of surrender, palms facing you like a shield. “It’s just me.” You huffed out a sigh, your grip on the knife relaxing ever so slightly as your shoulders sagged.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone?” Your heart hammered against your ribcage, adrenaline coursing through you. Sam’s lips quirked upward, his eyes flicking between your face and the knife still pointed at him.

“Says the person stealing pie in the middle of the night.” He took a cautious step forward. “You gonna put that down or…?”

You slowly lowered the knife, watching his slow movements towards you.

“I was hungry,” you explained, setting the knife down and gesturing vaguely to the pie. “Didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

“So you decided to steal Dean’s pie instead?” Amusement was laced in Sam’s voice as he spoke. “That’s bold of you. He counts the slices, you know.”

“Oh.” You glanced down at the dessert. “Sorry, I didn’t realize–”

“No, no,” Sam chuckled, moving to your side and pulling out a fork from a nearby drawer. His arm brushed against yours, and you felt your mark hum in response. “This is actually perfect. He’s been annoying me all day.” He handed you the fork. “I’ll just tell him a stabby raccoon got into it.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a slow smile spreading across your face despite your best efforts.

“Stabby raccoon? Really?”

“If the knife fits.” Sam leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement drew your attention to the way his flannel stretched across his shoulders. They were so damn broad, and with him standing right next to you, it was impossible not to notice just how tall he stood. He was an absolute mountain of a man. A mountain you’d like to climb. You’d gotten pretty decent at identifying which thoughts were your own and which ones were coming from your mark. And that was definitely the mark talking. Though… you might’ve agreed with it… just a little bit.

“I’ve been asleep all day,” you defended, popping off the plastic cover of the pie and digging your fork in. “I’m starving.” The first bite was heavenly. Sweet but not overwhelming. With just the perfect amount of cinnamon to offset it. Even cold, it was delicious. You briefly closed your eyes, savoring it. You couldn’t think of the last time you had treated yourself to a simple indulgence like this. When you opened your eyes to go for another bite, Sam was watching you with an expression that made you pause.

“Good?” he asked, his voice softer than before.

“Really good,” you admitted between bites. “Though now I understand why your brother would count the slices.”

“Dean would be happy to hear that. Well… after he murdered you for eating his last slice.” Sam’s smile was infectious, and you took another bite in an attempt to stifle your grin. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft scrape of your fork against the metal tin. You were painfully aware of his presence beside you. The silence between you stretched, though it wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as you remembered it.

“I’m surprised you’re up and walking around already,” he said finally. “Those were some pretty nasty wounds.”

“I’m not the type to stay in one place for too long. I’d go stir-crazy if I stayed in that room the whole week.”

“I can imagine. You don’t strike me as someone who likes being cooped up.” You paused mid-bite, studying him with a sideways glance.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re stubborn,” Sam replied without missing a beat. “I know you’re resourceful enough to survive on your own for years. You’re brave to the point of recklessness. And I know that you’re good at what you do.” His eyes never left yours as he spoke. The fork stilled halfway to your mouth, pie precariously perched on the tines. How could he do that? How could he peel back your layers so easily? It wasn’t fair. You had spent years building your walls, but here he was, walking right through them like they were nothing.

“Those are generalizations that could apply to any hunter,” you countered, setting the fork down with more force than necessary. “That’s not knowing me.” Sam shrugged, his shoulders rolling with the movement.

“Maybe not. But I’d like to.”

The simple honesty in his voice caught you off guard. It would’ve been so much easier if he just kept his distance. If he treated you with the same guarded suspicion that you gave to everyone else. That was a dance you knew by heart, and you could do it all day long. Keeping people at an arm’s length away and never letting them any closer was something you could do as easily as breathing. It kept them safe, you told yourself. It kept you safe.

“And what if you don’t like what you find?” The words came out as a whisper, far more vulnerable than you had intended. Sam moved a fraction closer, his side just barely touching your shoulder. You could feel his warmth through the fabric of his shirt. Your mark practically sang at the contact, and you couldn’t deny that it felt nice. You didn’t flinch away.

“I’m willing to take that chance.” His voice was low, almost a gentle rumble that you could feel in your chest. “You know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not,” you muttered, stabbing at the pie.

“I think you’re scared of something that isn’t a monster.”

And for the second time in less than 24 hours, his words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fork until your knuckles turned white. You were exposed. Flayed open like a fish on a cutting board with your insides laid bare for him to see. Your knee-jerk reaction was to deny it. To cover it with your bravado you wore like armor. To push him away. To bare your fangs and claws to protect yourself. But wasn’t that what you had been doing? It was exhausting. The running. The hiding. The fighting.

“Aren’t we all afraid of something?”

Sam’s gaze was soft in the kitchen lighting. It simultaneously made him look younger and older. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for a second fork from the drawer and scooped up a bite of pie for himself. Your instinct was to protect your prize, to live up to your ‘stabby’ title and jab your fork into his outstretched hand. But something about the shared moment kept you from following through.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted, savoring his stolen bite. “We are. But most hunters run towards the things that scare them. Not away.” You set the pie down on the counter between you.

“That’s different,” you said, gingerly crossing your arms over your chest. “Monsters are predictable. You know what they want. What they’ll do. How to kill them.” You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Sam’s gaze on you. “People are messier.”

“Is that why you run? Because I’m messy?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications and unspoken secrets. You could lie. You could deflect. You could do what you had always done: run. But for the first time in a long time, you found yourself wanting to stay. Wanting to face this head-on.

“No. I am.” And something in you cracked a little more, the fracture spider webbing outwards. Sam’s eyes softened, and he set his fork down.

“We’re all messy. It comes with the territory.”

“No. Not like this. Not like me.”

“You wanna elaborate on that?” Sam asked, leaning his hip against the counter, his full attention on you. It was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating to be the sole focus of those hazel eyes. You liked how he looked at you.

“Not particularly.” You reached for the pie again, using it as a shield. A distraction. Anything to avoid the way he seemed to see right through your carefully constructed layers.

“Fair enough.” He didn’t push, and somehow that made it worse. The way he just accepted whatever you were willing to give. You ate the rest of the pie in silence, and he didn’t try for another bite even when you offered it to him.

"You should probably head back to bed," Sam suggested, his voice gentle in the kitchen's quiet. "Doctor's orders."

"You're a doctor now?" You raised an eyebrow, setting the empty pie tin aside.

"I've got more medical experience than most ER residents." There was no arrogance in his statement, just a simple fact. "And I say you need rest."

"Fine, Dr. Winchester." You pushed away from the counter and immediately regretted it as your legs wobbled beneath you. The short excursion had drained what little energy you'd managed to recover. Sam noticed instantly, taking a step toward you with his hands hovering near your elbows, ready to catch you but not quite touching.

"You okay?"

"Just peachy," you muttered, steadying yourself against the counter. Your pride wouldn't let you admit how weak you still were, but your body was betraying you with every trembling step. The journey to the kitchen had seemed manageable earlier, but now the prospect of walking all the way back to your room felt like scaling Everest.

The two of you walked back to your room in silence. Sam stayed close enough that you could hold onto him to steady yourself – you didn’t – but far enough away that you wouldn’t accidentally brush him against him. The message was clear enough. Any contact would have to be initiated by you. Which was good. That was how you wanted it. No touching beyond what was strictly necessary. Just how you liked it. Why were you disappointed?

“I’m right next door if you need me,” Sam said, motioning to the door with a ‘21’ on it. “And you can call or text anytime. If you’re up for it, I can show you around the bunker a bit tomorrow.” You studied him for a moment, trying to find the angle. The catch. But all you could find was sincerity.

“I’d like that,” you admitted, surprised by your own honesty. “I think I saw a library earlier?”

“Yeah. It’s a good one; you’ll like it,” he smiled slightly, a soft, gentle one that made your stomach flip. “Good night.” He said your name, and it was like you were hearing it for the first time. There was no edge to it. No underlying tone that suggested he was annoyed with you. Just… Sam.

You hesitated, parting your lips like you might say something more. But instead, all that came out was a quiet,

“Night.” The door clicked softly behind you, and you didn’t see how Sam lingered a moment longer, staring at the space where you had stood. You leaned against the door, heart thudding in a way you were too terrified to name.

The world was tilting towards Sam. And you were falling.

---

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Part 4 --- Part 6

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