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godjustkys · 2 months ago

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PLEASEPLEADEPLEASE bottom Bucky Barnes......... maybe reader saving Bucky from Hydra, taking him home, offering care and affection. Reader doing all sorts of stuff for Bucky, finding him a good therapist, making sure he sleeps and eats well, giving him reassurance. It's just a matter of time before Bucky falls in love and shyly confesses, reader being eager to start a relationship.Relationship seemed to escalate quickly , from holding hands to kissing, typically reader making the first move. However, reader would find any excuse to not move it further to the bedroom. Bucky pent up and frustrated and one day takes the matter in his hands.

THEME: bucky wants you. he wants you bad.

CHARACTER: male reader x bucky barnes

NOTE: taking care of bucky in all the ways possible, yes I love it >:) plus an emotionally intelligent reader because WHO CAN STOP ME?

p.s. requests are always open!

WARNING: praise,, yearner!bucky,, eventual smut,, big dick!reader (i can't help it..),, pillow princess!bucky,, very light nipple play,, dirty talk,, creampie,, unprotected sex,,

bucky was.. in shambles, to say the least. he was sitting in your car after his therapy session, eyes a bit wide as he stared out of the windshield. you found him in distress near a hydra base. you took him in more than half a year ago. like some dog. you didn't care how hostile he was towards you, you took your time, you were patient. if you told bucky a year ago that he would actually fit into society, poor guy would never believe it. “how was it?” your voice cut his thoughts off and he gave you a small glance, blinking more times than necessary. “she was okay.” bucky muttered. okay? god, that therapist was amazing.

you had taken him to seven different therapists already. at first, with the first three, bucky came up with excuses on why they were awful to him because the thought of therapy made him uncomfortable and he didn’t think he needed it. though, soon enough, he realized you weren’t giving up and he was going to have to go to therapy either way. he did throw a couple hissy fits here and there, but then bucky found himself wanting to comply with what you ask of him. why? he didn’t know.

“that’s better than that ‘fuckass bitch’ of a therapist you went to see a couple months ago, right?” you quoted his words, keeping your eyes on the road as you smiled. bucky’s eyebrows furrowed slightly and he shifted in his seat. “yeah.” he uttered begrudgingly. he wasn’t lying, that one therapist seemed like he liked to play pretend, plus he was just downright awful and inconsiderate. and he charged a lot of money for a single fifty minute session. couldn’t even spare the last ten fucking minutes.

after you got home, you heated him up a meal that you made in the morning. considering he was a super soldier, you took your time making food for him that had enough calories to fulfill his hunger without making him overeat. bucky was sitting at the kitchen island on a stool, his hands on the counter itself as he oh so patiently waited for his meal. you would never get this out of him, but he loved the way you made his food and how you let him eat snacks he wants. bucky was swinging his feet off of the stool a bit, in an unconscious manner as he waited. after you set the plate of food down in front of him, bucky stared at you, watching you put the utensils next to the plate. “eat up,” you said softly, patting his shoulder a couple times. “yea. thanks.” he got out, his heart fluttering as he looked at his food.

after another week or so, bucky realized he was in love with you. like, he was down bad. sure, he was a bit behind on today’s society, given the circumstances of his situation, but he was no fool. he started getting more.. physical with you. more of touching, which you had avoided and tried to do as less as possible, once again, given how uncomfortable he was with it. the two of you were sitting on a couch, watching a movie. bucky was sitting not too far from you, eyeing you the whole time and not once looking at the TV screen. “can i- lie down?” he asked softly, his voice a whisper. oh yeah, these questions you got a lot of recently. “yea, ‘course, go ‘head.” you told him with a small nod. you had placed a pillow in your lap just because, but bucky used it as an opportunity. he laid his head down in your lap on the pillow, turning to his side and facing the TV. that wasn’t what you were expecting at all. you smiled, not saying a thing to avoid making bucky uncomfortable. he settled, his cheeks heating up barely. the feeling made his brows furrow but he ignored it. during the night, bucky barely slept. due to the nightmares and the fear of having those nightmares again. but now, he was completely content and asleep.

when he woke up, it was already dark out, but you were still there. his metal arm was placed just above your knee, gripping slightly. you didn’t move his hand. you trusted him. the realization sent a pang of affection through bucky and he started shifting. that was only one instance though. he had his own room, but he would come in the middle of the night to yours, holding a pillow in his hand, his hair messy and face scrunched up, asking if he could sleep with you for the night. even though he was so reluctant about it, and don’t forget snarky, he always got comfortable next to you, even if he was facing away. the more time passed, the more he started sleeping in your room.

“do you like me?” bucky blurted out, his voice flat as he stared at the plate of food. the two of you were having dinner in silence. until this moment, to be exact. you looked up at him and raised a brow. “i’m taking care of you, aren’t i? i wouldn’t be if I didn’t like you and who you were as a person.” you responded calmly after chewing your bite. “i meant like a.. a significant other,, or something. do you like me like that?” he made eye contact with you, his facial expression giving his nervousness away. you paused. “what makes you say that?”

“i like you.” bucky stated, his hands in his lap, fidgeting with his fingers as he looked at the table instead of you. “maybe I’m not supposed to. but i do. is that stupid?” he was starting to second-guess himself. almost immediately. “it’s not weird.” you reassured him. “i like you, too.” you placed your fork down. “do you want our relationship to change? or is the way that we are right now enough for you?” you inquired gently, not wanting to pressure him at all. “it’s okay for us to be together, right? It’s normal now?” his eyes met yours, his voice trembling just a slight bit. he was so nervous, so shy. for the first time around you, he was being vulnerable. “people are tolerant nowadays, it’s okay.” you, once again, reassured him.

“then, what.” bucky said. “what does that make us, if we’re in a relationship?” yeah, 40’s were a bit rough.. “boyfriends.” you gave him a simple answer. “we can be that.” he muttered, lifting up his fork and picking at the food with it for a moment. “okay, boyfriends it is.” you grinned, turning your attention back to your food. after this incident, cuddles ensued. seriously, bucky was sticking to you like velcro. at night, he would sleep soundly in your arms. when you went to the gym to work out, he would constantly ask you to spot him even though he never fucking needed it, he just wanted you there. he would have his arms wrapped around you as you made food. he would be glued to your side if you were sitting on the couch or he would he holding your hand whenever he could if you would be doing tasks around the house.

you started giving him gentle kisses; not on the lips, you thought it was too soon. On his forehead, on his cheek, on the corner of his mouth.. but.. after this kiss - the kiss you gave him just now, on the corner of his mouth, had him staring at you, his lips slightly parted. you noticed it, staring right back. “what?” you said. bucky shook his head ever so slightly, shrugging his shoulders. “nothin’..” he mumbled, his gaze shifting to your lips. ah, he wanted a real kiss? you gave in after a moment, the look on bucky’s face almost guilt-tripping you. pressing your lips to his in a tender and sweet kiss, bucky just stood there. after you pulled away and offered him a smile, bucky fucking folded. his abdomen tensed as he felt nothing but butterflies in his stomach.

that kiss heightened bucky’s bravery. he would kiss you in the most random moments possible; when you were on a phone call, when you were washing cups, when you were writing, in summary, whenever he wanted. you didn’t mind at all, to be honest. he was getting comfortable around you, opening up to his therapist more, sleeping better, eating better, all the good stuff. though, what started frustrating bucky was when you would avoid his advances. at first he thought you were uncomfortable with it and he was ready to stop trying to take it further. but no, you wouldn’t go along with it because you weren’t sure it was truly what he wanted. another week passed and bucky was reaching his limit. he kept muttering ‘i’m ready’ or ‘let’s do it’ to you when kissing turned to making out, but like every other time, you would stop him from taking it further.

you were sitting on the couch, watching a show. it was late at night and bucky already went to sleep. or so you thought. the only thing illuminating the living room was the TV. your attention shifted to the sound of footsteps, bucky’s bare feet barely even making noise. he stopped not too far from you, an exaggerated frown on his sleepy face, his hair messy. he was standing there, only in his boxers, dejected, his shoulders slumped and hunched forward slightly. “why aren’t you in bed.” he muttered grumpily, his voice groggy from sleep. oh, he must’ve woken up and not found you in bed yet. “i’ll be there in a minute, buck. i’m sorry.” you told him with a small apologetic smile, your gaze shifting back to the TV. bucky stood there for a moment, and once you made no move to get up and get in bed with him, he huffed. he waddled forward, stepping in front of you to climb into your lap, his knees on either sides of your thighs, arms wrapped around your shoulders and face buried in your neck. you almost shivered; due to his cold metallic arm. “bucky, c’mon.” you muttered, placing a hand on his back as he settled. he let out a small groan of protest, making himself comfortable. as if he wasn’t a 260 pound man. you placed your other hand on his waist, your touch light. bucky lifted his head up, pressing a short, slow peck to your lips. then again. and again. and again. until you were making out with him.

you hummed against his lips, both of your hands now on his hips, just holding him gently. “i’m ready.” bucky said between the kisses, which eventually turned sloppy due to the added tongues. “i’m fucking ready so just..” he paused, his tongue sliding against yours almost desperately, eyes shut tightly and eyebrows furrowed. he pulled back to speak. “just fuck me.” he breathed, his chest rising and falling as he regulated his oxygen intake. you were about to protest, like always, but bucky cut you off. “no bullshit, okay? you think— you think i won’t stop you if i don’t like something?” he said impatiently, his hips pressing more firmly to yours. you inhaled sharply at the sensation, eyes locked onto bucky’s.

carrying a man of pure muscle while feverishly kissing him wasn’t so easy, but you did it, placing him on the bed and crawling on top of him, your legs between his spread thighs. despite holding back, god did you want this for so long. “m’sorry i made you wait..” you muttered softly, your lips trailing down his neck to his chest, a soundless gasp leaving bucky’s lips. his hands were resting lightly on your shoulders, as your own were fixing his position up, pulling him closer to you by his thighs. he squirmed underneath you as your lips teasingly grazed his nipple. “ghh..” he groaned out, pressing his head to the pillow underneath. you teased the bud, swirling your tongue around it and sucking lightly. he squeezed your shoulder with his right hand, avoiding the use of his metallic one for now.

bucky’s chest was heaving, his half-lidded eyes staring down at your face as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. god, he was pretty. you pulled your mouth away, distracting bucky with small gentle kisses across his torso as you spoke. “don’t have lube.” you managed between your ministrations. “don’t care..” bucky breathed, his metal arm trailing up to the back of your head. his fingers grasped at your hair, letting out a soft pitiful whine. bucky’s chest was rising and falling in heavy, shaky breaths, his body already glistening with sweat. his hair was stuck to his forehead, lashes heavy as he looked up at you from where he laid spread open on the bed. he looked ruined — and you hadn’t even touched him properly yet. his metal hand tightened in your hair, keeping you close as your mouth pressed lazy kisses down to his inner thighs, just teasing him, savoring the way he twitched under you. bucky wasn’t trying to be tough tonight. he wanted to be touched. “you sure?” you asked quietly, sliding up his body, nudging his nose with yours. bucky nodded once, quickly, breath catching when your bulge brushed against his clothed cock. “yeah. i want it. just do it.”

you pressed your lips to his in a deep, slow, filthy kiss, reaching down to discard bucky’s boxers in a rather swift movement. he made soft little sounds against your mouth as he assisted you, the cool air making him shiver. after somehow stripping yourself down between the kisses, you stroked yourself a couple times, spreading the precum that was already on your tip; you couldn’t help it, he was just so perfect. you carefully lined yourself up, your hands moving to grip bucky’s thighs as you pushed in inch by inch, giving him time to breathe, to adjust. bucky’s back arched off the bed, his metal hand clawing at your scalp as his voice broke into a soft, desperate whimper. “Ahh—f-fuck..”

“relax, baby. i got you,” you whispered, brushing his hair back and out of his eyes, your lips dragging down his stubbly jaw. bucky whimpered again; a quiet, helpless sound. his muscles trembled under you as you sank in deeper. his legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer even though his eyes were already glassy with the painful stretch. “God, you’re— fuck—” he muttered, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. eventually, you bottomed out and stayed there, pressed deep inside, letting him feel all of you. your hands roamed all over his body slowly — his hips, his stomach, his chest; it grounded him. “you’re doing so good,” you said softly, kissing down his cheek to his throat. “you’re perfect like this. so tight, so warm…” bucky let out a soft moan at that, almost a sob, his hand clutching at you like he needed something to hold onto or he’d drift away. then you pulled back, just a little, and rolled your hips in a slow, grinding motion. “oh god—” bucky gasped out, nails digging into your back. “again.. don’t stop—”

you started fucking him slowly, letting the rhythm build, the slick sounds of skin on skin and bucky’s broken little moans filling the room. his mouth hung open, whimpering with every thrust, his head lolling back against the pillow. “you like that, buck?” you asked, fucking into him a little harder. “you like being filled up like this? is this what you wanted?”

“yes,” he groaned, voice cracking, “yes, I love it— I love you, fuck—!”

you stilled barely for a moment, stunned, looking down at him. bucky’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide and eyes wild. “i meant it,” he whispered softly, “i— i meant it.” with that sweet little reassurance, you kissed him hard, possessive, fucking him deeper now. bucky broke open under you completely, moaning with every thrust. “i love you, too. so much.” you rasped out, your hands resting on his ribs. “m’right here, buck. gonna fuck you nice and deep ‘til you forget everything else. just me and you. jus’ me ‘n you, sweetheart.” your voice got more slurred at the end, but for what it’s worth, it made bucky clutch you tight, as if wanting to mold his body against yours. pitiful, filthy sounds left his pretty lips as you dragged your cock out slowly, only to push back in just as deep, the force of your thrusts making the bed creak. your fingers were soothing his burning skin like you were trying to keep him together while tearing him apart. the way he stretched around your cock, no, forget that, the way he clenched when you pushed harder.. you were starting to regret waiting this long.

you were moving with control; the kind that made it worse for him. you weren’t speeding up, just fucking him deep, steady, and full. like you were trying to make his hole commit every singular inch of your cock to memory. “ghh— ah- i can’t—” bucky whined, his breath ragged, his hole clenching around your length. “you’re b— being mean,” he practically sobbed out, his eyes screwed shut. “more.. c’mon..” he added, his mouth right next to your ear. your stomach was filled with nothing but butterflies at the sound of bucky’s broken voice, so you did what you had to — you sped up, fucking him rougher. his whines turned more frantic, louder, his moans got higher pitched and sloppier, less controlled, eyes fluttering closed if he even managed to get them open. the cold metal arm let go of your scalp and his hand trailed to the nape of your neck, the chilly vibranium material just sending a shiver down your spine. you let soft groans and grunts leave your lips. both of your hands trailed to his thighs, pushing them up slightly so you could get a better angle. once you did; oh holy fucking shit.

bucky choked on your name, his whole body jumping. he gasped sharply, his hand clamping down on your wrist. “f-fuck—what was that?” he gasped out. you did it again, slower this time — dragging your motion until his breath caught and a helpless, broken sound escaped him. his metal fingers gripped the pillow, knuckles tight, chest heaving. “there,” you murmured. “right there. that’s it, isn’t it?” bucky nodded, moaning through gritted teeth as you kept up the pressure. his body trembled beneath you, thighs twitching. his voice was wrecked— low and breathy, falling apart with every grind. his thighs locked around you more tightly, fuck, he even tried to squirm away the more you hit his prostate. “no no no, right— here.. stay, baby.” you murmured breathlessly, holding onto him firmly. he asked for this. he’s getting it. bucky was getting restless; writhing, his toes curling, muscles tensing, chest arching up. a literal mess, that’s what he was. he whined helplessly, the sound broken, bordering on a sob. he let go of you completely, both of his hands finding purchase above, on the headboard — he grasped it, throwing his head back simultaneously. his cock was leaking and twitching so much it was almost embarrassing. bucky’s abs clenched as you continued to abuse his prostate. “ah-hahhaaah—” he cried out, tears filling his waterline as he scrunched his face up.

bucky was unraveling beneath you.

bucky’s voice had lost all control — gone was the sharp discipline, the soldier’s restraint. low, needy, guttural groans were pulled out of him with each rock of your hips. he wasn’t even speaking in full sentences, just fractured words. “gunna— gunna cum— shit, i can’t..” he rambled, his voice breathless and hoarse. when you continued the relentless fucking, his voice got more raw and desperate. somehow, the deeper you managed to get in him, the more you drew from bucky — he was gasping his way through it, he even started chanting your name under his breath, like it meant salvation. “please,” he whimpered, voice trembling. “don’t stop— don’t stop— please, m’so close—!” you kissed the edge of his jaw and whispered against his skin, “then let go for me, baby. let me hear you, make a mess.”

and he did.

with a shuddering sob, body so taut and shaking, bucky came hard, breath punched out of him, his moans spilling uncontrollably from his lips. his legs trembled as he clung to you, riding it out with soft, broken sounds and whispered curses. almost at the same time you came inside him, your cock twitching as your cum pooled deep inside him. the feeling earned another pathetic whine and he subconsciously rolled into you, his hips stuttering. his body was slick with sweat, drool on the corner of his mouth and down his chin. his hair was a mess, as he was himself. thank god he made that move, otherwise he would’ve missed out on being fucked so damn good.

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literaryvein-reblogs · 23 days ago

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Some Writing Notes for your Sex Scenes

Foreplay - any sexual activity that comes before intercourse.

The purpose of foreplay is typically to pave the way for sex, but good foreplay can be enjoyable enough to be the main event.

Everyone has different preferences when it comes to foreplay—the possibilities for sexual stimulation are nearly endless.

With full consent from all participants, foreplay is an exciting way to explore your own desires, and it can often lead to a pleasurable orgasm.

Tips for Better Foreplay

There are many ways to improve your foreplay. Consider incorporating these foreplay ideas into your sex life.

Be mindful of your environment. Light some scented candles to set the mood, share a bottle of wine, or put on some sexy music and ask your partner to dance. A sensual environment makes you and your partner more comfortable to explore other forms of foreplay.

Take your time. Remain present with your partner, and savor every moment of anticipation. There’s no rush. Enjoy a long makeout session; kissing triggers the release of chemicals in your brain like oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, giving you a sense of euphoria. If your clothes are still on, try dry humping. If you decide to remove your clothes, try performing a striptease or allowing your partner to help you slowly undress.

Consider roleplaying. Roleplaying can add an erotic element to your foreplay. If you’re comfortable with it, share your sexual fantasies with your partner and plan a roleplaying session. Use your imagination to build out the scenario in your mind, and perhaps pretend that you are strangers meeting for the first time. Alter your behavior to fit the role you’re playing, and enjoy experiencing a new kind of sexual encounter with your partner.

Perform a sensual massage. Find the erogenous zones on your partner’s body, then use massage oil to rub your partner with whatever intensity they prefer. You can also use feathers to tease your partner’s sensitive body parts, like their thighs, breasts, or back. As long as there is clear consent, consider running your hands down to your partner’s genitals to give their vulva or penis manual stimulation. Stroke and rub your partner with different motions and speeds. Using your lips and tongue on your partner’s erogenous zones is another great foreplay technique.

Try using sex toys. If you’re trying to shake up your foreplay routine, sex toys might do the trick. Consider using a blindfold or handcuffs to focus your partner’s awareness on every physical sensation. Vibrators are an excellent option to enhance foreplay. Move your vibrator across your partner’s body, searching for erogenous zones and focusing on areas like the nipples, scrotum, labia, and clitoris. The right sex toy can lead to exciting new foreplay techniques between you and your partner.

Communicate clearly. The key to long-term sexual satisfaction with your partner is good communication. Becoming more comfortable talking about your sexual desires will lower your inhibitions and generate more intimacy in your relationship. Consider sexting your partner when they are away or using dirty talk as a foreplay technique. Encourage your partner by telling them about the things they do that you enjoy, and ask them what they want out of foreplay. If your conversations about sex and foreplay are difficult, consider talking with a sex therapist to discuss ways of enhancing communication.

There are both psychological and physiological benefits of engaging in foreplay.

It can strengthen emotional intimacy within your long-term relationship, build your self-confidence with new sexual partners, and even reduce stress.

Foreplay also helps with sexual arousal, increasing blood flow to your genitals and preparing your body for sexual intercourse.

Oral Sex - involves stimulating your partner's genitals with your mouth.

You can perform oral stimulation using your tongue, lips, and/or throat.

Oral sex can be a form of foreplay before sexual intercourse or as the main event of a sexual experience.

There are 3 subcategories of oral sex: cunnilingus, fellatio, and analingus.

Types of Oral Sex

If you want to engage in oral sex, here are three oral sex acts to try with a partner:

Cunnilingus: Cunnilingus is an oral sex act perfomred on the vulva or vagina. During cunnilingus, the giving partner typically focuses on stimulating their partner’s clitoris, the most sensitive erogenous zone for vulva owners.

Fellatio: Fellatio, more commonly called a blow job, is an oral sex act that involves stimulating your partner’s penis with your mouth. Despite its name, a blow job doesn't actually involve blowing on the penis; rather, you perform a blow job by licking and sucking the penis.

Analingus: More commonly called a rim job or rimming, analingus is the act of orally stimulating a partner’s anus. Licking, kissing, and sucking can stimulate the sensitive nerve endings in and around the anus and rectum. With thoughtful safer sex practices and clear communication, rimming can be a pleasurable sexual activity for persons of all genders and sexual orientations.

Health Risks of Oral Sex

It is possible to contract STIs (sexually transmitted infections) through oral sex, but the risk is much lower than vaginal and anal sex. Use barrier methods and take precautions to practice safe sex:

Communicate with your partner. Talk to your partner about each other's sexual health history and STI status before engaging in oral sex.

Know the potential risks. STIs you can transmit through oral sex include Human papillomavirus (HPV), which causes genital warts; Hepatitis A, B, and C; oral herpes and genital herpes, gonorrhea, Chlamydia, Syphilis, and HIV. STIs can be asymptomatic, but possible symptoms include a sore throat and sores in or around the mouth or throat.

Use protection. For maximum STI prevention, use a condom during fellatio and a dental dam during cunnilingus and analingus.

Take precaution. The risk of STI transmission is typically higher for those giving oral sex than those receiving it. To decrease the risk while giving oral sex, avoid brushing your teeth or using dental floss right beforehand, since bleeding gums will increase exposure to any viruses.

Tips for Performing Cunnilingus

Direct clitoral stimulation can increase pleasure and lead to climax. Start performing cunniligus slowly, and keep these considerations in mind:

Know that every vulva is different. Be mindful that all vulvas (the external female genitalia including the clitoris, labia, and vaginal opening) are different. This means the smell, look, or taste of your partner's vulva may not be what you expect, and that's completely normal.

Focus on the clitoris. Direct and consistent clitoral stimulation is the key to making your partner orgasm. To locate the clitoris, look for where the two inner labia (the vaginal lips) connect at the top and form a small hood. Use your fingers to spread the labia apart. Underneath the hood is the clitoris, which looks like a tiny nub, typically slightly larger than a pea in size.

Start slow. A general rule for all sexual activities is to start slow and gradually increase the pace so that your partner has time to build up their level of arousal. Begin with slow, sensual licking. Before you target the clitoris, tease your partner and build suspense by lightly circling your tongue around the entire vulva area.

Pay attention to body language. One of the best ways to tell if you're pleasing your partner is to tune into their body language. Heavy breathing and tilting their hips closer to your mouth are good signs. If your partner isn't showing signs of pleasure, switch up your technique with a slight variation in tongue pressure, pacing, or location.

Encourage communication. Even easier than reading your partner's body language is listening to their own words. Let your partner know that you’re open to feedback, and be sure to ask questions mid-performance. Asking your partner about the pressure and speed is a great way to zero in on their pleasure.

Use your fingers or a sex toy. For enhanced stimulation, insert your fingers or a sex toy (like a vibrator or dildo) into your partner's vagina while simultaneously licking their clitoris. To massage your partner's g-spot, gently insert one or more fingers about two-inches inside the vagina and move your fingers towards you as though you're making a "come here" motion. Know that not everyone enjoys fingering during cunnilingus, so it's a good idea to discuss your partner's preferences before you give it a try.

When your partner is approaching orgasm, keep doing what you're doing. If your partner signals that they're close to climaxing, either verbally or through body language, don’t switch up your technique. Keep targeting the same spot until your partner orgasms or instructs you otherwise. (It may be okay to increase your tongue pressure or speed as your partner is approaching orgasm, but you should typically continue focusing on the same location.)

Blow Job Techniques

Experiment with these blow job techniques to find what feels best for your partner.

Use your lips to shield your teeth. If your teeth touch your partner’s penis, the sensation for them will likely be unpleasant. Wrap your lips over your teeth as a cushion as you go down on your partner.

Use your hands. For the best blow job, mix in some hand job work. Place your dominant hand around your partner's shaft, then simultaneously move your hand and mouth up and down the penis. To enhance this motion, twist your wrist back and forth as you move up and down. Make sure to use lube to prevent painful friction. Once you have the motion down, use your other hand to gently massage your partner's testicles.

Have an ejaculation plan. If you intend to bring your partner to orgasm, plan ahead so you're both prepared for ejaculation. If you prefer that your partner doesn't ejaculate in your mouth, let them know beforehand. That way, your partner can give you a verbal warning right before they orgasm, and you can switch to hand job-only mode as they climax. If you are okay with your partner climaxing in your mouth, decide whether you would rather spit or swallow. If you do choose to swallow, know that semen is perfectly safe to ingest.

Show enthusiasm. To give a good blow job, first express to your partner that you want to give them head. Try showing your enthusiasm through a little dirty talk. You can also ask your partner, "Do you like how this feels?" to show that you're invested in their pleasure and open to feedback. As you go down on your partner, look up every so often to make eye contact and indicate that you're enjoying yourself. If you’re not into giving blow jobs, be honest about that with your partner, and never feel pressured to do something you dislike. Only engage in sexual acts that you're comfortable with; if that doesn’t include blow jobs, try exploring alternate ways to please your partner.

Use your tongue to stimulate the penis head. During most of the blow job, you'll want to apply soft pressure with your tongue against the penis as you move your mouth up and down the shaft. For a pleasurable change of pace, try focusing your tongue attention on the head of the penis and the frenulum, the sensitive band of skin on the underside of the penis head. Grip the lower shaft with your hand, and use the tip of your tongue to lightly lick the top of the penis head in a slow circular motion.

Practice before trying to deep throat. Deep throating—the act of putting your partner's penis far enough into your mouth that it reaches your throat—is a turn-on for some blow job recipients, but you should only go as deep as is comfortable for you. If you want to attempt deep throating, first train your gag reflex by practicing without a partner. Start by slowly moving a toothbrush toward the back of your throat, and try to hold it there for 10 seconds. When you gag, relax, and overcome your gag reflex by taking deep breaths. Once you make it 10 seconds without gagging, move to a larger object like a dildo. Repeat the same process you’re comfortable moving the dildo back and forth in your mouth.

Stimulate your partner's other erogenous zones. The key to a great blow job is to make it a full-body experience. While your mouth pleasures the penis, simultaneously stimulate other erogenous zones on your partner's body. Try massaging their balls, licking their inner thighs, stroking their perineum, or engaging in some anal play.

Add a sex toy to the mix. Try enhancing your blow jobs with a vibrator; simply press it against your cheek or chin so the vibration passes indirectly to your partner’s penis.

How to Give Analingus

If you and your partner decide to explore rimming as a type of anal stimulation, follow this step-by-step guide to safely engage in analingus.

Talk to your partner first. If you want to try rimming, start by telling your partner why you find it sexy and why it’s something you’d like to incorporate into your sex life. Be prepared for your partner to say no. You need consent before trying any form of sexual activity with a partner, including analingus. Remember that performing or receiving a rim job does not mean that other forms of anal sex are on the table.

Clean up first. The key to safe rimming is maintaining good hygiene practices. Use the bathroom at least an hour before engaging in anal play. Before receiving a rim job, take a shower with your partner and wash your anus with warm water and mild soap. If you are still worried about cleanliness, consider using an anal douche or enema. Be careful, though—overusing douches or enemas can result in the disruption of healthy gut bacteria. If you are experiencing gas, constipation, or diarrhea, avoid receiving a rim job until your digestive system is back to normal.

Go slow. When giving a rim job, take your time with various foreplay techniques, allowing your partner to become fully aroused. Light some candles, put on sexy music, and undress slowly. When you’re turned on, your muscles relax, making it easier to enjoy anal stimulation. Try a long make-out session, then slowly kiss your way down your partner’s body.

Find the right position. There are several positions you and your partner can try for pleasurable analingus. If you are the receiving partner, consider lying on your back with your hips propped up under a pillow and your partner on their knees in front of you. You can also stand with your partner kneeling behind you. Another good rimming position to try is doggy style.

Experiment with different techniques. When performing a rim job, explore different ways to stimulate your partner’s anus. Kiss your partner’s perineum, the area between their genitals and anus. Consider using your warm breath to tease your partner. Then, relax your tongue and start with long, slow licks. Try moving your tongue in a circular motion around your partner’s anus. Be sure to communicate clearly with your partner about what feels good and what doesn’t. Remember that if you or your partner becomes uncomfortable at any time, you can stop rimming immediately.

Use your hands. While it is possible to experience an anal orgasm in response to anal stimulation alone, stimulating other erogenous zones on your partner’s body can create an even more powerful sensation. During analingus, consider squeezing your partner’s nipples, rubbing their clit, fingering their vagina, or stroking their penis. With the right stimulation, a rim job can add a whole new pleasurable element to you and your partner’s orgasms.

Consider sex toys. The use of vibrators or BDSM gear like handcuffs can enhance your rim job. Consider purchasing sex furniture like swings or wedge pillows to assist with difficult positions. If you are interested in solo anal play, some anal sex toys are specifically designed to stimulate the nerve endings around your anus by imitating the sensation of analingus.

Doggy Style - a sex position in which one partner is positioned on all fours.

With one partner on their hands and knees (or elbows), the other partner can stand on their knees and use their hands to hold onto their partner’s hips.

This position can be great for anal or vaginal penetration, whether with a penis, strap-on, finger, or other sex toy.

Tips for Doggy-Style Sex

Use these techniques to turn doggy style into your new favorite sex position.

Prepare for deep penetration. When it comes to penetrative vaginal or anal sex, doggy style allows for deeper penetration. For vaginal penetration, doggy style decreases the distance between the vaginal opening and the cervix, increasing the likelihood of your partner striking this often-sensitive part. If this is painful for you, try slowing the pace, reducing the depth of penetration, or adjusting the angle. You can also use a cock ring or similar toy to create a barrier, preventing the penis or toy from going too deep.

Use props. Pillows, cushions, or other props placed underneath your joints can help you relax, prevent injury, and discover the perfect position. Taking time to get set up will make the experience more enjoyable.

Add sex toys. Doggy style is a great position for using sex toys. Try penetration via strap-on, dildo, or vibrator, but don’t forget about other erogenous zones. The doggy-style position can sometimes make it harder to access your partner’s nipples or clitoris—nipple clamps and a wand-style vibrator can help.

Keep it clean. One of the advantages of doggy-style sex is that it makes the anus readily accessible. When engaging in anal play, cleanliness is especially important since bacteria from feces can pass to the genitals. To reduce the risk of infection, shower or use a bidet both before and after sex, and clean dildos and other toys after each time you use them. Condoms can also prevent sexually transmitted infections. Use a new condom each time you switch between partners or orifices—or if the condom breaks or falls off.

Try oral sex. Although doggy-style is often thought of as a penetrative sexual position, it’s actually a great position for cunnilingus and anal rimming. If you’re new to anal rimming, simply apply lube to your partner’s anus (ensure that they’ve washed first), then stimulate with your tongue.

Try downward doggy style. If you’re into yoga, try this variation on the doggy-style position. The receiving partner starts on all fours (traditional doggy style), then lifts their knees up off the ground to come into an inverted-V shape. (It’s okay to bend your knees). The giving partner can then stand to penetrate their partner with their penis, strap-on, fingers, or favorite toy.

Cowgirl Position - a sex position that consists of a penetrative partner lying flat on their back, with a receiving partner straddled atop facing them.

The receiving partner can control the pace, angle, and depth of penetration as they bounce, gyrate their hips, or otherwise customize the movement in this position.

The sex position is one of the best sex positions for those who require clitoral stimulation to climax because it allows the vulva owner to grind into their partner to stimulate their clitoris.

Couples can perform the highly customizable position in reverse, horizontally, and with sex toys.

While the term “cowgirl” is widely used to describe the position, it can also be called “cowboy,” “rider,” “cowperson,” or another variation for males or gender non-conforming individuals who ride atop their partner during intercourse.

Benefits of the Cowgirl Position

The receiving partner can be in control. Since the receiving partner is on top, they can control the speed, depth, and angle of penetration during intercourse. This control is beneficial if the receiving partner wants to tailor the stimulation to their particular desires to achieve orgasm—for instance, bouncing at a specific angle to hit an especially sensitive internal spot.

It offers more clitoral stimulation than other positions. If the receiving partner is a vulva owner, the cowgirl position can offer much more clitoral stimulation than other positions (and for many vulva owners, clitoral stimulation is the key to orgasm). To achieve this stimulation, vulva owners will grind their clitoris on their partner during cowgirl or use their fingers to stimulate their clitoris.

It’s very customizable. There are many cowgirl variations, from upright to horizontal to reverse, each offering their own targeted stimulation. Upright and reverse cowgirl stimulate the vaginal canal and g-spot, while horizontal stimulates the g-spot and clitoris. While in the cowgirl position, both partner’s hands are free to stimulate each other’s bodies. Additionally, couples can perform cowgirl variations using anal penetration for a different type of stimulation.

How to Do the Cowgirl Position

The penetrative partner lies on their back. Whether the penetrative partner is a penis owner or uses a strap-on dildo, they should begin by lying on their back with their legs straight.

The receiving partner mounts. The receiving partner then straddles the penetrative partner, upright and face-to-face with their partner.

Begin stimulation. Once in position, there are many ways to begin stimulation. The receiving partner may bounce or grind against the penetrative partner, or the receiving partner can remain still as the penetrative partner thrusts upward. Couples can perform the cowgirl position vaginally, anally, without penetration, or modify it to suit their individual needs. For example, having the top partner lean back or forward, or the bottom partner sit up or elevate their knees.

Ways to Try Cowgirl Position

Go horizontal. While the most traditional form of cowgirl has the person on top riding upright on their partner, asking the receiving partner to lean down so that they’re close to, or resting on, their partner’s chest can provide additional pleasure. If the receiving partner is a vulva owner, this is also a great way to increase g-spot stimulation during penetration.

Sit up. Instead of lying down, have the penetrative partner sit up during cowgirl, so both partners’ bodies are upright. This angle makes it easier for the penetrative partner to stimulate the receiving partner’s body with their mouth—from lips to neck to chest—and can feel especially intimate, like an embrace.

Try a squatting position. The most common cowgirl position is when the receiving partner is on their knees while straddling their partner, which is usually most comfortable for the receiving partner. However, if the receiving partner is flexible, they can squat over the penetrative partner with their feet on the bed, allowing for extra power and muscle control while bouncing.

Try reverse cowgirl. Reverse cowgirl is a variation in which the top partner faces the penetrative partner’s legs away while bouncing. Depending on the penis or toy’s curvature, they can stimulate different areas inside the top partner—for vulva owners, the g-spot, and for penis owners, the prostate. Reverse cowgirl can also offer a less-stressful position for partners who might feel slightly self-conscious or not interested in being face-to-face with the other during sex.

Introduce toys. Couples vibrators and cock rings are great hands-free ways to increase stimulation during cowgirl. It’s also easy to introduce some light bondage by tying the penetrative partner’s wrists or ankles to the bed, giving even more control to the person on top. Pillows are also a great tool: a pillow under the penetrative partner’s glutes will help elevate the penis or toy for deeper penetration, while pillows under the receiving partner’s knees will give them extra control of penetration depth.

Reverse Cowgirl - a sex position that involves one partner lying face-up as the other partner straddles them while facing away from them.

The person lying down can penetrate their partner’s vagina or anus with their penis or a strap-on or other sex toy, and the partner who is on top can grind on their partner or use their fingers or a toy to stimulate themselves and/or their partner.

The name “reverse cowgirl” refers to another popular sex position, cowgirl, which is basically the same thing, but with both partners facing each other.

How to Get Into Reverse Cowgirl Position

If you’re the one lying down, position yourself comfortably on the bed, propping your head up with pillows.

You can also sit up against a wall or headboard.

Since you won’t be able to move much in this position, make sure you have everything you need close at hand, such as lube, toys, or condoms.

You can use your hands to help your partner get into position.

If you’re the one sitting up, straddle your partner’s hips, with your knees on either side of their thighs.

Shift backward and forward until you and your partner feel comfortable, then lower yourself down onto your partner.

You can rest your bodyweight on your partner or hover above them using your knees for support.

Tips for Sex in Reverse Cowgirl Position

Begin slowly. As with any new position, it’s important to start slowly to avoid injury and ensure everyone is comfortable—especially if penetration is involved.

Have one partner set the rhythm. This position works best if one partner sets the pace. The partner on top is in a superior position to control the depth of penetration or the rhythm of grinding. Once you’re both feeling comfortable, the lying-down partner can take a more active role, placing their hands on their partner’s hips or using their fingers to stimulate their partner.

Try a seated variation. In this variation, instead of lying down, one partner sits on the edge of the bed, on a chair, or against a wall, and the other partner sits on their lap facing forward. You can also start out seated, then move into full reverse cowgirl.

Look over your shoulder. Not being able to see your partner’s face during sex can feel sexy and mysterious, but sometimes you just want to look them in the eyes. Turn your head over your shoulder or lean back to take a peek at your partner.

Use sex toys. Reverse cowgirl is a great position for penetration, so it’s an good choice for strap-on sex. Since this position leaves your hands free, it also provides an opportunity to play with other toys, such as a bullet vibrator.

Sex Swing - (also called a love swing or sex sling) a harness that suspends one person in the air during sexual intercourse.

In addition to helping couples execute sex positions that would be otherwise challenging, a sex swing can make sex more exhilarating and effortless.

You can use a sex swing for oral, vaginal, and anal sex.

Sex swings reduce the strain on muscles and joints and can help those with certain physical impairments participate in a larger array of sexual activities.

For those interested in BDSM, sex swings can be used as bondage furniture.

Types of Sex Swings

Conventional sex swing: The standard sex swing typically features stirrups, a seat, and two main straps that support the swing. It may also have a headrest or handles. You can install a sex swing with hooks attached to the ceiling or on either side of a hallway, depending on the specific model. You can also hang most conventional sex swings from a sex swing stand.

Door sex swing: This type of swing attaches over a door frame and is simple to install. A door sex swing is a great option for your first sex swing becuase of its low price point and easy installation, but its location does limit the range of motion and available sex positions.

Sex slings: Similar to a hammock, sex slings have a large seat designed to support the entire body. They're available in a range of materials, including fabric, leather, and wood. Sex slings may have a limited range of positions compared to conventional sex swings.

Body sex swings: A body sex swing is a wearable harness that attaches to another person as opposed to a ceiling, wall, or a sex swing stand. The person wearing the body sex swing must be standing while their partner is strapped into the swing.

Spinning sex swing: This type of swing is capable of spinning 360 degrees in either direction.

Tips for Using a Sex Swing

Adding a sex swing to your sex life takes practice. When purchasing, installing, and using a sex swing, consider these tips.

Start with a basic door sex swing. If it's your first time using a sex swing, make sure it's an activity you enjoy before you invest in a full setup. Door sex swings are more accessible for beginners and relatively easy to install.

Follow the installation instructions carefully. It's crucial that you pay close attention to the assembly and installation instructions to ensure that your sex swing is safe to use. If you install a swing incorrectly, you risk injuring yourself and your partner. If mounting a swing to your wall or ceiling is outside of your abilities, consider using a door sex swing or a free-standing sex swing on a stand.

Communicate clearly when using a sex swing. It's essential that you and your partner have an open chain of communication to ensure the swinger is comfortable and enjoying themselves.

Use your momentum. Whether the standing partner is using their penis or a strap-on dildo, they can use the momentum of the partner on the swing to achieve deeper penetration and more intense sex.

Relax. If you're the swinger, release any tension in your body, and let your partner take control.

Sex Swing Positions

Adding a sex swing to your collection of sex toys will open up possibilities for new positions. You can use a sex swing for solo masturbation, but consider these positions to try with your partner:

Swinging missionary: The swinging partner rests on their back with both feet in the swing's leg straps as the penetrating partner stands between the swinger's legs.

Hanging doggy style: The swinging partner leans forward onto the swing so it supports them at their waist and places their hands into the straps for support. As with traditional doggy style, the other partner penetrates the swinger from behind, holding the swinger's hips up so their legs are suspended in the air.

Swinging cowgirl: This position is similar to the standard cowgirl position—but suspended in the air. This position requires the penetrating partner to sit back into the swing as their partner climbs on top and straddles them. The partner on top can either keep their feet on the ground or lift them up so both partners are suspended. For a slightly different position, the partner on top can face the other direction for swinging reverse cowgirl.

Supportive lap dance: This position requires both partners to keep their feet on the ground. One partner sits down with the swing's seat resting against their upper thighs, while the standing partner holds onto the swing's straps and penetrates the swinger from behind.

Floating oral sex: One partner lies back in the swing while the other kneels on the ground in front of them and performs oral sex. The kneeling partner can use their hands to caress and stimulate areas of the swinger's body that might be inaccessible without a swing.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

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pellucid-constellations · 2 years ago

Text

Faking It

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes was in love with his girl—disgustingly, annoyingly so. Enough to start fights on the ice just to make sure he saw her after a game.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: This is FLUFF!! With HOCKEY MAN

a/n: This was originally something completely different but then I hated it so now it's all fluff and now I do not hate it. Pleaseeeee let me know what you think and if you enjoy it!! I love you thanks for reading ❤️❤️❤️

Masterlist

“Jesus Christ, Buck. Again?”

Bucky grinned, split lip tightening uncomfortably. When he turned to his captain, he had the gall to act oblivious. “What do you mean, captain?”

Steve gave him a disapproving look. “Give it up, pal. There was no need to pick a fight with that guy and you know it.”

“He was talking shit about the team!”

“They’ll always be a player talking shit about the team.”

“Then why’re you breathing down my neck right now, huh? We won. Be happy, Cap,” Bucky encouraged, slinging an arm over his shoulder. Steve raised a brow back at him but was clearly fighting back a smirk. Bucky could tell by the way his eyes lifted, contrasting his deep—albeit fake—frown.

In truth, Bucky had been looking for a fight. He’d been looking for a plethora of fights since the start of the season, and was usually quite successful with his venture. It had garnered him quite the reputation, but where the crowd saw it as a short-fuse on a large man, Steve saw it for what it really was.

An opportunity to see you.

And while Steve could appreciate the dedication, it made one of his best players ride out unnecessary time in the penalty box.

“I am happy. Just not with you,” Steve clarified, knocking Bucky’s arm away.

Bucky let out a sound close to a scoff. “Even with my extra time in the sin bin I still helped carry. It’s just part of the game, Steve. Gotta protect the team’s pride.”

“Yeah,” Steve drawled sarcastically, stopping in front of the locker room doors. “I’m sure that was your reasoning. What was it last game? Someone said something about your ma?”

“Hey, he did.”

“They always do.”

Heavy footsteps created a commotion in the hall, the rest of the team finally catching up with the pair. They funneled their way into the room for showers and a fresh change of clothes, and Steve stood with his crossed arms leaning against the wall, somehow still directing an admonishing look towards Bucky amidst the crowd. Bucky did his best to look baffled by the unspoken accusation, but then Sam Wilson passed by and Bucky’s ploy was disintegrated.

“Hey man,” Sam greeted, slapping a friendly hand against Bucky’s arm as he passed. “You let someone beat the shit out of you again so you could go see your girl?”

Bucky’s scoff returned, but this time Steve was having none of it. He kicked off of the wall and went to follow the rest of the team into the locker room. Bucky watched with a grimace, not only caught, but put on display.

“You know,” Steve called over his shoulder, not expecting Bucky to follow. “You’re dating the girl now. You don’t gotta keep up with this whole schtick.”

“I don’t have a schtick,” he called back. At the responding laugh from Steve, Bucky yelled, “I don’t!” but no one was listening to him. Or believing him.

But fine. If his schtick involved you, in any capacity, Bucky would admit to having one.

Some of what Steve said was right. Bucky was dating you now. You were his girl and that would imply total access to you all the time, whenever he wanted. He didn’t need to pick fights or feign injuries anymore (the latter never really worked anyways), because he had a key to your apartment. And you were in his bed more weekends than not.

But, damn, were you busy right now.

Bucky had never really considered how much schooling went into becoming a physical therapist until he met you. You were typically swamped with papers and tests and requests from Dr. Cho, but this past month had been exponentially worse thanks to finals. He had seen you about once a week if he was lucky, and that was a generous estimation. Add your crazy schedule to the alarming amount of away games he had over the past few weeks and he was champing at the bit to see you.

Bucky just prayed it was you in the training room today and not Dr. Cho. His odds were pretty favorable considering the team’s main trainer didn’t usually stick around after games if there were no major injuries, but there was always the off chance she let her interns go home early. But, knowing you, you would be in that room until the rink lights went off.

God, he loved you. Every overworked, high-strung bit of you.

He even loved the scolding look you shot him as he pushed open the training room doors, his bruises and cuts on full display. You dropped the pen you were tapping against an overflowing notebook and rocketed out of your rolling stool, and Bucky adored the way you stomped over to him, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the curse you clearly wanted to let free.

“Hey, baby,” Bucky smiled, this time ignoring the sting in his lip. “Funny seeing you here.”

You huffed, bringing careful fingers up to his chin. “Not very funny,” you mumbled. “Not when you look like someone hit you with their car.”

Bucky let you fuss for a moment, following your touch as you turned his head back and forth and examined his split knuckles. This was your job, so obviously he let you do it, but he enjoyed watching you. So he didn’t stop you from lifting his jersey up to inspect his middle, because how else would he catch the cute way you scrunch your nose up in concentration? If he pulled his hands away when you started testing the range of motion in his wrists, when else would he be able to track your lips as you softly counted and mouthed gentle confirmations?

Never. Because you were so damn busy.

“Missed you,” Bucky said after sneaking a kiss on your forehead while you were prodding at the bruise on his collarbone. “I’ve been missing you a lot.”

You let a small smile interrupt the disgruntlement on your face. Bucky grinned at the change, pressing another kiss to your hair while he still could.

“Did you miss me enough to send a right hook into that guy’s jaw?”

“Yes.”

Your smile was gone again. Now you looked aghast. “Bucky.”

“What?” he exclaimed, sliding his torn hands from your healing ones to wrap you in his embrace. “You want me to lie instead? Okay, fine. No, sweetheart, I didn’t start a fight just to have an excuse to see you. That guy got all these punches in on me because I’m out of practice, is all. I don’t think about you every waking second of my life, and while we’re at it, no I did not use your shampoo this morning because I miss how—”

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, resting your forehead on the divot in his chest. “I get it. Thanks for being truthful.”

Bucky relished in the feel of you. He had been slightly worried that his state would cause you to be more upset than anything. If you weren’t so tired right now, there was a high chance you’d be yelling at him because of his recklessness instead of resting against his chest. So Bucky jumped at the opportunity, trailing one of his hands up to cup the back of your head. He craned his neck down, burying his face into the juncture of your neck.

He hadn’t been lying about the shampoo.

“I miss you too. Even if you act like an idiot sometimes,” you mumbled against his jersey.

Something in Bucky felt lighter, warm. “Acting like an idiot’s the only way I get to see my girl.”

You hummed. “Sorry ‘m so busy.”

You had to be exhausted. Not even a single reprimand had tumbled from your mouth. Bucky had expected at least three.

“When’s the last time you slept, baby?” Bucky kept his voice low, his thumb making unconscious circles against your hair.

“I don’t know. In the night.”

“Okay, thanks smart ass.” Bucky jostled you a bit until your eyes met his. “I meant when did you last take a break? Get a good night’s sleep?”

You sighed, gaze trailing over his face. “Let me fix you up. Then we can play twenty questions.”

“Baby—”

“No, Buck, this is the training room, if you haven’t noticed,” you quipped, stepping back and rifling through a few drawers. “Take a seat and I’ll fix you. That’s my job.”

“Well, what about my job?” he grumbled back.

“You have failed at your job. Your job is hockey and you instead played human punching bag.”

“Not that job. My other job. The one where I take care of you.”

You spun on your heel, a basket of supplies resting on your hip. The sweater that engulfed your frame had the university’s logo stamped across the front, but instead of jeans or slacks—the usual uniform for PT interns—you wore leggings. Your hair was pulled back in the most endearing, pretty mess, and Bucky’s chest hurt as he looked at you.

“My tired girl,” he hummed, bringing his hand up to your cheek as you pushed him down on the exam chair. He sat if only to appease you, his feet still flat on the floor even with the tall seat.

“I’m only a little tired,” you weakly fought. Bucky chuckled in response, sanitary paper crinkling beneath him. “Now let me clean you up.”

You snapped gloves onto your hands and Bucky fought back a petulant whine. If he had been any other member of the team, those gloves would have been on the second they walked in the door. He should be grateful, then, that you only put them on when it was time to tend to his wounds, but he wasn’t. He missed you too much to feel latex instead of your skin.

Bucky’s lip stung as you cleaned it, but he hardly flinched. If he moved, he would miss the pretty way you bit into your lip as you stared at him.

“Remember when I’d be in here all the time?” he asked when you turned back down to grab antibiotic cream.

You let out a tired laugh. “How could I forget? You picked a fight every game. If that didn't work you’d come stumbling in here complaining about a torn ACL or whatever. Big liar.”

“I wouldn’t call it lying.”

The smile you gave him was replicated on his own face.

“You were literally lying.” You dabbed the cream on his lip, and then moved to the cut on his cheek. “You would come limping in here and then I’d see you an hour later running out to the parking lot.”

“You wouldn’t look at me if I wasn’t injured.”

“It was my job, Bucky!” you laughed, eyes giving away your amusement. “I wasn’t supposed to be fraternizing with the players. I’m pretty sure Cho only lets us be together because you wouldn’t leave her alone otherwise.”

Bucky moved his hands from his thighs to your waist, tugging you closer as you worked. “Hey, sometimes drastic measures are needed.”

“You called her multiple times a day… bought her an edible arrangement. Wait, didn’t you offer to drive her kids to school a few times?”

“It worked, didn’t it,” he posed, nudging his nose against your cheek. You giggled, lightly slapping his arm to get away.

“The edible arrangement was a good touch,” you relented.

Bucky released you as you wiggled from his grip, flitting around the training room to put supplies back. He spotted your backpack in the corner of the room, unzipped with the water bottle tipping out. When you sat down at the computer to document his care, which he found a bit ridiculous (you only put a bandaid on his face), Bucky walked over and gathered your things. He did so slowly so you wouldn’t notice; you probably had plans to stay at the rink for another few hours, and that was not okay with him.

With a final zip and your water bottle now standing upright, Bucky meandered over to your seated position. He hooked his chin over your shoulder as you worked, leaning over and tapping your phone screen for the time. His heart twisted warmly in his chest when he saw a picture of himself smiling under the 8:00 pm displayed on the homescreen.

After all the pining and work it took to get you, Bucky often felt this wasn’t real.

God, he loved you.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” you whispered, clicking away at the computer. “I still have some charting to do. Peter hit his head yesterday and I have to do the follow up work.”

Still in his uniform, Bucky wrapped you up from behind. Now you would both need a shower and he could get you to leave. He kissed the back of your head, and then your temple, and then your cheek as he craned his neck to watch you work. You smelled like fresh laundry and books and the subtle hint of your perfume.

“Parker’s fine. He was up and playing today. Let’s go home, baby,” Bucky murmured, most of his words spoken against your skin.

“I know he’s okay. But head injuries are a completely different protocol and I have to—”

“I miss you,” he reiterated. “And you’re working too hard. All the lights are off in the rink ‘cept for this one. Come back to my place. Let me take care of you.”

“Why don’t you shower and change first? I’ll leave with you once you finish.”

Bucky spun your stool around suddenly, one hand on your waist, the other reaching back to steady himself on the desk now at your back. “Oh no, don’t try to pull that on me. I get back in here, you’re gonna tell me you started something new you can only finish on the PT computer and you can’t leave for another hour. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

You let out a quick sigh, caught. “Well, what about—”

“Nope,” Bucky interrupted. He used his far hand to shut the facility computer and then guided you up. “You’re coming home with me. You’re gonna sit in the car while I drive you to my apartment and then we’re gonna take a shower together and I’m gonna make you feel so good you don’t even remember what a concussion is.”

“Bucky,” you chastised, hiding your face in his shoulder.

His laugh shook your head. “Still so damn shy.” He reached down to grab your bag, slinging it over his shoulder and placing a hand on the back of your neck, meeting your averted gaze. “Just me in here, baby.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be so vulgar.”

“Vulgar? Sweetheart, if you want vulgar I’ll tell you exactly what I’m gonna do to you the second we—”

You slapped your hand over his mouth, careful for the delicate skin there. Still, Bucky was sure you could feel his smile against your skin, and he fought back an even bigger one when he saw the embarrassed twist of your brow.

Slowly, he pried your wrist down, kissing the palm of your hand on the way. “Sorry,” he whispered, not sorry in the slightest.

You pursed your lips, flustered. “You’re such an antagonizer.”

Bucky could do this every day and never grow tired of it. It had been months now and he found himself only wanting you more.

“Can’t help it. I love you.”

Your faux annoyance morphed into a bashful smile, the kind Bucky remembered from his time faking injuries. It was reminiscent of when you were trying not to laugh at his jokes, or smile at his flirting, or give him any reaction he was looking for.

But he always got what he wanted in the end.

And, more than anything, he wanted you.

“That one do the trick?” Bucky asked. “Am I finally getting my girl to come home with me?”

When you looked up at him with raised brows and a smile twisted up at the corners, he knew you’d given up. Perfect timing, too, because—in all honesty—Bucky had been punched in the side during his on-ice tussle, and his ribs were starting to hurt. You were going to be pissed when you saw the bruise form tomorrow morning, but you would be pissed in his bed, so it was worth it to Bucky.

“I have to get a little bit of homework done when we get there,” you reasoned, pointing an accusing finger at your boyfriend.

He threw his hands up in surrender, dropping one down over your shoulders as you both walked out. “Okay, okay. Homework at my place, I got it.”

“That comes first, Bucky. Before anything else. Shower, then homework, and then… other things.”

“I know what first means, baby.”

“Good.”

But Bucky had other plans, and they did not involve homework. He was pretty sure you were ahead, anyways. Like, weeks ahead, actually.

“You eat dinner yet?” he asked, fishing his keys from his pocket.

You looked up at him, incredulous. “What did I just say?”

“What?” he defended, tugging you closer as the wind in the parking lot whipped at your clothes. “I can’t make sure my girl’s had dinner? What am I allowed to do?”

You only scoffed, tucking yourself further into his side. “Keep me warm.”

“Always, baby.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes au #college!bucky #athlete!bucky #bucky barnes

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lvmimis · 7 months ago

Text

A typical Thursday night has you and Izuku both home early and on this night in particular, you find yourself straddling him in bed, his body prone and back exposed to you so you can knead his shoulder and back muscles in a makeshift massage.

You let gentle pulses of electricity smooth and relax each muscle, carefully tracing along each roughened and scarred patch of skin for new scars, and gently rotate his joints. You’re not as good as the physical therapist who works at your new hospital, but you’re good enough, and as you feel your husband’s body ease up whatever has him tense, you feel a satisfaction deep in your chest. Slowing down your movements, you let your body lay against him, chest to back.

“Do you feel better?” you ask.

His face is still muffled into the pillow as he murmurs “yes.” You wonder if he’s started to fall asleep, but he reaches his arms overhead and backwards to reach for your head, then patting it gently once he’s found it. You laugh at the way he fumbles to look for it at first and roll off his body so that you’re next to him, and he turns onto his side, pulling you in closer, while beaming.

“Not to say that that new healer isn’t great, but it just doesn’t feel the same when it’s not you.”

You pout a little.

“Oh, what’s she doing wrong?” you ask, quick to offer constructive feedback. He frowns for a second, wondering if he misspoke, then instead presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t think it’s anything wrong per se, it’s just-” he trails off for a moment then pauses, thinking about the best way to phrase the next sentence, then continues - “she’s not you.”

He tries to keep his voice light and not demanding to make sure that you don’t feel any guilt, but it’s hard not to. The few months where you worked in the same agency as Izuku must have made him so happy, and you easily recall the practical smile on his face when you arrived as part of the salvage and resuscitation crew or whenever he walked into the infirmary and you were free.

But the truth of the matter is that hero work wasn’t your calling in that manner and would never be, and he understands that. You've just started at your new place a few months ago, and the adjustment is hard, but you've seemed overall happy even if you're no longer together as often.

He must sense the twinge of discomfort because he cups your face, kissing you first on the lips before pulling back and giving you a reassuring nod.

“I know it’s an unfair standard to meet though,” he says. “How can anyone compare to my perfect wife?”

The way he lays it on thick makes you chuckle.

“I need you to adjust your standards a bit, you’re just far too used to me.”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you so that you’re on top of him.

“I think you should allow me to praise you,” he says.

“Not to someone else’s detriment,” you protest, pressing your chin to his chest as you look at him.

He frowns. “I didn’t say ‘the healer at my job sucks’, all I said is it doesn’t feel the same. Maybe, just maybe, I just like the extra love I feel when you touch me.”

You grin, now filled with mischief. “Well, maybe I could offer her some pointers in that respect too...”

His nose crinkles. “Stop that right now.” He holds you tighter, and you let your legs kick as he rocks the both of you back and forth playfully.

“Regardless, you always have me to come back to and I’ll always be willing to kiss your booboo so don’t be too sad,” you add.

He laughs, petting your head. “I’m just being a baby, aren’t I?”

“A little, but you’re my baby,” you remind him, as you cuddle, but you make note of the additional indirect message that he always loves and misses you too.

#izuku midoriya x reader #izuku x reader #mimi's notes #daydreams: bnha #mimidoriya

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mrs-delaney · 22 days ago

Text

Behind The Lens | Part Three

Part One

Part Two

Reader Request: Reader has been working for the bengals since Joe got drafted. She can be a social media admin, public relations liaison or even a physical therapist. She’s been in love with him but it is unrequited while he was with Olivia and when they break up she thought that she had a chance but he starts seeing the influencer but please make it a happy ending. Angst as fuck but happy ending. I want to see this girl yearning for fucking years before she gets him and I want him to realize that she is the love of his life.

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: Life-changing job offers, confrontations in edit bays, the specific discomfort of everyone finding out you might leave, career crossroads, that painful moment when he finally says what you've been waiting to hear at the exact wrong time, first kisses that are years overdue, heartbreaking honesty, the anxiety of deciding between your heart and your career, feelings that can't be compartmentalized no matter how hard you try, and the terrifying vulnerability of finally admitting what you want.

Taglist: @honeydippedfiction

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

September 2025 - Regular Season Begins

Game day energy pulsed through the stadium as Y/N directed her social media team from the sidelines. The season opener against Pittsburgh had sold out months ago, the stands now a sea of orange and black as fans welcomed football back to Cincinnati.

"Pregame is live across all platforms," Marcus confirmed, tablet in hand. "Fan engagement numbers already up 25% from last year's opener."

Y/N nodded, scanning the field where players warmed up. "Good. Make sure we're capturing rookie reactions, especially Thompson's first NFL experience. Fans love that 'kid on Christmas morning' energy."

She moved efficiently along the sideline, camera in hand, document key moments herself while overseeing her team's coverage. After five seasons with the Bengals, Y/N had developed an instinct for the visuals and stories that would resonate with fans, the quiet pregame rituals, the focused preparation, the camaraderie within position groups.

From across the field, she spotted Joe going through his warmup routine, methodical and focused as always. He looked good—confident, sharp, ready for the season ahead. Y/N captured a few frames, professional eye recognizing the compelling visuals, before moving on to other players and moments.

The buffer system she'd implemented in January had evolved into something more sustainable by September, a professional approach that allowed her to do her job effectively without the emotional complications that had once made working with Joe so difficult. She still managed overall content strategy, still oversaw quarterback coverage, but delegated the direct, one-on-one work to her team whenever possible.

"Five minutes to national anthem," Sam's voice came through her earpiece. "Coaches want pregame huddle coverage."

"On it," Y/N confirmed, positioning herself for the shot as players gathered around Coach Taylor.

The game unfolded with the intensity typical of a Bengals-Steelers matchup, hard hits, defensive struggles, momentum shifts. Y/N documented it all, capturing both the game action and sideline reactions, directing her team to focus on storytelling moments rather than just plays.

When Joe threw a perfect 40-yard touchdown to Higgins in the third quarter, breaking open what had been a tight defensive battle, Y/N captured his celebration—the controlled fist pump, the quick acknowledgments to teammates, the immediate refocus on the next series. She knew his patterns so well, could anticipate his movements even from across the field.

"That's the money shot," Marcus said, reviewing her footage of the touchdown celebration. "Lead with that for the halftime content push."

Y/N nodded, already moving toward the tunnel to prepare for halftime coverage. As she approached, Joe jogged past on his way to the locker room, helmet in hand. Their eyes met briefly, a moment of recognition amid the chaos. He gave her a small nod, which she returned professionally before continuing on her way.

That was their rhythm now, professional acknowledgment without lingering. Mutual respect without the complications of before. It worked. It had to.

The Bengals won 24-17, a solid start to the season that sent fans home happy and created plenty of positive content for Y/N's team to amplify. After the game, she coordinated postgame interview coverages, finalized social media highlights, and directed the content wrap-up from the media room as players showered and changed.

"That's a wrap," she announced to her team as the final content pieces were scheduled. "Great work everyone. Clean execution across all platforms."

As staff packed up equipment and prepared to leave, Y/N checked final statistics and planned the morning follow-up content. She was focused on her tablet when a voice spoke from the doorway.

"Successful opener."

She looked up to find Brian Reynolds, Director of Communications for the New York Giants, standing just inside the media room. His presence was so unexpected that Y/N momentarily struggled to place him, though they'd met at league events before.

"Brian," she said, professional smile quickly in place. "Didn't expect to see you in Cincinnati."

"In town for meetings with sponsors," he explained, stepping further into the room. "Thought I'd catch the game while I was here. You mind if I shut the door? Wanted to talk to you about something."

Y/N nodded, curious about this unusual visit. Brian closed the door and took a seat across from her, his expression thoughtful.

"I'll be direct," he said. "I've been following your work with the Bengals for several years now. The content strategy you've developed, particularly around Burrow's injuries and comebacks, has been exceptional. Authentic storytelling that connects with fans without exploiting vulnerable moments."

"Thank you," Y/N replied, genuinely pleased by the professional recognition. "That's exactly what we aim for."

"The Giants are looking to completely overhaul our digital content approach," Brian continued. "Our ownership wants a more cohesive strategy across platforms, something that builds deeper fan connections beyond just game highlights and press conferences."

Y/N listened with increasing interest as Brian outlined the Giants' vision, mentally noting the similarities and differences to her work with the Bengals.

"So," he concluded, "we're creating a new position: Vice President of Content Strategy and Fan Engagement. Full creative control, substantial budget increase, direct report to ownership." He met her eyes directly. "We'd like you to consider it."

The offer hung in the air between them, unexpected and substantial. Y/N maintained her professional composure while her mind raced through implications.

"That's... quite an opportunity," she said carefully. "I'm flattered you thought of me."

"You were our first choice," Brian said simply. "Your work speaks for itself. The way you've positioned the Bengals' digital presence, particularly through challenging seasons and player setbacks, shows exactly the kind of storytelling vision we're looking for."

"I appreciate that," Y/N replied. "I would need to know more details, of course."

"Of course," Brian agreed, retrieving a business card from his jacket. "My contact information. If you're interested in discussing further, we can arrange a more formal conversation. Compensation would be substantially above your current position, and we'd provide relocation assistance to New York."

Y/N accepted the card, her thoughts still processing this unexpected development. "This is a lot to consider. I've been with the Bengals my entire NFL career."

"I understand," Brian nodded. "Take some time. But we're moving quickly on this position. We'd like to have someone in place before the holiday season, to prepare for playoff push and draft strategy."

After Brian left, Y/N sat alone in the media room, turning his business card over in her fingers. The opportunity was substantial—higher position, creative control, major market, significant salary increase. A chance to build something new rather than maintain what she'd already established.

It was also, she had to acknowledge, a chance to start fresh. Away from Cincinnati. Away from Joe Burrow and the complex emotions that still lingered despite her best efforts to move forward.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Sam: Celebration drinks at Sundry and Vice? Team's heading over.

Y/N stared at the message, Brian's card still in her hand.

Y/N: Running late, finishing some things. Save me a seat.

She tucked the card into her wallet and gathered her things, mind still turning over this unexpected opportunity. She hadn't been looking to leave Cincinnati. Hadn't considered building her career elsewhere. But now that the option existed, she couldn't deny the appeal of a fresh start.

As she walked through the quiet facility, Y/N passed the players' parking area. Joe was just leaving, dressed in his postgame suit, phone to his ear. They spotted each other simultaneously, the empty hallway suddenly charged with awareness.

Joe ended his call quickly. "Heading out?"

"Yeah," Y/N replied. "Just finished content wrap-up."

"Good game coverage," he said, that hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Saw the touchdown sequence. Perfect timing on the sideline reaction."

"Thanks," Y/N said, unexpectedly touched that he'd noticed her work specifically. "Clean game from the offense. Especially that third quarter drive."

Joe nodded, seeming to want to continue the conversation but unsure how. "Team celebrating?"

"Meeting them now," Y/N confirmed. "Sundry and Vice, I think."

"Tell everyone good work," Joe said, then added with slight hesitation, "Your boundary system's working well."

The observation caught her off guard, so directly acknowledging what had developed between them. "It seems to be," she agreed carefully.

"I don't like it," he said quietly, "but I respect it."

Before she could respond, his phone rang again. He glanced at it, then back at her. "Should take this. Have a good night, Y/N."

"You too, Joe."

As she walked to her car, Y/N felt a strange lightness. Their brief exchange had been the most natural in months, acknowledgment of their new dynamic without tension or avoidance. Progress, perhaps. Or just the passage of enough time to dull the sharper edges of what had once felt so raw.

She thought of Brian Reynolds' card in her wallet. Of New York City and new beginnings. Of building a career beyond the shadow of complicated feelings for Joe Burrow.

For the first time, leaving Cincinnati felt like a genuine possibility. Not an escape, but a step forward. And that realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

* * *

Late September 2025 - Exploring Options

The Giants moved quickly after Brian's initial approach. What began as exploratory conversations rapidly evolved into formal interviews, detailed position discussions, and increasingly attractive offers.

Y/N conducted these conversations discreetly, scheduling video calls during off-hours, using empty conference rooms when the facility was quiet, carefully protecting her exploration from becoming facility gossip. Only Sam knew the full extent of her discussions with New York, serving as both sounding board and reality check as Y/N weighed the opportunity.

"They've increased the salary offer again," Y/N said, showing Sam the email during a rare lunch away from the facility. "And added a signing bonus."

Sam whistled softly. "They really want you. Question is, do you want them?"

Y/N stared into her coffee. "The professional opportunity is undeniable. VP title, creative control, major market. It's the kind of role people work decades to reach."

"But?"

"But Cincinnati is home now," Y/N admitted. "Five years of building relationships, understanding this team's culture, creating something meaningful here."

Sam studied her friend carefully. "And is that the only reason you're hesitating?"

Y/N knew what Sam was asking. She sighed, turning her coffee cup slowly. "I'd be lying if I said Joe wasn't a factor. Not in the way you think, though."

"Explain."

"I've finally reached a place where I can work with him professionally without my feelings complicating everything. Where I can appreciate his talent and leadership without that constant ache." Y/N met her friend's gaze directly. "I fought hard for that balance. Part of me wonders if leaving is running away, not moving forward."

"Or maybe," Sam suggested gently, "it's recognizing that you've done the work here, and now it's time for new challenges. Professionally and personally."

Y/N nodded slowly. "The Giants want me to visit New York next month. See the facilities, meet with ownership. Final step before a formal offer."

"And will you go?"

"I think I have to," Y/N replied. "Even if just to know what else is possible."

* * *

The next week passed in a blur of regular season content production, Giants follow-up calls, and careful navigation of Y/N's increasingly complicated professional situation. She maintained her focus on Bengals work, refusing to let her potential departure affect current performance.

The Wednesday morning content meeting found her reviewing game footage with her team, outlining social strategies for the upcoming Ravens matchup. She was deep in discussion about third-down conversion graphics when she noticed her team's attention shift to something behind her.

Y/N turned to find Kayla in the doorway, expression unusually serious.

"Can I see you in my office?" she asked.

The walk to Kayla's office felt longer than usual, Y/N's mind racing through possibilities. Had someone discovered her Giants conversations? Was there an issue with recent content performance?

Kayla closed the door behind them and gestured for Y/N to sit. "So," she began without preamble, "the New York Giants."

Y/N maintained her composure despite the internal jolt of surprise. "You've heard."

"Brian Reynolds and I have known each other for fifteen years," Kayla said simply. "He had the professional courtesy to let me know they were pursuing you seriously. Not the details, just the fact."

"I was going to talk to you," Y/N said quickly. "Once things became more concrete. I'm still exploring options."

Kayla nodded, her expression softening slightly. "I'm not upset that you're exploring opportunities, Y/N. That's normal career development. I am concerned that you didn't feel you could discuss this with me directly."

Y/N exhaled slowly. "It's happened very quickly. And honestly, I'm still processing what I want."

"Fair enough," Kayla said. "So let me be direct: what would it take to keep you in Cincinnati?"

The question caught Y/N off guard. She had been preparing to explain her reasons for considering departure, not negotiate her reasons to stay.

"It's not about compensation," she began carefully. "The Bengals have been very fair."

"But the Giants are offering substantially more," Kayla finished for her. "Along with a VP title and greater creative control."

"Yes."

Kayla leaned forward. "We value your contributions here, Y/N. You've built something special with our content strategy, particularly around player narratives. Before I take this to ownership, I need to know if there's a package that would convince you to stay."

Y/N considered the question carefully. "It's not just about title or compensation, though those are factors. It's about growth potential. The Giants are offering creative control I don't currently have."

"And if we matched that?" Kayla asked. "Director of Content Strategy. Final approval on all external storytelling. Budget oversight."

The offer was substantial—more than Y/N had expected. "I'd need to think about it," she said honestly. "This isn't just a leverage play for me. I'm genuinely weighing options."

"I understand," Kayla said, leaning back in her chair. "Take the time you need. But know that we want to keep you here. You've become an essential part of this organization's voice."

Y/N nodded, appreciating the straightforward conversation. "Thank you. I promise I'll be transparent about my decision process."

"That's all I ask," Kayla said. "And Y/N? Let's keep this between us for now. No need to create unnecessary speculation around the facility."

"Of course," Y/N agreed, though she wondered how long such significant career discussions could remain contained.

* * *

Joe found out two days later.

Y/N was reviewing game highlights in an editing bay when Joe appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Sure," Y/N replied, saving her work before giving him her full attention. Their interactions had become easier over the past few months—professional, occasionally even friendly, but with clear boundaries that neither pushed against.

Joe closed the door behind him, an unusual move that immediately put Y/N on alert.

"The Giants?" he asked without preamble.

Y/N kept her expression composed despite her surprise. "How did you hear about that?"

"Does it matter?" He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Were you going to mention it?"

"Once I made a decision," Y/N said carefully. "It's still exploratory at this point."

"Exploratory," Joe repeated, studying her face. "VP of Content Strategy doesn't sound exploratory. Sounds like they're serious."

"They are," Y/N acknowledged, seeing no point in downplaying the opportunity. "And I'm seriously considering it."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze direct in a way it hadn't been in months. "Is this about the buffer system? About creating distance?"

The question caught her off guard with its directness. "No," she said firmly. "This is about my career. A significant opportunity in a major market."

"So it has nothing to do with getting away from a complicated working relationship?" The challenge in his voice was subtle but unmistakable.

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation. "My professional decisions aren't about you, Joe. They're about what's best for my career."

Something shifted in his expression—perhaps surprise at her directness, or recognition of the independence it represented.

"Fair enough," he said after a moment. "But five years building something here, and you'd walk away for a title and a bigger market?"

"It's more than that," Y/N replied, keeping her voice even. "It's about creative control. Building something new rather than maintaining what already exists."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeing more than she sometimes wished he could. "And there's nothing keeping you here? Nothing worth staying for?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither had acknowledged directly. Y/N maintained her composure, refusing to read more into his words than was actually there.

"I've built a life here," she said carefully. "Relationships that matter. But career opportunities like this don't come along often."

Joe nodded slowly, processing her response. "When will you decide?"

"After I visit New York next month," Y/N explained. "Meet with ownership, see the facilities, get a better sense of what I'd be walking into."

"And if you go," he asked, his voice dropping slightly, "who handles the content strategy here? Who maintains what you've built?"

The question felt both professional and personal, his concern extending beyond workflow logistics.

"That would be Kayla's decision," Y/N replied. "But I'd ensure a smooth transition. I wouldn't leave things in disarray."

Joe pushed off from the wall, his expression settling into something more resolved. "Well, I hope you don't go. But if you do, I get it."

The simple statement, neither manipulative nor dismissive, caught Y/N by surprise. Before she could respond, he continued.

"You've earned the right to choose what's next. After five years of building other people's stories, maybe it's time to build your own."

With that, he turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door. "Just do me a favor? Let me know before I hear it from someone else."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, processing their conversation. Joe's reaction had been unexpected—not anger or indifference, but a complex mix of disappointment and understanding. And beneath it all, a question she couldn't fully answer: was there anything keeping her in Cincinnati beyond professional opportunity?

The answer, she knew, was both simpler and more complicated than she wanted to admit.

* * *

Word spread quickly after that, despite Kayla's desire for discretion. By the following week, Y/N noticed the shifts in how people interacted with her—the careful questions about New York, the subtle inquiries about her timeline, the occasional comments about loyalty and opportunity.

She maintained her professional focus, refusing to indulge speculation or make promises she couldn't keep. The Giants continued their pursuit, scheduling her visit for mid-October and sending increasingly detailed information about their vision for the role.

"They've sent the official visit itinerary," Y/N told Sam over drinks after work. "Two days in New York, meetings with ownership, tours of their facilities, dinner with the executive team."

"Sounds like they're rolling out the red carpet," Sam observed, studying the email on Y/N's phone. "When do you leave?"

"Next Thursday," Y/N confirmed. "Back Friday night."

Sam took a sip of her wine. "And how are you feeling about it?"

Y/N considered the question carefully. "Excited. Nervous. Torn. All the things you'd expect when contemplating a major life change."

"And have you told..."

"Joe knows," Y/N confirmed, anticipating her friend's question. "He asked for a heads-up before I make any final decisions."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That's interesting. Any particular reason why he cares so much?"

"Professional courtesy," Y/N replied automatically, then sighed at Sam's skeptical expression. "And whatever complicated history exists between us. But it doesn't change anything. This decision has to be about my career, not about Joe Burrow."

"Agreed," Sam said, refilling their glasses. "But it's interesting that he sought you out specifically to discuss it. That's not typical quarterback behavior for a staff member's potential departure."

Y/N changed the subject, unwilling to examine the implications too closely. Her relationship with Joe had finally reached a stable, professional place. Overthinking his reaction to her potential departure would only complicate things unnecessarily.

Besides, she reminded herself, Joe had Ellie. Whatever his concerns about Y/N leaving, they were professional, not personal. The sooner she accepted that reality, the clearer her decision-making process would become.

* * *

October 2025 - Decision Point

The days before Y/N's New York visit passed in a blur of preparations, both professional and personal. She carefully organized ongoing projects for her team to handle in her absence, created detailed status reports for Kayla, and prepared a portfolio highlighting her most significant content innovations with the Bengals.

At home, she researched New York neighborhoods, cost of living adjustments, and potential apartment options, trying to imagine herself in this new environment. After five years in Cincinnati, the prospect of starting over in a city like New York was both exhilarating and daunting.

The morning of her departure, Y/N arrived early at the facility to tie up loose ends before heading to the airport. The building was quiet, most staff not yet arrived for the day. She was reviewing final notes in her office when a knock came at her door.

Joe stood there, practice gear already on, a coffee cup in his hand. His early-morning training sessions were legendary, often beginning hours before other players arrived.

"Heading out today?" he asked, his tone casual though his eyes were serious.

"Flight's at 11," Y/N confirmed, surprised by his appearance at her office.

Joe nodded, considering something before speaking again. "New York's a big move."

"It would be," she agreed, unsure where he was going with this observation.

He seemed to weigh his words carefully. "The Giants are getting a lot of buzz this season. New coaching staff, strong draft picks. Good time to join their organization."

"That's part of the appeal," Y/N acknowledged. "Building something during a period of transition and growth."

Joe nodded again, his expression thoughtful. "Well, good luck with the meetings. Hope they show you the real picture, not just the recruiting highlight reel."

"Thanks," Y/N said, touched by his concern despite her determination to maintain professional boundaries. "I plan to ask tough questions."

"You always do," he replied with the hint of a smile. "It's what makes your content authentic."

He turned to leave, then paused. "When do you get back?"

"Tomorrow night," Y/N told him. "Late flight after the final meetings."

"Would you..." he hesitated, then committed. "Would you let me know how it goes? After you've processed it."

The request was simple, yet loaded with implications neither of them had directly addressed. Y/N found herself nodding despite her reservations.

"I will."

After he left, Y/N sat quietly, processing the brief interaction. Joe rarely sought her out for non-content conversations these days, both of them careful to maintain the professional distance established after the charity gala confrontation. Yet here he was, checking in before her Giants visit, expressing interest in her experience there.

She pushed the analysis aside, focusing instead on final preparations for her trip. Joe's interest was likely professional courtesy, nothing more. And regardless of his motives, her decision would be based on career opportunity, not complicated feelings for someone who had chosen someone else.

* * *

New York exceeded expectations. From the moment Y/N landed at LaGuardia, the Giants organization treated her with the consideration reserved for high-priority recruits—private car service, luxury hotel accommodations, meticulously planned itinerary that balanced professional substance with city experiences.

The facilities tour impressed her with both technology and vision. The executive meetings revealed an ownership group genuinely committed to transforming their content approach. The creative team openly acknowledged the need for new leadership and direction.

"We've seen what you built in Cincinnati," the Chief Marketing Officer told her during one session. "The player narratives, the community connections, the authentic voice. We want that here, but adapted for the New York market and culture."

By the end of the first day, Y/N found herself genuinely excited about the possibilities. Over dinner with the executive team, conversation flowed from content strategy to market differentiation to personal experiences, revealing a group of leaders she could envision working alongside.

In her hotel room that night, she called Sam for a reality check.

"They're saying all the right things," Y/N admitted. "Creative control, budget authority, seat at the executive table. It's everything I've worked toward professionally."

"And the city?" Sam asked. "Could you see yourself living there?"

Y/N glanced out her hotel window at the Manhattan skyline, lights twinkling against the night sky. "It's overwhelming but exciting. Different energy than Cincinnati, but not in a bad way."

"You sound like you're leaning toward yes," Sam observed.

"I think I am," Y/N admitted. "There's just..."

"Joe," Sam finished for her.

Y/N sighed, unable to deny it any longer. "Four years, Sam. Four years of loving someone who chose someone else. Twice." She stared out at the city lights. "Part of me wonders if I'll ever fully move on if I stay in Cincinnati. If I'll always be the woman who fell in love with Joe Burrow and couldn't let go."

"Or maybe," Sam suggested carefully, "it's about finally writing the ending yourself, instead of waiting for him to determine it. About choosing your own happiness instead of orbiting his."

The observation lingered with Y/N long after they hung up. Perhaps that was exactly what this opportunity represented, the chance to define her own story rather than remaining a secondary character in Joe Burrow's narrative.

The second day of meetings focused on specifics, compensation package, relocation assistance, start date discussions, transition planning. By the time Y/N boarded her flight back to Cincinnati that evening, she had a formal offer in hand, one even more substantial than initially discussed.

Two weeks to decide. Two weeks to choose between the familiar foundation she'd built in Cincinnati and an exciting but uncertain future in New York.

As the plane descended toward Cincinnati, Y/N gazed out at the city she'd called home for five years. The place where she'd built her career, established meaningful relationships, and yes—fallen in love with someone who didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't love her back.

Would leaving feel like escape or evolution? Running from complications or running toward opportunities?

* * *

The leadership meeting was supposed to be routine, winter content planning, playoff contingencies, draft strategy preliminary discussion. Y/N attended with her usual professional focus, presenting social media performance metrics and engagement strategies for the coming months.

She was wrapping up her presentation when someone asked about content leadership continuity through the winter.

"That's a fair question," Kayla acknowledged. "As some of you may have heard, Y/N is considering an opportunity with another organization. We're in discussions about retention, but we also need contingency planning in case she accepts this new role."

The room went quiet, all eyes shifting to Y/N. She maintained her composure, though the public acknowledgment of her potential departure felt unexpectedly exposing.

"Nothing's been decided yet," she said calmly. "I'm weighing options carefully, and regardless of my decision, I'm committed to ensuring a smooth transition if that becomes necessary."

The meeting continued, but Y/N could feel the shift in energy, the sidelong glances, the subtle reactions to this now-public development. Most surprising was Joe's expression from across the table: not shock or confusion, but a kind of contained intensity she hadn't seen from him in months.

As the meeting concluded, Y/N gathered her materials quickly, hoping to avoid uncomfortable conversations. She had nearly reached the door when Joe's voice stopped her.

"So that's it?" he asked, loud enough for those still in the room to hear. "Everyone just finds out in a meeting that you might be gone next month?"

Y/N turned slowly, aware of the remaining staff watching this exchange with barely concealed interest. "This isn't the place, Joe."

"When is the place?" he pressed, an edge to his voice she rarely heard. "After you've already accepted? After you're already gone?"

"I haven't made any decisions yet," Y/N replied evenly, conscious of their audience. "And this is a professional matter I'm handling appropriately."

Joe took a step closer, frustration evident in his posture. "Is it? Because it feels like you're making a major decision that affects a lot of people here without any real conversation."

"I've had those conversations with the appropriate leadership," Y/N countered, her own frustration rising. "With Kayla, with the content team. My career decisions don't require facility-wide consultation."

"So we just lose the person who's built our entire content strategy for five years, and that's supposed to be fine?" The challenge in Joe's voice was unmistakable now, his usual composed demeanor slipping.

Y/N felt her professional mask wavering in the face of his unexpected confrontation. "Why do you care so much?" she asked, the question escaping before she could contain it. "Why does this matter to you specifically?"

The question hung in the air between them, more pointed than she'd intended, more revealing than was professionally prudent. Joe stared at her, clearly caught between authentic response and awareness of their still-present audience.

"Because some things should matter more than titles and market size," he said finally. "Some connections are worth more than whatever the Giants are offering."

The implication in his words, connections, not just professional value, sent a jolt through Y/N's carefully maintained composure. Before she could respond, Kayla stepped forward, intervening with practiced diplomacy.

"Let's table this discussion," she suggested firmly. "Y/N hasn't made her decision yet, and we'll have appropriate transition conversations when and if that becomes necessary."

Joe held Y/N's gaze for a moment longer, something unresolved burning in his expression, before turning and walking out without another word.

The room emptied quickly after that, staff dispersing with the awkward energy that follows public tension. Y/N remained frozen in place, processing what had just happened. Joe had never confronted her so directly, so publicly, about anything—let alone her career choices.

"Well," Sam said, appearing beside her as the room cleared, "that wasn't subtle."

Y/N exhaled slowly, her heart still racing from the unexpected confrontation. "What was he thinking? That was completely unprofessional."

"It was," Sam agreed, "and also completely revealing."

"Of what?"

Sam gave her a look that suggested the answer should be obvious. "Of the fact that your potential departure matters to him. A lot. More than it probably should to a quarterback discussing a staff member."

Y/N shook her head, unwilling to read too much into Joe's uncharacteristic outburst. "He values continuity. Consistency. That's all."

"Sure," Sam said skeptically. "That's why he publicly challenged you in front of leadership. Because of workflow continuity."

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced down to see Joe's name on the screen:

Joe: I'm sorry. That was out of line. Can we talk? For real this time.

Y/N stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Their coffee shop conversation had already pushed against carefully established boundaries. Another private discussion, especially after his public display of emotion, felt dangerous in ways she couldn't quite articulate.

Y/N: Not a good time. Need to focus on work.

His response came immediately:

Joe: I understand. But we need to talk before you decide. Please.

The request simple yet loaded with implication lingered on her screen. Y/N tucked her phone away without responding, unwilling to commit to a conversation that might only complicate her already difficult decision.

"What did he say?" Sam asked, noting her friend's expression.

"He wants to talk," Y/N replied. "Before I decide about New York."

"And will you?"

Y/N gathered her materials, mind already spinning with potential scenarios and complications. "I don't know. Probably not the smartest move professionally."

"And personally?" Sam pressed gently.

To that, Y/N had no answer at all

* * *

Late October 2025 - The Breaking Point

For three days, Y/N successfully avoided being alone with Joe. She scheduled meetings during times he'd be in practice, worked remotely when possible, and managed to slip away whenever he appeared in common areas. The facility had become a tactical battlefield, with Y/N constantly aware of Joe's location as she navigated around him.

Sam watched this strategic avoidance with growing concern. "You realize you can't keep this up until you decide about New York, right?" she asked as they reviewed content in the edit bay. "The facility isn't that big."

"I don't need to avoid him forever," Y/N replied, eyes on the footage they were reviewing. "Just until I've made my decision without additional complications."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And his feelings aren't already a complication?"

"His feelings?" Y/N looked up, expression carefully neutral. "He's concerned about maintaining content continuity. It's professional."

"Right," Sam said skeptically. "That's why he confronted you publicly in the middle of a leadership meeting. Because of content continuity."

Y/N didn't respond, returning her attention to the screen. The truth was, she didn't know what to make of Joe's uncharacteristic outburst or his persistent attempts to speak with her privately. And she wasn't sure she wanted to find out not when she was so close to making a decision that could finally free her from the gravitational pull she'd been fighting for years.

Late that afternoon, as the facility emptied for the day, Y/N remained in her office, reviewing the latest correspondence from the Giants. Their offer was extraordinary, substantially higher salary, creative control, direct reporting line to ownership, the prestige of a New York market. The kind of opportunity that came along once in a career, if ever.

Yet something kept her from immediate acceptance. She'd built something meaningful in Cincinnati, had relationships and understanding that couldn't be replicated overnight. And then there was Joe, complicated, frustrating, impossible to fully leave behind.

A knock at her door interrupted these thoughts. Y/N looked up to find Joe standing in the doorway, practice clothes replaced by casual street wear, his expression resolved.

"Got a minute?" he asked, though his tone suggested this wasn't really a question.

Y/N considered deflecting, mentioning a deadline, pleading exhaustion, finding some reason to escape. But the determination in his stance told her he wasn't easily dissuaded this time.

"About content strategy?" she asked, knowing full well it wasn't.

"You could call it that," Joe replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him—an unusual move that immediately put Y/N on alert.

She straightened in her chair, maintaining her professional composure. "What's on your mind?"

Joe remained standing, hands in his pockets, a tension in his shoulders that Y/N had rarely seen outside of game situations.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said after a moment. "I broke up with Ellie."

The statement hung in the air between them, simple but loaded with implication. Y/N kept her expression carefully neutral, though her heartbeat quickened against her will.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, her voice measured and professional. "But I don't see how that's relevant to content strategy."

A flicker of frustration crossed Joe's features. "It's not. But it is relevant to you potentially leaving for New York."

"How so?" Y/N asked, a defensive edge creeping into her voice despite her efforts to maintain distance.

Joe took a step closer to her desk. "Because it changes things between us."

"There is no 'us,' Joe," Y/N responded, the words coming out more sharply than she'd intended. "There never was."

"That's not true and you know it," he countered, his own composure showing cracks. "We've always been more than just colleagues."

Y/N felt a sudden surge of anger, at his timing, at his presumption, at the years she'd spent carefully containing feelings he now seemed to be acknowledging far too late.

"Friends, then," she amended, pushing back from her desk to stand. "But that doesn't give you any say in my career decisions."

"I'm not claiming it does," Joe said, frustration evident in his voice. "I'm just asking you to consider everything before you leave."

"Consider what, exactly?" Y/N asked, her carefully maintained professional mask beginning to slip. "That you're suddenly single again? That after five years, after I'm finally moving forward with my career, you've decided I matter?"

Joe's eyes widened slightly at her tone, unused to such directness from her. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Joe?" The question came out with all the pent-up emotion of years spent watching, waiting, hoping. "Because from where I'm standing, the timing seems pretty convenient."

“Ellie and I had been off for a while,” he said, his voice dropping. “But after the charity gala… things just got clearer.”

Y/N froze, the implications of this timing not lost on her. "The charity gala."

"When you finally told me how you felt about me hiding Ellie from you," Joe continued, holding her gaze. "When I realized what I'd done."

Y/N felt something crack inside her, the last restraint holding back years of carefully contained feelings.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" she asked, her voice rising despite the empty facility around them. "That you broke up with your girlfriend because what, you suddenly noticed I was hurt? That's not exactly a compelling reason for me to stay in Cincinnati."

"That's not what I'm saying," Joe insisted, taking another step forward.

"Then what are you saying?" Y/N challenged, fully losing her composure now. "Because I'm having a hard time understanding what you want from me. For years, I was right there, Joe. Through your ACL tear, through the Super Bowl run, through every high and low of your career. I was the person who saw you, who understood you, who was there for everything. And you never once saw me as anything more than the woman behind the camera."

Joe looked stunned by her outburst, his carefully crafted QB1 composure completely abandoned. "That's not true. I saw you. I've always seen you."

"No," Y/N said firmly, anger giving way to a more painful honesty. "You didn't. Because if you had, you wouldn't have hidden Ellie from me for months. You wouldn't have let me find out about your relationship from a break-in report. And you certainly wouldn't be standing here now, only after I'm considering leaving, suddenly claiming there's something between us worth staying for."

Her words hung in the air between them, raw and unavoidable. Joe's expression shifted from defensive to something more vulnerable.

"You're right," he said quietly. "My timing is terrible. And I handled everything with Ellie all wrong. But that doesn't change how I feel now."

"And how is that, exactly?" Y/N asked, needing to hear him actually say it after years of implication and assumption.

Joe took a deep breath, seeming to gather courage for words that didn't come easily to him. "I realized after the charity gala, after you actually called me out instead of just accepting whatever I did like everyone else does, that you were the only person in my life who saw me as me. Not as the quarterback, not as some image to protect. Just me." He paused, visibly struggling. "And I realized I've been fighting how I feel about you for a long time."

Under different circumstances, these would have been the words Y/N had longed to hear. But now, with the Giants offer in her email and years of hurt between them, they felt almost cruel in their timing.

"You don't get to do this," she said, voice trembling slightly with emotion. "You don't get to jerk me around like this again. Not when I'm finally moving forward. Not when I've finally found a way to build my career, my life, without organizing it around your orbit."

"I'm not trying to jerk you around," Joe insisted, genuine frustration in his voice. "I'm trying to be honest with you."

"Five years too late," Y/N countered, gathering her things as emotion threatened to overwhelm her entirely. "I have final meetings in New York this week. I'd appreciate it if you respected whatever decision I make."

Joe stood still, visibly processing her words. "So that's it? You've already decided?"

"No," Y/N admitted, pausing at the door. "But for the first time in five years, I'm making this decision for me. Not based on how I feel about you, or how you might feel about me. Just about what's best for my future."

"And if that's New York?" Joe asked quietly.

Y/N met his gaze directly, allowing herself to really look at him without her protective professional mask. "Then it's New York. And this—whatever this is—becomes another what-if that we both have to live with."

She didn't wait for his response, instead walking out with as much composure as she could muster. It wasn't until she reached her car that the full weight of the conversation hit her, tears finally falling as years of carefully contained emotion spilled over.

For so long, she had wanted Joe to see her, to acknowledge whatever existed between them. Now that he finally had, it felt like the cruelest twist yet, right when she was poised to finally build a life beyond his shadow.

As she drove home through the darkness, Y/N wondered if there could ever be good timing for them, or if they were destined to keep missing each other at critical moments. The one thing she knew with certainty was that her decision about New York had just become infinitely more complicated.

* * *

Early November 2025 - The Offer

The second New York trip passed in a blur of final meetings, facility tours, and relationship-building with the Giants' executive team. Y/N threw herself into these encounters with almost desperate focus, grateful for the professional distraction from her unresolved confrontation with Joe.

"We're prepared to improve the offer," the Giants' CEO told her during their final dinner, sliding a folder across the table. "After meeting with you again, the ownership group is even more convinced you're exactly who we need."

Inside, Y/N found an updated compensation package that exceeded her already high expectations. Along with the substantial salary increase came an expanded budget authority, a dedicated content team reporting directly to her, and a signing bonus that would more than cover relocation expenses.

"We understand this is a significant move," Brian Reynolds added. "But we're confident it's the right next step for someone with your vision and talent."

"I'm flattered," Y/N replied honestly. "And impressed by the organization's commitment."

“We know we initially gave you two weeks,” the CEO said. “But if you need more time, we’re prepared to extend it by another two. We’re eager to have you on board before the end of the season.”

Another two weeks. Fourteen days to decide whether to leave everything she'd built in Cincinnati, her career foundation, her friendships, and whatever complicated potential existed with Joe Burrow.

On the flight home, Y/N stared out the window at the clouds below, turning over her options with clinical precision. The Giants offer represented everything she'd worked toward professionally. A vice president title at her age was exceptional. Creative control over a major market team's entire content approach was the kind of opportunity that career trajectories were built on.

Yet Cincinnati had become home. She understood the Bengals culture intimately, had relationships throughout the organization, had built a content strategy that was recognized league-wide. And Kayla's counteroffer was substantial in its own right—perhaps not matching the Giants financially, but offering the director title and creative authority she'd earned.

And then there was Joe.

Y/N closed her eyes, recalling their confrontation. The raw honesty of it had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. For years, she'd imagined what it would be like if Joe finally saw her as more than a colleague, more than the person behind the camera. Now that he seemingly had, the timing felt almost deliberately cruel.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Sam: Landed yet? Need intel on final offer and emotional state.

Y/N smiled despite her turmoil.

Y/N: Wheels down in 20. Offer is incredible. Emotional state is complicated.

Sam: Wine and debrief at your place tonight?

Y/N: Yes please. Bring reinforcements.

Later that evening, settled on her couch with wine glasses in hand, Y/N filled Sam in on the Giants' improved offer and the two-week decision timeline.

"So professionally, it's a no-brainer," Sam observed, refilling their glasses. "VP title, New York market, obscene salary."

"Basically," Y/N agreed. "Though Kayla's counteroffer is still very strong for staying."

Sam studied her friend's face. "And what about the Joe situation? Any contact since the confrontation?"

Y/N shook her head. "Radio silence. Which is probably for the best."

"Is it, though?" Sam asked. "You finally had the honest conversation you've been avoiding for years. Doesn't that deserve some follow-up?"

Y/N stared into her wine glass. "What's there to follow up on? His timing is impossible, as usual. I'm literally weighing a career-defining opportunity, and he chooses now to reveal he broke up with Ellie because of me?"

"Not because of you," Sam corrected gently. "Because of how he feels about you. There's a difference."

Y/N sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch. "Either way, it doesn't change the fact that the Giants are offering me exactly what I've been working toward."

"True," Sam acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean you can just ignore what happened with Joe."

"I'm not ignoring it," Y/N insisted. "I'm just... compartmentalizing. Making sure my decision is based on career considerations, not complicated feelings."

Sam gave her a skeptical look. "And you really think you can separate those things completely?"

"I have to," Y/N replied firmly. "Otherwise I'm right back where I started, defining my choices in relation to Joe Burrow instead of what's best for me."

"Fair enough," Sam conceded. "But just for the record, I think there's a difference between making a decision because of how you feel about someone, and acknowledging that your feelings are part of a complex decision."

Y/N didn't immediately respond, knowing there was truth in Sam's words. The reality was more complicated than a simple binary between career and relationship. Her feelings for Joe, long suppressed, deeply rooted, recently disrupted—were inextricably part of her Cincinnati experience. Pretending otherwise was perhaps as dishonest as ignoring the professional opportunity in New York.

"Two weeks," Y/N said finally. "Two weeks to figure out where I actually want to be, and why."

"For what it's worth," Sam added, "I'll support whatever you decide. Even if it means I have to find a new lunch buddy."

Y/N smiled gratefully, thankful for at least one uncomplicated relationship in her life.

Later, after Sam had left, Y/N stood on her balcony looking out at the Cincinnati skyline. The city had become home in ways she hadn't expected when she arrived as a newly-minted master's graduate five years ago. These lights, these buildings, these streets held her history now—professional triumphs, personal connections, and years of complicated feelings for a quarterback who had only just acknowledged what had existed between them all along.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her from these thoughts. Y/N's heart raced slightly as she checked the screen, half-expecting Joe's name. Instead, she found a message from Brian Reynolds:

Brian: Just checking if you arrived home safely. The entire team is excited about the possibility of you joining us. Let me know if you have any additional questions as you consider the offer.

Y/N typed a polite, professional response, confirming her safe return and reiterating her timeline for decision. As she hit send, she wondered if Joe would reach out again before she decided, or if their confrontation had created a gulf too wide to cross so quickly.

Perhaps that silence was answer enough.

* * *

Mid-November 2025 - The Breaking Point

The days following Y/N's return from New York settled into a strange rhythm at the facility. She maintained her professional responsibilities with focused precision, overseeing content production for the upcoming divisional matchup while simultaneously organizing transition documents in case she accepted the Giants' offer.

Joe kept his distance, respecting her implied request for space. They encountered each other in meetings and team settings, maintaining cordial professionalism that revealed nothing of their confrontation to observers. Only the careful way they avoided direct interaction, the deliberate physical distance they maintained in shared spaces, hinted at the unresolved tension between them.

"Have you decided yet?" Kayla asked during their weekly check-in, the question casual despite its significance.

"Still weighing options," Y/N replied honestly. "Both opportunities have considerable merits."

Kayla nodded, studying her thoughtfully. "For what it's worth, I understand the appeal of New York. The title, the market size, building something from the ground up." She paused. "But I also know what you've built here matters to you. And to us."

"It does," Y/N acknowledged. "That's what makes this so difficult."

"Well, my offer stands," Kayla said. "Director of Content Strategy, creative authority, budget oversight. We can't match their salary completely, but we can get closer than my initial proposal."

Y/N appreciated the directness. "Thank you. I'll have my decision by next week, as promised."

Later that evening, Y/N remained in the edit bay, reviewing footage for the upcoming game package. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, leaving the facility quiet except for the occasional sounds of cleaning crews or security making their rounds. She welcomed the solitude, finding clarity in the familiar rhythm of work that had defined her career with the Bengals.

The door to the edit bay opened without warning. Y/N turned to find Joe standing in the doorway, still in practice clothes, his expression a mixture of determination and something she couldn't quite define.

"We need to talk," he said simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Y/N tensed immediately. "Joe, I think we've said everything that needs to be said."

"No," he countered, moving further into the room. "We haven't. Not by a long shot."

"I have work to finish," Y/N said, gesturing to the screens in front of her. It was a weak excuse and they both knew it.

"The Raiders content can wait," Joe replied, stopping directly across from her. "This can't."

Y/N sighed, finally turning to face him fully. "What more is there to say? You've made your feelings clear. I've made my position clear. I have a decision to make about my future."

"That's just it," Joe said, his voice taking on an intensity she rarely heard outside of crucial game situations. "You keep talking about your future like it's this separate thing from everything else. Like it's just job titles and salaries and market size."

"Because that's what a career decision should be based on," Y/N countered, her own frustration building. "Not complicated feelings or bad timing."

"Is that really what you think?" Joe asked, moving around the desk until there was nothing between them. "That feelings and timing are just distractions from the 'real' decision?"

"That's not what I meant," Y/N said, standing her ground despite his proximity. "But I can't make a life-changing choice based on something that might not even—"

"Might not what?" Joe pressed when she stopped abruptly. "Might not be real? Might not last? Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't know what this is!" Y/N exclaimed, her careful composure finally cracking. "All I know is that for years, I've been right here, feeling things I shouldn't feel, wanting things I couldn't have. And now, right when I have a chance to start fresh, to build something that's just about me and my career, you're telling me you've had feelings for me all along?"

Joe didn't back down, his gaze steady on hers. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm telling you. And I'm sorry the timing is terrible. I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner, or have the courage to say something before now. But that doesn't make it any less true."

"How am I supposed to believe that?" Y/N asked, the question emerging with all the pain and doubt she'd been carrying. "How do I know this isn't just about you not wanting me to leave? About you suddenly realizing you might lose someone who's always been there, always supported you, always—"

“Because I’ve been in love with you since my rookie year.” His voice cracked the space between them, louder than usual, sharper. Not angry. Just honest in a way that felt like it cost him something. “Every time I tried to keep my distance. Every time I told myself we were just coworkers, just friends. I was lying. To you. To myself.”

Y/N stared at him, momentarily shocked by the raw honesty in his declaration. This wasn't the measured, careful Joe Burrow who spoke in calculated press conferences and maintained professional composure. This was something else entirely, unfiltered, unguarded, desperately sincere.

"If that's true," she began, her voice shaking slightly, "then why Ellie? Why hide her from me specifically? Why let me find out about your relationship from a break-in report?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "Because I was trying to prove to myself that what I felt for you wasn't real. That I could build something with someone else and finally stop thinking about you all the time." He shook his head, regret clear in his expression. "It was cowardly. And it was unfair to both you and Ellie."

"And now what?" Y/N challenged, taking a step closer despite herself. "Now I'm supposed to turn down a career-defining opportunity because you've finally decided to be honest about your feelings?"

"I'm not asking you to turn down anything," Joe countered. "I'm just asking you to admit that there's more to this decision than job titles and salary packages. That what's between us matters too."

"Of course it matters!" Y/N's voice rose to match his, years of carefully contained emotion finally breaking free. "It's mattered to me for five years! Through every game, every interview, every content shoot. Through watching you with other women, through maintaining professional boundaries, through creating distance when it hurt too much to be close to you. It's always mattered, Joe. That's the problem!"

The confession hung in the air between them, more direct than anything she'd ever admitted aloud. Joe's expression shifted, something like hope flaring in his eyes.

"If it matters," he said, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper, "then why are we still pretending it doesn't?"

Something changed in Joe's expression at her admission—a flicker of hope, then resolve. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides. His hands framed her face, warm, certain, and then his mouth was on hers. No hesitation. No preamble. Just five years of restraint breaking open all at once.

It wasn't a soft kiss. It wasn't slow. It was urgent, deep, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn't let himself touch her. Y/N froze for a second, the shock of it holding her still then her hands were on him, gripping the collar of his hoodie, pulling him closer.

He groaned against her mouth, low and unguarded, like even he hadn't realized how much he needed this.

The backs of her thighs hit the desk behind her, and he didn't stop, just pressed her into it with the full weight of his body, kissing her harder now, deeper, like he didn't trust himself to let go. Her hands slid under his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. The muscle in his back flexed beneath her palms. Her legs parted instinctively and he stepped between them, one hand sliding down to her hip, anchoring her like he was afraid she'd disappear.

She kissed him back like she meant it. Like she'd been waiting. Years of waiting. Her lips moved with his in a rhythm they'd never practiced but somehow already knew.

When he broke the kiss, it was only to breathe. His forehead dropped to hers, chest heaving, thumb brushing along her jaw like he couldn't quite stop touching her.

Joe didn't say anything.

Y/N couldn't speak. Could barely think. All she could do was tug him back down and kiss him again, deeper this time, slower, a little reckless now. Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, and his hands slid up her thighs like muscle memory, like this had always been coming.

The kiss didn't cool off. It burned. Got messier. Hungrier.

She made a sound, soft, desperate, and that pushed him further. He kissed down her neck, open-mouthed and hot, dragging his teeth lightly along her collarbone, and her head tipped back against the wall, breath shuddering out of her chest.

"Joe," she gasped, barely recognizing her own voice.

The sound of his name seemed to intensify his hunger his mouth reclaimed hers with renewed desperation. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, lost in sensations she'd only allowed herself to imagine in her weakest moments.

The sudden buzz of her phone vibrating against the desk shattered the moment. Reality crashed back with brutal clarity as Y/N recognized Kayla's ringtone, an after-hours call from her boss that couldn't be ignored.

She pulled back, breathing heavily, her lips swollen from their kisses. "I have to—" she gestured toward the phone, her professional instincts kicking in despite the situation.

Joe stepped back, giving her space though his eyes never left her face. As Y/N answered the call, keeping her voice remarkably steady, Joe ran a hand over his face, visibly trying to regain his own composure.

The call was brief, a question about the game package deadline that Y/N answered professionally, without any hint of the emotional chaos she was experiencing. After hanging up, she set the phone down carefully, aware of Joe watching her, waiting for her reaction.

"That was..." she began, then stopped, unsure how to characterize what had just happened between them.

"Real," Joe finished for her. "That was real, Y/N. Everything I've said, everything I feel for you—it's real."

Y/N slid off the desk, straightening her clothes with shaking hands. "This complicates everything."

"Maybe," Joe acknowledged. "Or maybe it simplifies it. Maybe it helps you see what matters most."

Y/N looked up at him, at the man she'd loved from behind a camera for years, now standing before her with his heart finally exposed. "I still need to make this decision for the right reasons. My career matters too, Joe. What I've worked for matters."

"I'm not asking you to stay for me," he said, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "That wouldn't be fair to either of us. I'm just asking you to be honest with yourself about what you really want." He paused, meeting her gaze directly. "And if that's New York, I'll understand. But I need you to know that what just happened between us? That wasn't just about tonight. That's been there for years."

The simple truth, spoken without qualification or defense, landed with the weight of everything they'd been avoiding. Y/N felt tears threatening and blinked them back.

"I need time," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need to think clearly, not with my heart racing and my body still..." she trailed off, feeling heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of his touch.

Joe nodded, taking a deliberate step back. "Take all the time you need." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you decide."

As he turned to leave, Y/N called after him, "Joe?"

He paused, looking back at her.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For finally being honest. Even if the timing is impossible."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe the timing isn't as bad as you think. Maybe it's exactly when we both needed to stop hiding."

After he left, Y/N sank into her chair, her fingers touching her lips, still feeling the imprint of his kisses. The Giants offer represented everything she'd worked toward professionally. But for the first time since receiving it, she allowed herself to consider what staying in Cincinnati might mean, not just for her career, but for her heart.

One week remained to decide where her future truly lay. And now that decision included not just which job to take, but whether she was brave enough to risk everything on a love that had survived five years of denial, distance, and misdirection.

♡♡part four♡

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inkyquillstories · 3 months ago

Text

Out of Our Minds (A Body Swap Story)

Note: The discord version of this story has some videos and more photos. If you would like to read that version, you can find it here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

The Beginning

Walter James Holloway, born in 1959, was a lifelong Kentucky auto mechanic, known for his grit and hard work. Years of heavy eating and little exercise had left him overweight, but he found comfort in his routines—working under car hoods by day, unwinding with a cigar by night. His bond with his son, Daniel, was distant, but with his grandson, Ryan, it was different. Ryan admired his old-school ways, even when they clashed.

Born in 1999 and shaped by Chicago, Ryan David Holloway was athletic, disciplined, and ambitious. A 6'2", 215-pound physical therapist, he dedicated himself to helping others regain mobility. City life was expensive, so when he needed a more affordable place to stay, Walter offered him a room. The arrangement suited them both—Walter enjoyed the company, and Ryan appreciated the short commute to his sports rehab job.

The night of the accident, the chill in the air had been sharper than expected. Walter had shivered, rubbing his thick hands together before eyeing Ryan’s coat. His own was too thin for the dropping temperature, so Ryan handed over his heavier jacket without a second thought. Neither man realized the mistake—their wallets, tucked into their respective coat pockets, had now been switched. As they got into the car, Walter stubbornly insisted on driving. He claimed Ryan had drunk too much at the gathering, even though Ryan had barely touched his glass. The old man wouldn’t listen, convinced that his grandson was unfit to drive. Reluctantly, Ryan let him take the wheel.

The hum of the highway filled the silence between them. Walter’s hands gripped the wheel firmly at first, but then his fingers slackened. A wave of dizziness hit him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. His chest tightened, and for a split second, his mind blanked—his body freezing up as he experienced a transient ischemic attack. The car swerved wildly. Ryan reacted instantly, reaching over to grab the wheel, but the sudden movement only made things worse. Tires screeched, the vehicle spun, and before either of them could fully comprehend what was happening, they crashed headlong into the highway divider. The impact sent the car flipping multiple times before it crumpled into a final, jarring stop.

The collision was so violent that their skulls fractured, and their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Emergency responders arrived to find both men unconscious, their skulls fractured from the violent collision. The impact had been so severe that their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Paramedics rushed them to the nearest hospital, where chaos and confusion took hold. Due to their exchanged coats, the hospital staff misidentified them. Their last names matched, their faces were too swollen to compare to their IDs, and in the frantic rush to surgery, no one double-checked. Their medical files were also misplaced and mislabeled, further cementing the misidentification.

Relying on mislabeled records, the lead neurosurgeon reviewed their brain scans. One brain, though outwardly resembling that of an elderly individual, exhibited an unusual level of rapid healing—traits typically found in much younger patients. This was, in reality, Walter’s brain, but the accident had triggered a restoration process that made it appear younger. The other brain, while structurally younger, showed significant inflammation and signs of deterioration more commonly associated with advanced age. This was actually Ryan’s brain, which had suffered more damage from the accident, making it seem far older than it truly was.

The medical team analyzed the locations where the brains had landed, mistakenly believing that the brain near the muscular body belonged to the younger patient and the brain near the older, overweight body belonged to the elderly man. Compounded by misidentification and limited time, the surgeons made a catastrophic assumption—believing Ryan’s brain to belong to Walter and Walter’s brain to belong to Ryan.

The hospital staff proceeded with what they thought was a life-saving operation. They addressed the extensive trauma to their skulls and bodies, miraculously sparing their internal organs. After repairing the fractures, they carefully placed the dislodged brains into what they assumed were their correct bodies. What should have been a clerical correction became a medical catastrophe.

The Awakening

Walter awoke with a start, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened with a clarity he hadn’t experienced in years. He blinked, confused. Wait… he thought, reaching up to rub his eyes. His hand—his hand—caught his attention. It was large, strong, and calloused, but not from decades of wrenching on cars. This was something else entirely. He flexed his biceps, marveling at the ease with which they moved. No stiffness. No ache.

He sat up slowly, the movement effortless, and glanced around the hospital room. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, but his body felt… different. Alive. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He stood, his breath catching in his throat as he realized just how tall he was. He felt… powerful.

Walter took a few tentative steps, each one feeling lighter than the last. His feet carried him with a grace he hadn’t known in decades. He glanced down at his body—Wait, this isn’t my body. His chest was broad, his arms muscular, his waist trim. He ran his hands over his torso, his fingers tracing the contours of hard muscle. This isn’t me. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror stopping him dead in his tracks.

Staring back at him was Ryan.

Walter froze, his breath hitching. No. No, this can’t be real. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as he reached up to touch the mirror. The face—Ryan’s face—mimicked his movements perfectly. He turned his head, examining the sharp jawline, the stubble that shadowed his face, the piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold a life of their own. This… this is Ryan’s body.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Walter—now in Ryan’s body—grabbed Ryan’s smartphone from the nightstand. He tapped the screen, the bright glow illuminating his new, youthful face. His heart pounded with exhilaration as he stared into the selfie camera, tilting his head to admire the sharp jawline, the smooth skin untouched by age. He ran a hand through his thick hair, relishing the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation. The reflection staring back at him was strong, vibrant—everything he had lost over the years, now his to claim.

Bringing the phone back into the bathroom, he placed it on the sink, angling the camera just right before hitting record. Walter flexed, watching his bicep swell with power, then smirked as he reached under his arm, rubbing the thick patch of armpit hair with satisfaction. The sensation sent a wave of pride through him—this body was youthful, masculine, perfect. Grinning, he grabbed the phone, lowering the camera to capture the tight ridges of his abs, tracing a hand over them possessively before finally lifting the phone to his face. His smirk widened as he locked eyes with his reflection, drinking in his own smug satisfaction.

But the curiosity didn’t stop there. His eyes drifted lower, over his flat stomach, toward the waistband of his hospital-issued pants.

His heart pounded as he slid them down, revealing the thick, heavy weight of Ryan’s bulge. Walter’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling as removed his underwear. He touched his new cock and it was warm, heavy, and currently his own. He gave it an experimental stroke, a moan escaping his lips as pleasure shot through him...

Then he observed it even more and began to make his dick and balls swing like a pendulum

He leaned against the wall, his knees weak as he continued to stroke himself, the sensations overwhelming. His other hand wandered, exploring every inch of his new body. He pinched his nipples, gasping as the sparks of pleasure intensified. He ran his fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, down his sides, over his hips. Every touch felt electric.

Walter paused, his nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of something. He lifted his arm, touching his armpit hair and then inhaling deeply. The scent was musky, masculine, and familiar. It was Ryan’s scent—his cologne, his sweat, him. Walter’s cock twitched in his hand, his arousal spiking. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. It was primal, raw, and his.

His strokes grew faster, his body trembling with need. He tilted his head back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. This is… this is too much. But he couldn’t stop. His hips bucked into his hand, his cock throbbing with every stroke. He moaned, the sound low and guttural, filling the small bathroom. His balls tightened, his release building with every passing second.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his grip tightening as he edged closer and closer to the brink. His muscles tensed, his body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him. And then he was there, his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. He came with a shout, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spurted onto the floor. He collapsed against the sink, his legs trembling as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Walter stared at the mess he’d made, a strange mix of guilt and satisfaction swirling in his chest. He had just jacked off in his grandson’s body. What the hell is wrong with me? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t deny the exhilaration coursing through him. This body—Ryan’s body—was incredible. And it was his right now.

He cleaned himself up, his mind racing as he tried to process everything. He needed to figure out what had happened. How he’d ended up in Ryan’s body. But for now, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… excitement. He looked at his reflection one more time, a sly grin spreading across his face. This is going to be interesting.

Ryan’s consciousness drifted back slowly, his mind groggy as if weighed down by something heavy. His whole body felt wrong—bloated, sluggish, stiff. A dull ache radiated through his limbs, his joints protesting even the slightest movement. His chest rose and fell, but his breaths were deeper, heavier, almost labored. Something was off—terribly off. His heart pounded, but instead of its usual strong, steady rhythm, it felt slower, weaker, unfamiliar. He swallowed hard, his throat raw and dry, and when he moved his hands, they felt thicker, rougher. Panic crept in.

His fingers brushed against his face, and his stomach dropped. His skin was loose, not firm and smooth like it should be. He traced over deep wrinkles, then moved up to his head—his hair. His heart clenched. The thick, youthful strands were gone, replaced by thinning hair and a balding scalp. His breath quickened as he looked down, only to see a broad, heavy gut stretching his hospital gown. His arms were thicker, softer, with veins more pronounced and skin slightly sagging. His chest was heavier, fleshier, completely wrong.

This wasn’t his body. His hands fumbled beside him, landing on a pair of glasses on the nightstand. His trembling fingers slid them on, and suddenly, the world snapped into focus. Desperation overtook him as he reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand, his unfamiliar, clumsy hands struggling to grip it properly. He turned on the screen, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he opened the camera app and switched to selfie mode. His entire body froze. Staring back at him was Walter. His grandfather’s face.

The lined, aging skin, the receding hair, the tired, sunken eyes—it was all there. His breath hitched as he slowly touched his cheek, watching Walter’s reflection mimic his every movement. His fingers trailed down to his heavy jaw, the rough stubble, the loose skin of his neck. His horror deepened as he lowered the phone, angling it toward his chest—the bulky stomach, the unfamiliar flesh. His own grandfather’s body. His vision blurred—not from the lack of glasses, but from pure, overwhelming dread. The phone slipped from his hands, clattering onto the sheets as he screamed. This couldn’t be real. But it was.

In the other room, Walter’s exploration was cut short when a sound froze him in place. A voice. A voice he had known all his life. His own voice—but weak, hoarse, and laced with panic. He cleaned himself up immediately and wore his hospital robes once more.

Walter turned abruptly, his heart pounding. He followed the noise, pushing open the door and stepping into the hallway. Another hospital room. He moved quickly, his newfound speed shocking him. As he approached, he heard rustling, then a sharp intake of breath—followed by a scream.

Walter shoved the door open and stopped in his tracks.

Walter froze in the doorway, his breath hitching as he got his first real look at the body he had left behind. His old body. Ryan was sitting on the hospital bed, hunched forward, his face twisted in shock and horror. But it wasn’t just the face—it was everything. The broad, sloping gut, the soft arms, the sagging flesh hanging from his neck. Was this really what he had looked like all this time? The sight sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He had always known he was overweight and old, but seeing it from the outside made it so much worse. How had he lived like this? His breath was heavier, his posture slouched, his very presence sluggish. Walter clenched his jaw, forcing down the wave of disgust and relief threatening to bubble up. Because now, that wasn’t him anymore.

Ryan’s head snapped up at the sound of movement, and his breath caught. A man stood in the doorway—young, muscular, shirtless. His body. His body was standing there, staring at him. His stomach twisted in confusion. How was this possible? His pulse pounded as the world sharpened. The stranger wasn’t a stranger. He knew that face—the sharp jawline, the confident stance, the broad chest. But it was wrong.

Walter took a slow step forward, his powerful legs carrying him effortlessly, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "Ryan," he said cautiously, pretending to hesitate.

Ryan inhaled sharply at the sound of his own voice coming from someone else’s mouth. His hands clutched the hospital sheets, knuckles white. “No… no, no, no… that can’t be…” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his body trembling as he looked up at the man—at himself. “Grandpa?” His voice wasn’t his voice. It was rougher, weaker—Walter’s.

Walter nodded slowly, as if the realization pained him, but inside, he felt a thrill of satisfaction. "I don't know how," he said, carefully keeping his tone neutral, masking the excitement rising in his chest. “But we woke up like this. We woke up as each other.”

Ryan let out a shaky exhale, staring down at himself in disbelief, his hands gripping at the thickened flesh of his stomach. His own grandfather’s body. His breath quickened as he clutched at the loose skin, the soft flesh of his arms, the unfamiliar weight pressing down on him. He had felt strong his entire life, but now? Now he felt heavy, sluggish, weak.

They stepped closer, eyes locked, studying what they had lost and gained.

Ryan’s wrinkled hand trembled as he reached out, pressing against Walter’s hard abs, then his solid pecs. He squeezed—firm, powerful, his pecs. His fingers drifted up, brushing through thick, luscious hair—his hair. A shudder ran through him as he traced his strong jawline, the smooth skin.

Then, he hesitated, looking at his own body. Slowly, he raised a shaking hand to his bald scalp. His breath hitched at the thin, wiry strands left behind. His grip moved to his soft chest, squeezing—nothing but sagging weight.

Walter finally reached out, gripping Ryan’s weak arm, squeezing the loose, aging flesh. His fingers pressed into Ryan’s soft pecs—his old manboobs—and he barely hid his disgust. He lingered only for a moment before stepping back, rolling his strong shoulders.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Both turned as a nurse stepped in. “Oh, good. You’re both awake. The doctors will be in shortly to see you.”

“This can’t be real.” He turned toward Walter, who stood there in Ryan’s youthful body, an almost dazed expression on his face. “ Tell them,” Ryan pleaded, his voice rising. “Tell them we’re not who they think we are!” Walter, shaken but more composed, nodded grimly.

When the doctors finally arrived, their expressions neutral but professional, Ryan wasted no time.

“We—we’ve switched,” he blurted, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed with his trembling hands. “That’s not my grandfather.

That’s me in his body. And—and I’m in his.” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Walter, in Ryan’s body, took a step forward. “It’s true,” he said. “I woke up in his body, and he woke up in mine. Something went wrong.”

The doctors exchanged puzzled glances before one of them cleared his throat. “Mr. Holloway, you’re disoriented from the accident,” he started, but Ryan cut him off.

“I know who I am!” he snapped, the exertion making his new body’s chest heave.

“I don’t care what my name says on your charts. That’s my body standing right there.” He pointed a trembling finger at Walter.

The medical team looked between them, skepticism etched onto their faces—until another doctor, flipping through a tablet, suddenly paled. He exhaled sharply.

“My God,” he muttered, drawing the attention of his colleagues. Looking up, he hesitated before speaking.

“We… we may have made a terrible mistake.”

The air in the room thickened as he explained, voice cautious yet urgent.

“During surgery, we relied on multiple factors to identify the bodies—facial structure, ID tags, personal effects. But their faces were swollen beyond recognition, and their medical files were mislabeled in the chaos. Their coats had been switched, leading to further confusion. We assumed the brain found closest to each body was the correct one.” He paused, gripping the tablet tighter.

“But that assumption… was wrong.” Another doctor, looking equally unsettled, pulled up the brain scans. “We should’ve known,” she admitted, her voice tight with regret.

“Walter’s brain, despite its age, exhibited an accelerated healing response, which is why it looked younger in the initial scans. Meanwhile, Ryan’s brain suffered significant trauma, causing inflammation and deterioration, making it appear older than it really was.

We mistook those neurological differences for evidence of their respective ages and—” she hesitated, exhaling slowly, “—we placed the wrong brains in the wrong bodies.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Ryan’s knees buckled, and he barely caught himself against the bed.

“Fix it,” he gasped. “Switch us back.” The doctors exchanged grim looks before one of them finally spoke.

“We can’t.”

Walter and Ryan froze. The doctor continued, his voice heavy with finality.

“The reconnection process was incredibly delicate. Your neural pathways have already begun adapting to their new hosts. Any attempt to reverse the procedure would result in severe, irreversible brain damage—possibly death.” He swallowed.

“There’s no way to undo this.” Another doctor stepped forward, regret plain on her face. “We are deeply sorry,” she said, “but the swap is permanent.”

The words sent a wave of cold dread through Ryan. His breath came in short gasps as reality crashed over him. He was trapped. This body—this slow, aching, unfamiliar form—was his for the rest of his life. Forever.

Ryan’s body sagged. Walter, too, felt the weight of those words, though the sting was dulled by the strange exhilaration running through him. Permanent. He would never go back. Walter realized that he would never feel that old body again. His mind warred between horror and an undeniable thrill.

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances before speaking again. “For now, we strongly advise keeping this a secret.”

Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”

“If this gets out,” the doctor continued, “it could lead to medical lawsuits, ethical scandals, media chaos. The hospital would be ruined. Your lives would be turned upside down.” He glanced between them, his voice firm. “It’s best if you assume each other’s lives.”

Walter’s lips parted in shock. Ryan looked utterly stricken.

“As far as the world is concerned,” the doctor said, “you are Ryan Holloway.” He turned to Walter. “And you are Walter Holloway.” His gaze was unyielding. “That is how the hospital will refer to you, and that is how your families will know you.”

Ryan was visibly horrified. His whole life—his identity—had been stripped away in an instant. But Walter… Walter could feel the seed of something dangerous, something exhilarating taking root within him. He had been old, tired, and at the end of his road. But now? Now, he had everything ahead of him again.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Walter James Holloway felt truly alive.

The Initial Adjustment

To help them adjust, they were referred to psychiatry. The psychologist assigned to their case, Dr. Evelyn Carter, was a woman of firm composure and measured words. She wasted no time in establishing the gravity of their situation. "For your mental and emotional well-being," she explained during their first session, "you must fully integrate into your new identities. There can be no doubt, no hesitation. From now on, Walter James Holloway is Ryan David Holloway. And Ryan David Holloway is Walter James Holloway."

Ryan sat stiffly in his chair, hands clenched into fists. His body, now weighed down by age, ached with every movement, and he felt suffocated by the reality that this was now his existence. Across from him, Walter sat in Ryan’s youthful body, leaning back with a relaxed ease that only made Ryan's fury burn hotter. "This is ridiculous," Ryan muttered. "You're asking me to pretend to be someone I’m not."

Dr. Carter’s gaze was steady. "I'm asking you to survive. If you refuse to accept this, your mind will reject your new body, leading to severe dissociation, depression, and possibly worse. The human psyche craves consistency. You must become Walter in every way possible. And you—" she turned to Walter, "—must embrace being Ryan."

Walter gave a slow nod, as if considering her words, but Ryan saw the glimmer of something else in his expression—excitement. He already knew Walter was relishing this, the chance to start over in a body full of strength and vitality. Ryan wanted to scream.

Dr. Carter, however, had no patience for resistance. She was relentless, her approach clinical and unforgiving. "You will commit to this," she said with an icy firmness. "Every hesitation, every denial, every refusal to accept your new identity will only make this harder. You are Walter. Period. If you cannot embrace that, you will never be able to function in the life that is now yours." She leaned forward, her piercing gaze locking onto Ryan’s weary eyes. "From this moment on, you will respond to ‘Walter.’ You will introduce yourself as Walter. If you hesitate, if you falter, we will start again until you get it right."

Ryan seethed with frustration, but there was no room for argument. Every day, Dr. Carter drilled it into him. Morning sessions were brutal. "Say it again," she ordered. Ryan’s voice was hoarse from repetition.

"I am Walter James Holloway. I am sixty-five years old."

"Louder."

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I am Walter James Holloway," he repeated, each word tasting like poison.

"Again."

Meanwhile, Walter, in his youthful, powerful form, flourished under the same treatment. He practically beamed as he repeated his lines, sitting up straighter with every declaration. "I am Ryan David Holloway. I am twenty-six years old. I am young, strong, and full of life." His voice carried confidence—more than Ryan ever had.

Dr. Carter only reinforced this divide, encouraging Walter’s transition into Ryan’s life while pushing Ryan further into his new role. She arranged daily conversations where Ryan had to describe "his" past experiences as Walter—his first car, the long hours in the repair shop, his favorite cigar brand. "Make it real," she insisted when he hesitated. "Believe it. Because no one else will believe you if you don’t."

Dr. Carter took the exercises a step further, introducing direct role-play into their sessions. One morning, she placed two chairs in the middle of the room and gestured for them to sit. "We’re going to reinforce your identities with introductions," she announced. "Walter, introduce your grandson."

Ryan tensed. His throat tightened as he glanced at Walter, who sat across from him with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. Dr. Carter’s expectant gaze left him no choice. He swallowed hard. "This is my grandson, Ryan," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Louder. More confidence."

Ryan clenched his fists, forcing the words out again. "This is my grandson, Ryan David Holloway." The statement felt wrong, like a betrayal of everything he was.

Walter, meanwhile, sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "And this is my grandpa, Walter James Holloway," he said with a smug ease, gesturing toward Ryan. He even threw in a playful pat on Ryan’s knee. "He’s had a long life, worked hard as a mechanic, and now he’s enjoying retirement."

Ryan’s jaw clenched as he heard the words. Retirement. It was another nail in the coffin.

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly before moving to the next phase. She held up a photo of Ryan’s old body, shirtless at the gym, muscles defined and glistening with sweat. "Who is this?"

Walter smirked. "That’s me," he said proudly. "Ryan Holloway. I work out regularly, and I take pride in my physique." He flexed his arm slightly, as if to emphasize the truth of his statement.

Ryan wanted to throw the chair. Instead, he forced himself to mumble, "That’s my grandson."

Dr. Carter didn’t let him off easy. "Say it properly."

Ryan inhaled sharply through his nose. "That’s my grandson, Ryan David Holloway. He’s twenty-six years old, works as a physical therapist, and is in excellent shape."

Walter chuckled under his breath. "Thanks, Grandpa. Appreciate that."

Dr. Carter then held up another photo, this one of old Walter—his overweight, aging frame sitting on a lounge chair near the pool. "And who is this?"

Ryan felt sick. "That’s... me."

"Full sentence," Dr. Carter pressed.

"That’s me. I’m Walter James Holloway. I’m sixty-five years old, and I used to be a mechanic." The words made his stomach turn, but Dr. Carter simply nodded in approval.

Walter leaned back with a grin. "Yeah, that’s my grandpa," he said casually, glancing at the image. "He’s been through a lot, but he’s still kicking." He turned to Ryan with a smirk. "Ain’t that right, old man?"

Ryan ground his teeth. He didn’t respond.

The exercises continued—more questions designed to hammer their new identities into place. Dr. Carter would ask who was older, who was younger. Who was strong, who was weaker.

"Ryan, stand up and describe your daily fitness routine," she instructed.

Walter eagerly complied, launching into an enthusiastic monologue about "his" morning runs, weightlifting, and strict nutrition. He flexed his arms playfully, smirking at Ryan as if reveling in his newfound youth.

Then she turned to Ryan. "Walter, describe your typical day before the accident."

Ryan was forced to mutter about oil changes, cigar breaks, and back pain. Each time he faltered, Dr. Carter would correct him, forcing him to repeat the statement until it sounded natural. Each time, Walter grinned, enjoying every second of his new role. And every time Ryan looked in the mirror, the reality became harder to deny.

Dr. Carter intensified their conditioning by incorporating physical and sensory exercises. She had them touch and feel their bodies, comparing them to what they remembered before the accident.

"Ryan, describe how your skin feels. The texture, the muscle tone, everything."

Walter ran his hands along his arms, his biceps firm and strong. "My skin is smooth, my muscles are defined. I feel powerful, full of energy. It’s like I have endless stamina."

She turned to Ryan. "And you, Walter?"

Ryan hesitated before placing a hand on his stomach, feeling the softer flesh, the wrinkles on his hands. "My skin is looser, my muscles are weaker. My joints ache. My fingers feel stiff. I’m..." He swallowed hard. "I’m older."

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. "Good. Acknowledging these changes will help your mind accept them. Now, let’s work on movement."

She made them practice mannerisms. Ryan had to learn the slower, heavier gait of an aging man, the slight stoop, the way old Walter used to rub his lower back absentmindedly. Walter, meanwhile, had to master a youthful stride, the way Ryan used to bounce on the balls of his feet when excited, the casual confidence of a younger man.

Walter took to it with ease, exaggerating Ryan’s old habits at first but gradually settling into a natural flow. He walked with effortless energy, stretched his shoulders confidently, and even practiced grinning at his reflection the way Ryan used to. He was absorbing the role with glee, while Ryan struggled to let go of his former self.

Dr. Carter was relentless. "Again. Walter, you should be moving slower. You’ve had a long life, and your body has the weight of years. Show it."

Ryan sighed, shifting his posture to mimic an elderly man’s careful movements. "Like this?"

"Better. But I want it to be second nature. We’ll keep practicing."

Then came the hypnosis.

Dr. Carter dimmed the lights, her voice a steady, rhythmic pulse in the dimly lit room. "Close your eyes. Take slow, deep breaths. With every exhale, let go of who you were. With every inhale, become who you are meant to be."

The air grew thick with the weight of suggestion, their minds sinking deeper with every word. "You are stepping into a grand hall," Dr. Carter murmured, "a palace of memory, a mind palace where truth is revealed. Look around you. This place is yours. It has always been yours. Walk through its corridors, see the reflections of your life."

Ryan and Walter found themselves standing within the endless mirrored halls, their surroundings shifting like a dream. The polished floors reflected them perfectly, stretching endlessly into the distance. But something was wrong. The reflections weren’t right.

Ryan peered into the glass, and his heart pounded. His old body—his real body—stared back at him. The strong jawline, the youthful vigor, the sharp, defiant eyes. But as he watched, the image flickered, warping ever so slightly.

Dr. Carter’s voice was patient, inescapable. "You were always Walter, weren’t you?" she said, her tone like silk wrapping around his thoughts. "From the moment you were born, you were Walter James Holloway. You grew up fixing cars. You built a life, had a grandson. And that grandson... is Ryan David Holloway."

The new Walter shook his head, but his reflection wavered. The skin grew looser, lines forming where there had been none. His shoulders slumped, the once-defined muscles softening, weakening. His hands, resting at his sides, twitched as the veins became more pronounced, the skin weathered. He could feel it—the slow, inevitable transformation sinking into him, reshaping his very sense of self.

Dr. Carter then turned her attention to the new Ryan. "And you, Ryan. You are young, full of energy, full of potential. You’ve always been Ryan, always twenty-six. You were born into strength and health. That old life you remember? That was someone else’s story. Look at yourself. Accept what you see."

Walter stepped toward his reflection with a reverent gaze. He had expected to see his old, worn face. Instead, Ryan’s youthful form stared back at him, powerful and whole. His chest tightened with something dangerously close to relief.

The new Walter’s breath came in ragged gasps as the transformation continued. His reflection—the one that had been his true self—was fading. The gray hair took root. The skin sagged, wrinkles deepened. His back hunched slightly. The young man he had been was disappearing before his eyes, swallowed by the reality being woven around him.

The new Ryan, standing beside him, beamed at his own reflection. His body—no, Ryan’s body—stood tall and strong, exuding the confidence of youth. He touched his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, running a hand through thick, dark hair. "This is right," he said, the words coming naturally now. "This is how it has always been."

Dr. Carter’s voice wrapped around them both, sealing their fates. "There was no surgery mishap. There was no switch. Walter was, is, and always will be Walter. Ryan was, is, and always will be Ryan. It was meant to be this way. It has always been this way."

The old Ryan tried to speak, to protest, but the words dissolved before they reached his lips. His mind felt like sand slipping through his fingers. The past was distant, blurred, uncertain. And the mirror before him—the mirror that had once reflected the truth—now showed only the inescapable reality. He was Walter. He had always been Walter.

The old Walter, now fully embracing his new existence, straightened, stretching his arms as if testing the strength that belonged to him now. "That felt... good," he admitted, his voice filled with satisfaction.

Ryan blinked groggily, his head aching. He turned toward the mirror one last time, desperate to see something—anything—of his old self. But the face staring back at him was unfamiliar. Not just in appearance, but in identity.

Dr. Carter smiled. "Good. We’ll continue this tomorrow. We’re making progress."

Outside of sessions, Walter made it worse. He had fully embraced his role as the younger man and took every opportunity to taunt Ryan for his struggles. "C’mon, Grandpa," he’d say with a smirk when Ryan groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Takes a while to get used to the ol’ joints, huh?"

Ryan gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge him. But Walter didn’t stop. He took pleasure in watching Ryan fumble with his new limitations, chuckling when Ryan dropped something and struggled to bend down and pick it up. "Want me to get that for you?" he’d ask mockingly, flexing his arms for emphasis.

At mealtimes, Walter would take exaggerated bites of his food, sighing in delight. "Damn, this metabolism is something else," he’d say, patting his flat stomach. "I could eat a whole pizza and not feel a thing." He’d then glance at Ryan, whose plate was filled with doctor-recommended portions for an elderly man. "Better watch your sodium, though. Gotta be careful at your age."

The more Walter thrived, the more Ryan suffered. And worst of all, no one cared. No one believed he was suffering at all.

Beyond the psychological conditioning, they were also referred to rehabilitation medicine to help them adjust physically. Ryan despised it. Every exercise session was a brutal reminder of how weak and sluggish his body had become. He struggled with basic movements, his joints stiff, his muscles sore from even the lightest exertion. He used to love pushing his limits in the gym, but now? Now, simply standing from a chair felt like an ordeal. Worse, the cravings gnawed at him—a deep, incessant yearning for nicotine. Walter’s old habits had latched onto him like a vice. He found himself gritting his teeth, fingers twitching for a cigar he didn’t even want.

Walter, on the other hand, was thriving. He attacked every workout with an eagerness that left Ryan seething. He ran, he lifted, he moved with a joy that Ryan had once taken for granted. The burn of his muscles, the soreness after an intense session—Walter embraced it all. He reveled in the sensation of sweat rolling down his back, the musk of his own body after pushing it to the limit. He even took deep breaths after each session, enjoying the raw, earthy scent of exertion. "Damn, I missed this," he murmured more than once, flexing his arms in the mirror, watching the way his muscles tensed and released with effortless precision.

The divide between them grew wider with each passing day. The more Walter embraced his new identity, the more Ryan felt like he was fading away. And no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the reality was settling in: he was no longer Ryan David Holloway. He was Walter. And there was no way out.

The Request

One evening, Ryan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his wrinkled hands gripping the stiff sheets, his body still aching from the trauma of the accident. The dim hospital lighting cast long shadows across the room, making it feel colder than it was. The door creaked open, and in stepped the new Ryan—his former body—tall, strong, and exuding a presence that made Ryan’s stomach twist. Walter, now a young man, moved with an effortless confidence that Ryan never had, his every step controlled and precise. He grinned, shutting the door behind him with an air of authority.

"Hey, Grandpa," Walter said smoothly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The way he said it—casual, natural—sent a spike of anger through Ryan’s chest.

Ryan clenched his jaw, refusing to respond right away. He had been waiting for this moment, wondering if Walter would slip up—if he would acknowledge the truth, even just for a second. "Grandpa," Ryan said pointedly, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his own ears. "You know who I really am."

Walter smirked, pushing himself off the wall and strolling closer. "I do," he said, his voice teasing. "You're my grandpa, Walter Holloway." He reached out and patted Ryan's knee in a patronizing gesture. "And I’m your grandson, Ryan. Took me a bit, but I think I’m finally getting used to it."

Ryan’s hands curled into fists. "Stop it," he hissed. "You know that’s not true." His chest tightened as he searched Walter’s face for any sign of recognition, of doubt, of something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. But there was nothing. Only that infuriating grin.

Walter pulled up a chair, sitting across from him, his posture relaxed, completely at ease in his new body. "Why fight it, Grandpa?" he said with exaggerated patience. "You heard Dr. Carter. We have to accept who we are now.”

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry as he stared at the man before him—his body, his youth, his entire life, now inhabited by someone else. The weight of his wrinkled hands resting on his lap only deepened the ache in his chest. He needed something—anything—to hold on to. A compromise. A semblance of his old identity.

"Grandpa," Ryan started, his voice low, hesitant. "What if… just when it’s just us… we still call each other by our real names? I don’t mean in front of the doctors or anyone else, just… in private." His tired eyes searched Ryan’s old handsome face, hoping—begging—for some kind of understanding. "I just—I need something to hold on to. Something real."

Walter tilted his head, considering the plea for a moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. "Nah," he said simply.

Ryan stiffened. "What?"

Walter chuckled, stepping closer, his movements loose, confident, utterly at home in the body that should have been Ryan’s. "No can do, Grandpa. See, that’s the problem—you keep looking back, clinging to something that isn’t yours anymore." He placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make him feel the difference in their strength now. "You heard Dr. Carter. That part of your life is gone. And the sooner you accept it, the easier this will be for you."

Ryan's nails dug into his palms. "I am Ryan," he gritted out.

Walter gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Still not getting it, huh? Alright then, let me help you."

With that, he reached down and grabbed the hem of his hospital gown, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The hospital’s dim lighting cast shadows over his defined abs, his broad chest—the physique Ryan had worked years to maintain, now standing tall before him, stolen. Walter flexed his arms slightly, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the feeling of being young and powerful.

Ryan could only stare, his breath shallow, his insides twisting.

Walter smirked. "Take a good look, Grandpa," he said, running a hand over his chest before giving his bicep a slow, deliberate flex. "This is my body now. Not yours. Not ever again. You see, it doesn’t matter what you remember. What matters is what’s real. And this—" he gestured down at himself, at the sculpted muscles, the youthful skin, "—this is real. You? You’re just an old man now. An old man who needs to stop pretending."

Ryan felt something inside him crack.

Walter grabbed his shirt from where he had tossed it onto the bed but didn’t put it back on. Instead, he took a step closer, towering over Ryan. "You wanted a moment of honesty between us? Fine. Here’s some honesty: It’s over. There’s no going back. This body belongs to me now, and the sooner you let it go, the easier this will be." He patted Ryan’s knee mockingly. "So go ahead, Grandpa. Say goodbye. Otherwise, I’ll make you."

Ryan's vision blurred, his breath shuddering in his chest. Even his own grandfather or rather… grandson—even Walter—refused to give him a sliver of acknowledgment.

Walter stood in front of the full-length mirror, his—no, Ryan’s—body glistening under the soft light of the room. He ran his hands over his chest, feeling the firm ridges of muscles that now belonged to him. His reflection stared back, young, strong, vibrant. It was perfection.

He turned to Ryan, who was slumped in a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking every bit the frail old man he now was. Walter smirked, the corners of his lips curling upward in a cruel, knowing way.

"Strip," Walter commanded, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What? Why would I—"

"Because I said so," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. He took a step closer, his towering frame looming over Ryan. "You need to face reality, old man. Our reality. So strip. Now."

Ryan hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing the sagging, wrinkled skin of Walter’s old body. His stomach hung slightly, the muscles long gone, replaced by softness that spoke of years of neglect.

Walter’s eyes raked over him, his expression a mix of amusement and disdain. "Good," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Now the pants."

Ryan’s face flushed with humiliation, but he obeyed, awkwardly shimmying out of his pants until he was naked and exposed. His body was a stark contrast to Walter’s—young, powerful, arrogant.

Walter stepped back, his eyes never leaving Ryan as he began to strip as well. His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the chiseled chest and abs that Ryan had spent years building. He kicked off his pants, standing tall and confident, his body on full display.

"Look at us," Walter said, spreading his arms wide as if to emphasize the difference. "Isn’t it perfect?"

Ryan couldn’t look away, his eyes darting between Walter’s body and his own. His shame was palpable, but there was something else there too—something darker, more primal. A flicker of arousal that he desperately tried to suppress.

Walter noticed, of course. His smirk widened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You like what you see, don’t you, Grandpa?"

Ryan’s breath hitched, his face turning a deep shade of red. "I—I don’t—"

"Don’t lie to me," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. "I can see it in your eyes. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?"

Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His heart was pounding, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.

Walter laughed, a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down Ryan’s spine. "Admit it," he demanded, his voice firm. "Tell me who’s the grandpa and who’s the grandson now."

Ryan’s jaw tightened, his pride warring with the humiliation coursing through him. "You’re the grandson," he finally muttered, the words barely audible.

"Louder," Walter commanded, his eyes blazing with intensity.

"You’re the grandson," Ryan repeated, his voice trembling. "And I… I’m the grandpa."

Walter’s grin was triumphant, his chest swelling with satisfaction. "That’s right," he said, his tone dripping with superiority. "And this?" He gestured to his body, running a hand over his chest. "This is mine now. Every muscle, every inch of skin. Mine."

Walter stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he loomed over the frail, wrinkled man in front of him. "You’ve always been so jealous of me, haven’t you?" he taunted, his voice slow, deliberate, dripping with cruel amusement. "Even before all this, you wanted what I had. And now…" He trailed off, his hand reaching out with an almost mockingly gentle touch, his fingers brushing over Ryan’s soft, sagging chest, feeling the loose skin beneath his fingertips. "Now you’re stuck with this."

Ryan—no, the new Walter—flinched at the contact, his hands clenching uselessly in his lap, but he didn’t pull away. Ryan—the old Walter—chuckled darkly as he crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side as he took in the pitiful sight before him. The old man sat hunched and small, shoulders curled inward, looking up at him with a mixture of resentment, disbelief, and—most satisfying of all—helplessness.

"You know," Ryan mused, tapping his chin as if lost in thought, "I bet you’ve always been jealous of me."

Walter’s head snapped up, his aged face twisting in defiance. "What?" Ryan grinned, white teeth flashing against his youthful skin. "Come on, Grandpa. Don’t play dumb. You wanted this, didn’t you? My body, my strength, my youth." He spread his arms wide, stretching deliberately, rolling his shoulders to feel the strength coursing through his muscles. "Hell, you practically drooled every time I was at the gym. Always making comments—‘Damn, kid, you don’t know how lucky you are.’ Or, ‘If I had your body, I’d—’ Well, now you know. And let’s be honest, you weren’t just admiring it from a distance. You were longing for it, weren’t you? Watching me move, watching me live—all while being trapped in that pathetic old shell of yours."

He took a step closer, deliberately slow, letting his towering presence loom over Walter’s frail form. "I mean, look at me." He turned slightly, giving a mock flex, the defined muscles in his arms and chest shifting beneath his smooth, youthful skin. "Imagine how it must feel—to wake up every morning strong, invincible, without a single ache or pain. To have all the energy in the world, to be the one everyone listens to when you speak, to be the one people want to be around. That was me before, and now? Now, it’s still me. But you?" His smirk deepened as he tilted his head. "You're nothing more than an afterthought now. Just another old man waiting for the world to move on without him."

Walter’s face darkened, his lips twitching as if he wanted to speak, to lash out, but nothing came. The words—the truth—hung in the air between them, undeniable and crushing. Ryan leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re beneath me now. Knowing I own the life that used to be yours. Knowing that, from now on, no one will ever look at you the way they used to look at me."

Walter’s face burned, his wrinkled hands twisting in the sheets beneath him. "That’s not—"

"Oh, don’t even try to deny it." Ryan cut him off, stepping closer, his voice thick with condescension. "You wished for this. I could see it in your eyes every time you groaned about your back, every time you huffed and puffed after going up the stairs. You wanted to be young again. To be me. And now, look at you." He let out a short, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "Karma’s funny, huh?"

Walter’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The heat in his face spread down his neck, shame curling around him like a vice. Ryan smirked, placing his hands on his hips, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "Tell me, Grandpa, if you were in my shoes—if you swapped bodies with your grandson—wouldn’t you love it?" He let the question hang in the air, savoring the tension, his smirk widening as Walter stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean, come on. Think about it. Really think about it. You know exactly what I’m talking about now, don’t you? Now that you’re the old man, you get it." Ryan took a slow step forward, his presence looming, his voice like velvet laced with poison. "Be honest with me, Grandpa. Wouldn’t you have enjoyed waking up one day in a body like this? No more aching knees, no more graying hair, no more struggling to even be noticed in a crowd. You spent years watching me, admiring me—hell, envying me. And now you know what it’s like to be on the other side of it. Doesn’t feel so great, does it?"

Walter looked away sharply, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration, but Ryan wasn’t finished. "Tell me, does it burn you up inside when you see me walking around, feeling amazing in this body? Do you hate it when I stretch, when I flex, when I live like I was meant for this?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned down just enough to meet Walter’s weary eyes. "Or worse—do you crave it? Do you secretly wish you could trade back, knowing damn well you never will? Do you miss your body? Or are you finally realizing that it was never yours to begin with?"

Walter looked away, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration.

Ryan leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Feels different when you're the one stuck in the rocking chair, huh? When you're the one struggling just to get up in the morning?" He let out a breath, deliberately warm against Walter’s ear, before straightening back up.

Walter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the sagging skin of his throat. His entire body tensed like a coiled spring, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from the torment.

Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Look, I get it. You’re jealous. And that’s okay. It’s natural. Anyone in your position would be jealous of me." He flexed his arm, rolling his shoulders as if relishing the movement, his eyes flickering toward Walter expectantly. And just as he predicted, Walter’s gaze betrayed him—darting, just for a moment, toward the strong biceps, the smooth skin, the sheer power that had once belonged to him.

Ryan caught it instantly and let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Yeah, I saw that. You can’t help it, can you?" He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied the old man before him. "I mean, look at me. I’m young. Strong. Alive." His voice softened, turning almost patronizing. "And you? Well… you’re just Walter now."

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to accept it.Ryan let the words settle before placing a firm, almost comforting hand on Walter’s frail shoulder. "But here’s the thing—you need to accept it. This is our reality now. There’s no going back. No second chances. This—" he gestured between them, "—is permanent. I’m Ryan. And you’re Walter. For good."

The Family Visit

Eventually, the day of the family visit arrived, and Walter could feel his stomach twisting with unease. He sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his aged body aching from even the smallest movement. Across from him, Ryan stretched his youthful limbs with ease, barely able to contain his excitement. The roles they had been forced into were about to be cemented, and Walter dreaded every second of it.

When the door swung open, Daniel Holloway entered first—The old Ryan’s dad, and now Walter’s son. Though now Daniel had to see the old Ryan as his father, Walter. Behind him was Margaret, Daniel’s wife and Ryan’s mother. Then came Charles and Peter, Ryan’s younger brothers—though now, they were supposed to be his other grandsons. The sight of them was both familiar and alien, each face filled with relief and happiness.

"Dad!" Daniel greeted warmly, smiling at Walter with all the familiarity of a son addressing his father. Walter swallowed hard, his hands clenching against the hospital sheets. That greeting was meant for what used to be his grandfather—but not anymore. It was for him now.

"Grandpa!" Peter grinned, moving to Walter’s bedside. "It’s great to see you up. You gave us a real scare."

Walter flinched at the word. Grandpa. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. Daniel, his own father, was now looking at him as if HE were his father. It was suffocating.

Meanwhile, Ryan stood with an excited grin, spreading his arms wide. “Dad, Mom, Charles, Peter! Man, you have no idea how good it is to see you all.”

Margaret let out a relieved sigh and pulled Ryan into a tight embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, we were terrified,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you’re okay.”

Ryan leaned into her touch, relishing every second. “Of course I am, Mom. Strong as ever.” He flexed his arm playfully, making Charles and Peter chuckle.

Ryan basked in the attention, his new face lighting up as he embraced his mother—his former daughter-in-law —and patted his father—his former son—on the back. It was exhilarating. Thrilling. They truly believed he had always been their Ryan. They spoke to him as if he had always been their son, their brother. Every word of affection, every familial gesture, sent a pulse of euphoria through him. It was as if fate had always intended for him to be in this body.

Walter’s chest tightened as he watched his former body bask in the warmth of his family’s love. That was his mother embracing him. His brothers laughing with him. But now, they saw him as the grandfather—an old man, a relic of their past.

Walter also felt the crushing weight of despair. Even his own parents—who he was supposed to treat now as his own kids, looking at him with concern—saw him only as their dad, Walter. There was no recognition, no flicker of realization that something was horribly wrong.

Daniel turned back to Walter and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

His breathing grew unsteady. He had to fix this. "Dad, listen to me," Walter rasped, voice shaking. "I’m not—I’m not your dad. It’s me, Ryan! That’s my body! He—he stole it! You have to believe me!"

A tense silence filled the room. The smiles faded. Ryan, standing beside their mother, let out an exasperated sigh and turned toward the nurses. "I told you this might happen. His memory’s been slipping ever since the accident."

“Oh, Grandpa, not this again.” He turned to the others with an exaggerated sigh. “The doctors said he’s been having these memory lapses. He keeps insisting he’s me.”

One of the nurses nodded sympathetically. "It’s common with head trauma at his age. Sometimes, patients get confused about who they are."

Margaret’s expression softened with concern. “Oh, Walter…” She kneeled beside him, taking his wrinkled hands into her own. “The doctors did say there might be confusion after everything you went through. But don’t worry, we’re here for you.”

Walter’s face burned. "No Mom! I’m not confused! I swear to you, I’m Ryan! That’s my body! That’s my life!"

Walter’s pulse pounded in his ears. “No! I’m telling you the truth! I’m your son, Ryan! That is my body!” He pointed a trembling finger at Ryan, who merely shook his head with amusement.

His desperation escalated, his voice cracking as he tried to force them to see the truth. But all they saw was an old man having a breakdown. Daniel frowned, concern deepening in his eyes. "Dad, please, calm down. You’re scaring the boys."

Daniel sighed and squeezed Walter’s shoulder. “Dad, please. I know this must be overwhelming, but you’re Walter Holloway. You’ve always been my father.”

Ryan leaned against the bed, arms crossed, his smirk growing wider. “Come on, Grandpa, you don’t want to confuse the kids, do you?” He turned to Charles and Peter, feigning sympathy. “It’s hard watching Grandpa struggle like this, huh?”

Charles gave an awkward smile. “Yeah… but the doctors said he just needs time, right?”

Walter’s hands trembled as he looked from face to face. No one believed him. Not his dad, not his mom, not his brothers. The truth was slipping through his fingers like sand, and Ryan was enjoying every second of it.

Ryan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Walter’s shoulder, leaning in slightly, his voice gentle but condescending. "Grandpa, you need to rest. You’re just confused. I know it’s hard, but you have to accept the truth."

Walter shook his head furiously. "You did this! You stole my life! You—"

Ryan clicked his tongue and turned to the others. "See what I mean? It’s like he’s stuck in some fantasy. I read about this—sometimes older folks cling to a delusion because reality is too much for them."

Walter gritted his teeth, shaking with humiliation. His own family. His own flesh and blood. They all thought he was a senile old man losing his grip on reality.

Ryan turned back, eyes gleaming with something cruel and victorious. "You’re not Ryan, Grandpa. I am. You’re Walter. Always have been. Always will be. And there’s no changing that."

Walter slumped back against the bed, defeated. His world had been stolen, and no one—not even his own family—would ever believe him.

Ryan took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Walter to hear. “Face it, old man,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “This is your life now. You’re Grandpa. And I’m Ryan.” He patted Walter’s frail knee, just as he had been forced to do in their therapy sessions. “Better get used to it.”

Walter’s vision blurred with frustration and helplessness. Ryan had won. He had taken everything. And there was nothing Walter could do to stop it.

The Final Adjustment

Dr. Carter wasted no time intensifying their therapy sessions after the disastrous family visit. Walter’s outburst had only reinforced the doctor’s belief that he was suffering from a severe delusional episode, and Ryan made sure to milk every second of it.

At the start of their next session, Dr. Carter sat across from them with a patient but firm expression. “Walter, before we continue, I think there’s something you need to say to Ryan.”

Walter tensed, already dreading whatever was about to come next. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Carter tilted his head, as if speaking to a confused child. “You accused Ryan of something very serious in front of your family. You caused a scene, frightened your grandchildren, and distressed your son. Don’t you think you owe Ryan an apology?”

Walter’s stomach turned. His hands clenched against his thighs as he cast a hesitant glance at Ryan, who was lounging in his chair, arms crossed, a smug little smile playing on his lips.

Walter wanted to resist. He wanted to scream the truth again. But what good would it do? No one believed him. No one ever would. And the only way to stop the relentless humiliation was to play along.

“I…” Walter forced the words out, his throat dry. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Ryan’s grin widened. “Sorry for what, Grandpa?”

Walter swallowed back his pride. “For accusing you… of stealing my body.”

Ryan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And why do you think you did that, huh?”

Dr. Carter nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Walter. Let’s explore that. What made you feel like Ryan had taken something from you?”

Walter’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded in his temples. Ryan’s eyes were gleaming, waiting for him to break.

“I guess…” Walter exhaled shakily. “I was jealous.”

Ryan clicked his tongue. “Jealous?”

Walter stared at the floor. “Yes.”

“Jealous of what?” Ryan pressed.

Walter’s shoulders sagged. “Of… your body.”

Ryan let out a small, satisfied laugh. “Oh yeah?”

Walter shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear. “Yeah.”

Ryan leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. “And what else? You jealous of my muscles? My youth? The fact that I get to live as Ryan while you’re just old man Walter?”

Walter felt the weight of every word pressing down on him. He forced himself to nod. “Yes.”

“Say it,” Ryan ordered. “Tell me what exactly you’re jealous of.”

Walter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your strength. Your body. Your youth.”

Ryan wasn’t done yet. He leaned in closer, his voice smooth, almost gentle, but dripping with cruel amusement. “Come on, old man. You jealous of the way I wake up every morning, full of energy, no aching joints, no stiff back? The way I can run without gasping for breath, the way I can eat anything I want without worrying about cholesterol or heartburn?” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Bet you miss that, huh?”

Walter clenched his fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight.

Ryan tilted his head, studying him like a predator toying with wounded prey. “Or maybe you’re jealous of how people see me. No one looks at me with pity. No one treats me like some fragile old man who’s past his prime. No one assumes I need help just getting out of a chair.” His smirk widened. “That must suck, huh? Going from being strong, being respected, to being… this.”

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep quiet, but the words pressed against his lips like poison waiting to spill.

Ryan wasn’t finished. “How about the way people talk to me? The way they listen when I speak, when I walk into a room, when I shake someone’s hand?” He flexed his fingers, letting the movement draw Walter’s gaze. “Bet you miss that, huh? Bet you hate looking in the mirror and seeing Walter Holloway staring back at you. The sagging skin, the graying hair, the belly that won’t go away no matter what you do.” He let out a fake sympathetic sigh. “Damn, that’s gotta sting.”

Walter swallowed thickly, his throat raw. He wanted to shut his eyes, to disappear, but it wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.

And then, for the first time, he spoke without being prompted.

“I’m jealous,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan’s smirk deepened. “What’s that, Grandpa?”

Walter’s fingers twitched, his nails pressing deeper into his palms. He exhaled shakily, his voice stronger this time. “I’m jealous… of how strong you are. How you can move so easily, how you can run and jump without thinking about it. I’m jealous of your energy, how you wake up feeling rested, how your body isn’t slowing you down.” The words spilled from his lips like a confession, each one tightening the grip around his chest.

Ryan folded his arms, nodding smugly. “Go on.”

Walter shut his eyes for a moment, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it worse, but the pressure was unbearable. He had to let it out. “I’m jealous of how people look at you. The respect you get. The admiration. I’m jealous that when you talk, people listen. I’m jealous that you don’t get treated like you’re fragile, like you’re in the way.” He inhaled shakily, his voice dropping to a hoarse murmur. “I’m jealous that you have your whole life ahead of you while mine is…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

Dr. Carter, who had been watching intently, leaned forward slightly, his expression warm with approval. “This is good, Walter. Acknowledging these emotions is important for your progress. But there’s something else you need to say.”

Walter’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Dr. Carter’s voice was steady, coaxing. “Despite your jealousy, despite everything you feel… you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you? You would rather be Walter Holloway. That’s who you are, and that’s who you want to be.”

Walter felt a lump lodge itself in his throat. His skin felt hot, prickling with shame, with exhaustion.

Ryan was watching him expectantly, his smirk lingering, waiting for him to break completely.

Walter’s jaw tightened. The weight pressing down on him was suffocating. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of this to stop.

So he did the only thing he could.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Carter’s smile widened. “Say it, Walter.”

Walter’s lips parted, the words slow, shaky, forced. “I… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ryan’s smirk deepened.

Dr. Carter beamed. “Good. That’s very good.”

Walter stared at the floor, feeling the last of his resistance crumble. It was done. He had said what they wanted to hear.

Dr. Carter smiled approvingly at Walter’s supposed ‘progress.’ “Good, Walter. Acknowledging these feelings is an important step. Now, let’s reinforce this understanding with sensory exercises.”

Walter’s stomach churned. He knew what was coming. He had endured these exercises before, each one designed to strip him of whatever dignity he had left. A quick glance at Ryan confirmed his fears—his grandson, now towering over him in the body that once belonged to him, was already smirking, barely containing his amusement.

“Stand up,” Dr. Carter instructed, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. Walter pushed himself up slowly, his joints stiff, his movements sluggish, while Ryan rose effortlessly, his youthful body full of strength and energy. Walter barely had time to steady himself before Ryan took a deliberate step forward, his presence overwhelming.

“Face each other,” Dr. Carter continued.

Ryan wasted no time closing the gap between them, his muscular chest nearly brushing against Walter’s frail one. Walter could feel the heat radiating from his former body, his skin tingling with the stark contrast between them.

“Walter, touch Ryan’s face,” Dr. Carter directed. “Feel the difference.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he reached up, brushing against Ryan’s jawline. The skin was firm, the bone structure sharp and defined—nothing like the sagging, soft flesh that now hung from his own face.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And what do you feel?”

Walter swallowed hard. “Strength,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan chuckled. “Damn right,” he said, flexing his jaw for emphasis. “Feels solid, doesn’t it? Not like that loose mess you’ve got now.”

Walter’s face burned, but Dr. Carter wasn’t finished. “Now, move to his shoulders.”

Walter obeyed, his hands hesitantly trailing down to Ryan’s broad shoulders. They were powerful, firm with well-developed muscle. His grip tightened slightly as he traced the structure, feeling the undeniable strength beneath his fingertips.

“Compare it to your own,” Dr. Carter ordered.

Walter pulled back slowly and reached for his own shoulders, wincing at the stark contrast. His hands met soft, sagging skin, the once-solid mass now reduced to frailty. Before he could react, Ryan’s hands followed suit, gripping Walter’s shoulders with an exaggerated squeeze.

“Man, this is like grabbing a sack of dough,” Ryan quipped, kneading Walter’s flesh mockingly. “No muscle left, huh? Just… soft.”

Dr. Carter ignored the taunt. “Now, Walter, his arms.”

Walter’s hands hesitantly wrapped around Ryan’s biceps. They were thick, hard, brimming with power. Ryan flexed with a smirk, his muscle bulging beneath Walter’s touch.

“Give it a squeeze,” Ryan encouraged. “Go on, Grandpa. Feel what real strength is like.”

Walter did as instructed, though the action only deepened his humiliation. The sheer power in Ryan’s arms was undeniable. Then, before Walter could react, Ryan reached for his arms, gripping them in return.

“Wow,” Ryan mused, squeezing the loose skin. “There’s just… nothing here. No definition, no strength. Just… flab.” He gave Walter’s arm a light shake, watching as the skin wobbled pathetically. “Man, that’s depressing.”

Walter clenched his teeth, his body stiff with shame, but the session was far from over. Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension. “His chest, Walter.”

Walter’s hands hesitated before settling on Ryan’s chest. It was firm, solid, each muscle defined and sculpted. He swallowed hard, already dreading the next instruction.

“Now your own.”

Walter pulled his hands away and pressed them against his own chest. His fingers sank into soft flesh, the skin loose and yielding beneath his touch. Ryan wasted no time mirroring the action, pressing a hand against Walter’s chest before bursting into laughter.

“Wow. It’s like feeling an old couch cushion,” Ryan taunted, giving a light squeeze. “No muscle. No tone. Just sagging.”

Walter’s humiliation deepened, but Dr. Carter continued. “His abdomen, Walter.”

Walter’s hands trailed down Ryan’s torso, brushing against the ridges of his six-pack, the muscles firm and unyielding. The contrast was unbearable.

“Now your own.”

Walter forced himself to touch his own stomach, feeling the soft, excess flesh pooling beneath his fingertips. Ryan, ever the tormentor, pressed a firm hand against Walter’s belly and gave it a condescending jiggle.

“Damn,” Ryan laughed. “What happened, old man? You used to have abs—now you’ve got this?” He patted Walter’s stomach mockingly. “Guess you don’t need to worry about sit-ups anymore, huh?”

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the shame, but there was no escape.

Dr. Carter continued, “his legs.”

Walter’s hands slid down to Ryan’s thighs, feeling the sheer power in the muscle. His legs were strong, lean, built for movement. Ryan shifted slightly under Walter’s touch, flexing his quadriceps just to emphasize the contrast.

“And your own,” Dr. Carter prompted.

Walter obeyed, his hands falling to his own thighs. They were thin, weak, lacking the firmness they once had. Ryan reached down, gripping Walter’s thigh in return, his fingers pressing into the soft, aging flesh.

“These legs are useless,” Ryan scoffed, shaking his head. “No wonder you walk like you’re about to fall over.”

Walter’s head hung low. The session had stripped him down piece by piece, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly powerless. Ryan, meanwhile, stood tall, his smirk one of pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

Dr. Carter nodded, seemingly satisfied with the exercise so far. “Now, we’re going to take this a step further. I want both of you to smell each other. Start with the armpits.”

Walter’s eyes widened in horror. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Dr. Carter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Smell is a powerful sense—it can help ground you in reality. Ryan, go first.”

Ryan smirked, raising his arm and flexing slightly to expose his armpit. “Go ahead, Grandpa. Take a whiff.”

Walter hesitated, his stomach churning at the thought. But under Dr. Carter’s watchful gaze, he leaned in, his nose brushing against Ryan’s armpit. The scent hit him immediately—musky, masculine, and undeniably Ryan. It was intoxicating, and Walter couldn’t help but feel a pang of arousal.

“Who’s musk does that belong to, Walter?” Dr. Carter asked.

“Ryan’s,” Walter admitted, his face burning with shame.

“Good. Now, Ryan, smell Walter.”

Ryan grinned, raising Walter’s arm and pressing his nose against the older man’s armpit. He took a deep breath, the scent filling his nostrils. It was musty, the smell of age and neglect, and Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Man, that’s just… gross,” Ryan said, pulling away with a grimace. “Smells like old sweat and decay.”

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the heavy silence, calm and clinical as ever. “Now, Walter, Ryan, I want you to take this exercise one step further than before. I want you to explore the differences between your bodies in their most… intimate form.”

Walter’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. “What?” he choked out, his voice barely audible. He could feel Ryan’s gaze burning into him, smug and expectant.

“You heard the doctor, Grandpa,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Time to get up close and personal.”

Dr. Carter nodded, her expression unchanged. “You will touch each other’s genitals. This is an essential part of understanding the physical disparities between you and accepting them.”

Walter’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what was coming, and the dread coiled tightly in his gut. He glanced up at Ryan, who was already smirking, his youthful arrogance shining through. Ryan’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and Walter could see the faint bulge in his pants—a cruel reminder of the vitality that now belonged to his grandson.

“Stand closer,” Dr. Carter instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Walter took a shaky step forward, his frail body trembling as Ryan closed the gap between them with ease. The warmth of Ryan’s body radiated against Walter’s, the contrast between their physical states almost unbearable.

“Walter,” Dr. Carter began, “reach out and touch Ryan’s waistband. Feel the difference in your bodies’ structure.”

“Go on, Grandpa,” Ryan taunted, his voice laced with mockery. “Touch it. Feel what a real man has.”

Walter’s hands trembled as he hesitantly reached for Ryan’s hips. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his grandson’s pants, feeling the firmness of the muscles beneath. Ryan shifted slightly, intentionally pressing his hips forward, and Walter’s fingers accidentally grazed the bulge that was unmistakably there. Walter jerked his hand back as if burned, his face flushing with humiliation.

“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Ryan teased, his voice dripping with mockery. “Scared of a little contact? Or maybe you’re just jealous?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Walter’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this easy for you.”

Before Walter could react, Ryan grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on his own crotch. Walter’s fingers instinctively curled around the hard, throbbing length beneath the fabric. He tried to pull away, but Ryan held him in place, his grip strong and unrelenting. “Feel that?” Ryan whispered, his voice low and taunting. “That’s what strength feels like. That’s what youth feels like. Bet you haven’t felt anything like that in years, huh?”

Walter’s face burned, his humiliation intensifying with every passing second. He could feel the heat of Ryan’s arousal through the fabric, the undeniable proof of his grandson’s virility. It was a cruel reminder of everything he had lost—the firmness, the energy, the life that had once been his.

“That’s it,” Ryan encouraged, his voice low and taunting. “Feel how big it is.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Ryan’s shaft, the girth filling his hand in a way that made his own seem laughable in comparison. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the pulse of life that seemed to throb with every beat of Ryan’s heart.

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension, steady and unyielding. “Now, Walter, it’s your turn. Let Ryan touch you.”

Walter’s stomach churned, his mind screaming in protest. But he knew there was no escape. Walter’s breath hitched again as Ryan’s hand closed around him, the difference between them painfully obvious. Ryan’s grip was firm, confident, his fingers easily wrapping around Walter’s small, soft member.

“Wow,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with mockery. “It’s like… nothing. Just a little nub.” He gave a light squeeze, watching as Walter’s face flushed deeper with shame. “Guess you really have lost everything, huh?”

Walter’s face burned with shame, his body stiff under Ryan’s touch. He could feel the warmth of his grandson’s hand, the contrast between their bodies even more pronounced now. Ryan gave a light squeeze, his fingers exploring with a mocking curiosity.

“Nothing to work with here,” Ryan continued, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction. “Just… flaccid and lifeless. Like the rest of you.”

Ryan’s hand began to move, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s cock with a deliberate, mocking slowness. “Feels like I’m touching a little worm,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “No muscle, no hardness. Just… limp.”

Walter’s breath came in shallow gasps, his humiliation and jealousy intertwining in a way that made his head spin. He tightened his grip on Ryan’s cock, his fingers sliding up and down the thick, hard shaft. He could feel the power in it, the way it seemed to pulse with life, mocking his own inadequacy.

“That’s right,” Ryan said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Feel it. Feel how much better I am than you.”

Walter’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he tried to block out the taunts. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, he couldn’t escape the stark contrast between them. Ryan’s cock was everything his wasn’t—big, strong, alive.

Ryan’s own hand moved with a deliberate slowness, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s small, soft cock with a mocking precision. “It’s almost cute,” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “How pathetic it is.”

Ryan’s breathing grew heavier, his smirk widening as he watched Walter struggle. “That’s it, Grandpa,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Keep going. Let’s see who finishes first.”

But then, without warning, Ryan’s body tensed, his smirk widening into a grin of pure triumph. “Here it comes,” he said, his voice low and filled with a mix of arrogance and excitement.

Walter’s eyes flew open just in time to see Ryan’s cock pulse, a thick stream of cum shooting out and hitting him square in the face. The warmth of it was almost suffocating, the sheer volume of it a stark reminder of Ryan’s virility. Walter froze, his hand still gripping Ryan’s cock as the younger man’s cum continued to spurt out, coating his face and dripping down onto his chest.

Walter’s own cock twitched in Ryan’s hand, a small, pitiful spurt of cum barely managing to escape. Ryan glanced down, his smirk widening as he took in the stark contrast between them. “That’s it?” he taunted, his voice filled with amusement. “That’s all you’ve got? Man, you really are pathetic.”

Walter’s face burned with humiliation, his body trembling as he tried to process the sheer difference between them. Ryan’s cum was still warm on his face, a bitter reminder of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think as the weight of Ryan’s dominance pressed down on him.

Dr. Carter nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, let’s proceed with hypnosis while you’re still euphoric. I want you both to sit down and listen to my voice.” They weren’t even allowed to clean themselves.

Walter obeyed, already feeling lightheaded from the session. He barely reacted as Dr. Carter began speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, guiding him deeper into relaxation.

Dr. Carter’s voice deepened, slow and steady, like a distant pulse guiding them into the depths of their minds. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Let go of everything else. Picture yourselves stepping into a vast space, one that belongs to both of you.”

Walter felt himself sinking, drifting into the doctor’s words, his senses blurring as the weight of the session pressed against him.

Dr. Carter’s voice became a thread weaving through his mind. “You are in a grand hall,” he continued. “A palace of mirrors, stretching endlessly in all directions. There is no ceiling, no walls—only reflections, endless and pure.”

The vision took shape.

Walter found himself standing in an enormous, empty chamber. The floor was smooth and black, almost liquid in appearance, reflecting light that had no source. Tall, ornate mirrors lined the space in every direction, their silvered surfaces pristine, infinite, inescapable.

He wasn’t alone.

Ryan stood beside him, just as Dr. Carter had described, both of them facing the mirrors that surrounded them.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Tell me, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter turned toward the nearest mirror, his breath catching in his throat.

Staring back at him wasn’t his wrinkled, aging face.

It was Ryan.

His reflection was young. Strong. The way he had once been.

A jolt of longing struck him like a knife between the ribs.

Ryan exhaled sharply beside him, amusement laced in his voice. “Hah. Would you look at that.”

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And if you look down at yourself, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter hesitated.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze.

His heart lurched.

He wasn’t looking at withered hands, spotted with age. His body—his mental body—wasn’t frail or weak.

It was Ryan’s.

The hands were young, strong, his shoulders broad, his posture straight. His chest solid, his legs full of power.

For a single, intoxicating moment, hope flared within him. Maybe this was the proof he needed. Maybe, if even his mind rejected this body, there was still a chance—

Dr. Carter turned his attention to Ryan. “And you, Ryan? What do you see?”

Ryan smirked. “Same thing. My reflection looks like Walter. And when I look down?” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “Old. Obese. Weak.”

Walter’s stomach twisted.

Dr. Carter nodded. “Good. That is your self-perception. The mind’s final grasp on the confusion. But that confusion will fade. The mind cannot fight the truth.”

The words slithered into Walter’s thoughts, sinking deeper.

“The reflections are truth,” Dr. Carter murmured. “The mind knows which body it belongs to.”

Walter turned his gaze back to the mirror.

His breath caught.

The image was… shifting.

The firm jawline softened. Wrinkles bled into the smooth skin. His chest lost its shape, sagging under the weight of years. His shoulders hunched, his legs losing definition. The reflection aged before his eyes.

His pulse pounded.

“No,” he whispered.

But the mirrors did not lie.

Across from him, Ryan’s reflection changed, too—but in the opposite way. The tired, aging body in his mirror straightened. Muscles formed beneath once-loose skin. His shoulders broadened. His stance grew confident, filled with youth.

Ryan chuckled softly, watching the change unfold.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained unwavering. “The reflections have settled. But now, the mind must align.”

Walter looked down, desperate—

His body still looked young. His hands were still Ryan’s hands. His chest still solid, his legs still strong.

The reflection was wrong.

It had to be wrong.

Ryan hummed thoughtfully, inspecting himself in the mirror. “Yeah… this is looking a lot better, huh?” He turned his head slightly, watching the light catch his sharp jawline. “Starting to feel natural.”

Walter’s breath grew shallow. “No…”

Dr. Carter’s tone became more commanding. “The mind must not fight the truth.”

The walls of mirrors shimmered.

A pull deep within Walter’s chest made his skin crawl. A sinking sensation washed over him, like he was being submerged, like something was being taken—

And then—

His hands.

His chest.

His legs.

They weren’t young anymore.

His own body—his mental body—had changed. The frail arms, the wrinkled skin, the weakened muscles—

It was all his again.

Walter gasped sharply, stumbling back.

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, no, no—”

Ryan’s laughter was quiet, smug.

Walter turned, wide-eyed, to see Ryan inspecting his own reflection. And this time, when Ryan looked down at himself—

He saw youth. Strength. Power.

And when he smirked, it wasn’t an illusion. It was real.

His body.

His mind.

It was over.

“You are Walter Holloway,” Dr. Carter’s voice droned. “You have always been Walter Holloway. You are an aging man, a father, a grandfather. And Ryan is your grandson. That is the truth. That is reality.”

Walter’s head swam. His body felt heavy. The words seeped into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

Dr. Carter’s voice softened. “Tell me, Walter. Who are you?”

Walter’s heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to scream. To resist.

But as he looked back at the reflection—at the undeniable image staring back at him—his throat closed.

“I…”

Ryan exhaled, dragging out the moment, savoring it.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but firm. “Say it.”

Walter swallowed hard, every ounce of fight draining from his limbs.

His lips trembled.

His voice barely above a whisper.

“I am Walter Holloway.”

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. “And who is Ryan?”

Walter clenched his fists, but his reflection only showed old, frail hands curling in on themselves.

He looked at Ryan.

Ryan—young, smirking, victorious.

Walter’s head lowered in submission.

“My grandson.”

Ryan let out a slow breath, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That’s right.”

Dr. Carter smiled. “Very good. And tell me, Walter—despite everything, despite the jealousy, despite the past… would you have it any other way?”

Walter hesitated.

The mirrors had spoken.

The body.

The mind.

The truth.

He exhaled shakily.

“…No.”

Dr. Carter’s voice was a final, steady command. “Then accept it.”

Walter’s shoulders sagged.

His body.

His reflection.

His fate.

“…I accept it. I wouldn't have it any other way ”

Ryan grinned.

And Walter Holloway knew, with bone-deep certainty, that there was no going back.

The Conclusion

After weeks of relentless therapy, psychological conditioning, and medical evaluations, the doctors finally deemed Ryan and Walter fully adjusted to their "true" identities. There were no more arguments, no more desperate pleas, no more resistance—at least, not outwardly. Walter had long since realized that fighting was useless. He had been backed into a corner, stripped of everything, and molded into what they wanted him to be. The final signatures were scrawled onto discharge papers, the last stamp of approval sealing their fates. With that, the hospital doors were thrown open, allowing them to step back into the world—not as themselves, but as the people the system had forced them to become.

As they prepared to leave, the contrast between them was stark. Walter—now in Ryan’s youthful, athletic body—was practically glowing with excitement, while Ryan—trapped in Walter’s aging, weakened frame—moved stiffly, weighed down by both the ill-fitting clothes and the unbearable reality of his situation.

Dressing that morning had been its own form of torture for Walter. The thick fabric of the slacks chafed against his legs, and the button-up shirt felt foreign, like a costume draped over someone he no longer recognized. The cardigan smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale detergent, a scent that clung to him like an accusation. The orthopedic shoes were stiff and heavy, dragging his steps down even further. Each layer of clothing was a reminder of what had been taken from him.

Ryan, on the other hand, had never felt better. He relished the way Ryan’s well-fitted tank top hugged his torso, how the jeans sat comfortably on his hips like they had always belonged to him. But the best part—the part that made it all feel real—was the scent. With a satisfied smirk, he rolled on Walter’s deodorant, letting the crisp, masculine smell envelop him. Then, with slow deliberation, he reached for Walter’s cologne, giving himself a generous spritz before inhaling deeply.

“Ahh,” Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms in satisfaction. “Now this smells like me.”

When it was finally time to leave, Ryan snatched the car keys and twirled them between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll drive,” he said, shooting Walter a knowing glance. “Considering the last time you were behind the wheel, we both ended up in the hospital, I’d say it’s for the best.” The words were lighthearted, but the smugness in his tone made Walter’s jaw tighten.

Walter said nothing. What could he say? He simply followed Ryan out of the hospital, his slow, weary steps a bitter contrast to Ryan’s confident, youthful stride. Ryan moved like he owned the world—because, in a way, he did. Walter, burdened by age, weight, and the cruel truth of his new reality, shuffled behind him, feeling smaller with every step.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ryan adjusted the mirrors, the seat, the steering wheel—everything to fit his new, larger frame.

Walter sank into the passenger seat, feeling uncomfortably out of place in a car that had once been his. The interior, the familiar scent, the worn leather—all reminders of a life that no longer belonged to him.

The sun bore down through the windshield, and Ryan exhaled dramatically. “Damn, it’s hot.” With a smirk, he grabbed his tank top and pulled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the dashboard before buckling his seatbelt. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, the ridges of his abs shifting as he settled in. Walter forced his gaze forward, his gut twisting at the sight of his former body, now so casually on display.

Ryan drummed his fingers on the wheel, then shot Walter another grin. “Ready to go, Gramps?”

Walter swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had no choice but to nod. The drive home felt longer than ever.

When they arrived home, Ryan stepped through the door with effortless ease, his posture relaxed, his smile easy—exactly how the old Ryan used to be. He greeted his family with a familiar charm, embracing them with warmth and speaking with the natural confidence of a young man who had his entire life ahead of him. They welcomed him with open arms, laughing at his jokes, asking about his recovery, completely unaware of the horrifying truth behind his stolen identity.

Meanwhile, Walter stood awkwardly at the threshold, his movements slower, his presence smaller. The moment their eyes landed on him, everything changed. His family’s smiles faltered just slightly, their expressions shifting into something softer—gentle, but laced with a quiet pity. They spoke to him in lowered tones, carefully enunciating their words as if he might not understand. A hesitant pat on the shoulder, a brief exchange of pleasantries—it was clear they saw him as an old man who needed patience, not as the person he truly was. Every glance that lingered too long, every concerned look exchanged behind his back only deepened the pit in his stomach. He had come home, and yet, for the first time in his life, he had never felt more out of place.

The transition was swift and brutal. The old Walter stepped seamlessly into Ryan’s life, assuming every aspect of his former grandson’s existence as if he had always belonged there. He moved into Ryan’s bedroom, effortlessly adjusting to the space—the unmade bed, the posters on the walls, the faint scent of cologne still lingering in the air. It took him no time at all to settle into the familiar routine: early morning workouts at the gym, cracking jokes with Ryan’s friends, slipping into easy, flirtatious conversations with women who had once been off-limits. He thrived in this body, this life, indulging in every sensation and pleasure that came with youth.

Meanwhile, Walter was forced into a role he had never imagined for himself—that of an aging, powerless retiree. His world shrank overnight, confined to the quiet, unremarkable existence of an old man whose presence barely registered to those around him. He was no longer included in conversations the way he once had been; his opinions carried less weight, his presence went unnoticed. His body, once strong and agile, now ached with every movement, reminding him constantly of what he had lost.

But the most painful losses weren’t physical. They were the pieces of his identity that were stripped away, one by one, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been. His phone—his direct connection to the world he knew—was surrendered, replaced with a simple device meant for seniors, its contents erased. His bank accounts, his credit cards, the very name attached to them. His clothes were replaced with drab, practical attire suited for an elderly man, his favorite belongings distributed without a second thought. With every item he relinquished, the reality of his new existence settled in deeper, suffocating him.

The nights were the worst. Lying alone in his unfamiliar bed, Walter would hear the sounds coming from his old bedroom—the laughter, the music, the muffled voices. And then, sometimes, the unmistakable sounds of passion, of intimacy, of a body that had once been his, now used for pleasures he could no longer experience. A sharp, ugly jealousy burned within him, twisting his stomach into knots, but he swallowed it down. This was reality. This was how things were meant to be. Walter was Ryan now, and he, the old Ryan, was nothing more than an old man. And so, he forced himself to close his eyes, to let go of the bitterness, to accept the life that had been decided for him.

Now, back in the privacy of Ryan’s—his—room, Ryan stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the body that was now his. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over his skin. He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his fingers. He was perfect. Every inch of him.

He turned to the side, flexing his biceps, watching as the muscle tensed and bulged. He reached down, cupping the firmness of his ass, squeezing it experimentally. A shiver of pleasure ran through him. This body… it was electric. Every touch felt amplified, every sensation more intense than he remembered.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen, until his fingers dipped below the waistband of his sweatpants. He let out a low groan as he took himself in hand, feeling the heat and hardness of his new body. It had been years—decades, really—since he’d felt like this. Young. Hungry. Alive.

He began to stroke himself slowly, his eyes locked on his reflection. His breath quickened as he watched his face flush, his lips part in pleasure. He couldn’t look away. The sight of himself—his youthful self—was intoxicating. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every bead of sweat rolling down his skin was a reminder of what he’d gained.

His hand moved faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. He let his free hand roam over his chest, tweaking a nipple, feeling the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through him. He was close—so close. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as he reached the edge.

And then he was there, his body shuddering with release, his hand still moving as he spilled onto his stomach. He stood there for a moment, panting, his heart racing, his mind buzzing with satisfaction.

When he finally opened his eyes and opened his selfie camera, he couldn’t help but grin. This was his body now. His new life. And he was going to enjoy every damn second of it.

Ryan flourished in his stolen youth, embracing every ounce of vitality and strength that came with it. At home, he rarely bothered with a shirt, his toned physique constantly on display as he stretched, flexed, and moved with the effortless confidence of a man in his prime. Every movement seemed designed to remind Walter of what he had lost, of the body that once belonged to him but now obeyed another. Ryan's reflection had become a source of pride, and he ensured that his new grandfather—his former self—saw exactly what he had become.

He took to Ryan’s life as if it had always been his own, stepping seamlessly into friendships, relationships, and professional pursuits. His charm made the transition effortless. No one questioned the shift in demeanor, the newfound confidence and ease with which he navigated the world. Even in love, he thrived. The woman the old Ryan had once longed for but could never quite win over was now his. He had everything the old Ryan had struggled for, and he had taken it without consequence. Every success, every moment of pleasure, was a reminder that this was his life now, and no one—not even the man who had once lived it—could change that.

Meanwhile, Walter withered under the weight of his new reality. He was no longer seen as the strong, capable man he had once been. Now, he was an afterthought—an aging, pitiful figure trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn. His protests were dismissed as the confused ramblings of a senile old man, his desperation met with sympathetic nods and condescending reassurances. He was humored, not heard. The fight drained out of him with each passing day, his words fading into silence as he realized the futility of it all. He was powerless, forced to watch his old body, his old life, thrive without him.

Eventually, Walter stopped fighting. There was no point anymore. The world had already moved on, and he had been left behind. He no longer corrected people when they called him Walter. He no longer tried to reclaim what had been stolen. He simply accepted it. And with that acceptance, the last remnants of his old self faded away. For all intents and purposes, he was Walter Holloway.

https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXetnQg1GJNopG4fBsKFeJQmKSQHdGOH5rVqxdbiVZTEUrk3NmzvlBE_qid0DNp_F797AUaoptTbMZ__sivOcgt9dhmeyulsY1gA6HJo_AYU3L7BUaAg1VlFT0HsP-k1GowhELtwLA?key=kgQC7utVG18iSUuBehAZym-C

A full year passed since the accident, since their minds had been wrenched from their rightful places and forced into new vessels. The family gathered once again, a mirror image of the last time—except everything had changed. Ryan played the role of grandson with ease, laughing, joking, exuding the boundless energy of youth. Walter sat in the background, the quiet, aging patriarch. Something inside him had shifted as well. The resistance had vanished, replaced by something resembling contentment—or at least resignation.

For a fleeting moment, a thought crept into his mind. It had been a year since we were out of our minds. A year since fate—or something else—had rewritten their lives. But he pushed the thought away, willing himself to believe what he needed to believe. He was, is, and always would be Walter Holloway. And the man across the room, the one who had once been his grandfather, was, is, and always would be Ryan.

The End.

#inkyquill #male body swap

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genderoutlaws · 8 days ago

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my best friend is a licensed therapist that typically works with elementary/middle school kids and has told me so much about how they hate aba. what shocked me the most is that people who work in aba only need a bachelor’s degree and like two weeks of training and then theyre good to go! no crisis training or anything. they’re allowed to enter children’s homes and interact with them. like literally ANYONE could become aba “certified” and work around children. it’s disturbing to say the least.

its so disturbing, its a profession designed for people who get off on abusing disabled children and its usually even worse with white practitioners wielding their power over kids of color. i've seen people who use tablets to communicate have buttons like "no / stop / all done" removed or hidden by ABA practitioners because they "over use them" during their obedience training sessions, or physically assaulted for stimming, or just talked about like they're animals. like dystopian shit denying autistics any semblance of personhood or autonomy, or happiness even.

#aba and its practitioners may your name and memory be obliterated

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anika-ann · 7 months ago

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Thirst for Life (As It Is) - S.R.

Type: one-shot, established relationship, next-to-zero plot

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 3,7k

Summary: You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

You’d count your blessings; you celebrated his efforts by being the very home he was to you to him and if you could sooth his pain in any way you knew, as a physical therapist, as his lover, as a human being, you would.

A slice of life kind of fic, a moment of love life of Steve Rogers and his beloved.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, fingering, oral (F rec), allusions to penetrative sex, brief mention of canon typical injuries, briefest allusions to angst, FLUFF, dorks in love

A/N: Super belated entry for Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge hosted by @steviebbboi. Thank you for hosting and congrats again💕 I got inspired by the prompt Aw, does it feel good right here?🤭

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @saradika-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love? Does it feel good right there?"

A blatant, wicked tease, rewarded by a breathless curse spilling from parted lips, a soundless complaint.

Unable to help yourself, you giggled, kissing the spot again, earning a grunt – a sound of protest and approval alike.

“Just you wait…” Steve muttered, annoyed and somewhat fond at once, groaning when you pressed with your fingers this time, feeling the tight knot right under his right shoulder blade as if growing thicker to rebel against your care. “And this isn’t funny.”

You licked your lips, biting back to fight another laugh and losing anyway.

“Come on, Steve… it’s a little funny.”

It was a little funny.

Steve Rogers, a mighty supersoldier, all muscle and broadness, filling the space of the large bed. A paragon of strength and justice, shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world, his heart a shield for those who needed protection, his shield the heart of the Avengers. A seemingly fearless leader, a strategic mastermind, an excellent fighter; the embodiment of masculinity and power and righteousness and love.

All that and more – brought to its knees by a pulled muscle.

Of course, if it were up to Steve only, he would not even let this slow him down, not in the slightest, let alone bring him down his knees. Oh no.

It was your gentle offer; a soft touch of a hand, a sweet promise, a confession and a plea on your lips.

“Let me help, love.”

A gaze of mutual affection exchanged; a kiss to his lips to seal the deal with tenderness you knew your might have to abandon if you wanted to help set his body right.

It was a little funny.

The huge hunk of supersoldier muscle, turned into a puddle of a man under your touch. You treated him with as much skill as you would any other client or a patient of yours, if perhaps with a little softer care and with considerably less professionalism.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; Steve Rogers was infinitely much more to you. The love radiating from the depth of your heart turned tangible in his proximity; undeniably present in your touch, be it your hands or your lips trying to sooth the pain, be it you straddling his hips which seemed almost absurdly narrow in comparison of the enormity of his shoulders, be it your words of affection or gentle teasing.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; most of those who came in specifically with a pulled muscle were there because they had been helping a friend moving furniture, overestimated themselves in a gym, or snapped their head to the side too fast.

Your boyfriend of almost one year, on the other hand, had pulled a muscle when lifting a goddamn car off of someone to whose rescue he had rushed to.

Pressing against the knot, gently but firmly enough to make Steve groan – a sound of complaint bleeding into one of gratitude as you gradually released the pressure – you allowed the piece of information about him having practically lifted a car wash over you again, the astonishment at absurdity and curiosity of life fresh as if it was something entirely new to you.

But it wasn’t. It most definitely wasn’t the first time you had been confronted with this part of who Steve was. It wasn’t the first time you were confronted with how much the serum had enhanced his strength and possibly stubbornness, with what he did for living and how, or with the insistent calling in his very soul to help and serve and be nothing but a profoundly good man. It was hardly the first time and yet you guessed it would never cease to amaze you.

His good heart and his kind soul. His brilliant mind and his incredible body. A man all strong and resilient, but not invincible, not unbreakable.

And perhaps that was where the laugh was coming from – the reason why you couldn’t quite help yourself but tease him, why you couldn’t quite stop giggling.

The relief.

Because Steve Rogers – one of the greatest heroes of your time and the past alike – coming back home with only a pulled muscle was nothing short of a miracle, and this was how your strained body and mind expressed the utter, overwhelming relief coursing your veins.

Because Steve came home. Home to you.

Another day, another save.

Another day he could have caught a knife to his gut or to his neck. Another day he could have caught a bullet an inch from his heart or straight through. Another day he could have been taken and tortured for information or for the twisted fun of hurting Captain America.

None of that had happened.

Instead, it was another day Steve came home to you in one piece. Even if tired and with a pulled muscle.

You’d count your blessings, over and over, more so since you knew how and why he had pulled that muscle; gold of heart and dumb of ass, he couldn’t have waited for someone to come help him, not when the man who had been pinned under a damn car was so clearly and understandably in pain.

Steve’s mind was a brilliant thing, coming up with impenetrable strategies, with a plan B for the plan B and with a plan C and D just in case, carefully predicting outcomes and calculating risks; sometimes he just got bad at math when calculating risks for himself when he couldn’t bear seeing others suffer.

You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

And he’d let you, even if the first time you had met had certainly not been the case. Not with him having been dragged in, after having his knee busted in a fight, arguing that he did not need anyone’s help, because he was enhanced by the supersoldier serum and his body had always healed on its own. You wouldn’t have it; you had met all the unwilling patients and sceptics. So you took one glance at the man who had literally dragged him in – his best friend, Bucky Barnes, seemingly more exhausted by his attitude than by the fact he had been carrying a significant weight of the huge pile of muscle Steve Rogers was – and then took another look at the man behind the shield himself, before you listed all the muscles, tendons and bones that would have begged him to differ in reaction to such claim.

To this day, you were not quite sure whether it had been your knowledge or your ability to simply not have his attitude that had impressed him more, but later you would find out his attitude was more about him feeling like others needed your help more than him and less about him questioning your field or expertise. That had mattered to you; what mattered also was that Bucky was never going to let you or Steve live your so-called meet-cute down, claiming he knew right away Steve had fallen in love the very second.

So you’d count your blessing and you’d let yourself feel whatever came, and you’d let yourself be consumed by the love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

You let yourself laugh again even as Steve grumbled under you, muttering something about maybe deserving it. You appreciated the self-awareness. You appreciated him.

You smiled as you let your hands roam with purpose, warm touch mapping out his pains and still taking moments to caress and indulge in exploring his body, cherishing the beautiful view of the expanse of his back and the feel of his strength yielding to your care with endless trust.

“I feel a little less treated and little more objectified at this point,” he muttered, a smile evident in his voice even before your gaze flickered to his face, now turned to side as he rested his cheek on the back of his hand.

One corner of your lips rose higher, barely a flicker of shame in your chest. You’d never violate a patient or a client like that; but you’d also never miss a chance to feel closer to Steve, miss a chance to touch him, to cherish the contact and to make him feel loved.

“Is there a complaint you’d like to submit, sir?” you questioned, a wide smile setting on your lips as he hummed in disapproval.

Still, you finished the treatment with a last few strokes that were indeed more of a gentle closing than anything else, climbed off of him and pulled the blanket over his naked back to keep the muscles warm.

He blinked his eyes open as you sat by his side on the bed, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

The second he reached out his hand to hold you, you clicked your tongue disapprovingly, making him huff but obediently stop his progress.

“You know the rules, Steve. Stay still for a bit, let the body process. I’ll bring you some fluids.”

He sighed, squinting at you with adorable defiance. “I do know… I don’t have like it. Maybe just a minor complaint then.”

You grinned, leaning closer to him on the pillow, feeling your heart tremble in thorough warmth as he observed you with sleepy intent and a look closest to adoration you had ever seen.

“What’s that, Captain Rogers?” you whispered conspiratorially.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

You relaxed into the mattress, shoulders slumping, heart a second from melting as the lightest and most delightful feeling spread through your veins, a rush so powerful it almost chased tears into your eyes.

To care and be cared for; to love and be loved, so utterly you had never believed it possible until you met Steve Rogers, most certainly the love of your life.

Reaching out, your fingertips lightly caressed his cheek, his eyelids slipping shut; you brushed over the arches of his brows, over the slope of his nose, over his lips – instantly pursing for a light kiss to your fingers – and caressed his scalp, only to meet his gaze again, so tender you felt something inside your soul shift and shudder in pure happiness.

“I know you will when I need it,” you assured him, bringing a ghost of a smile to his face. “And I’m pretty sure that’s the idea. That we’re supposed to be taking care of each other, love.”

A sparkle lit up his tired eyes, his smile turning positively goofy.

“I like that,” he whispered.

“Good,” you said, pressing another kiss to his forehead and climbing to your feet. “Now be a good patient and stay still for a bit, just like everyone else… no matter how special you are to me.”

“Mmm, if you say so… I love you.”

You fought the urge to lie next to him, reminding yourself that if you got him fluids now, you could lie with him and bask in his warmth later and with no interruptions.

“I love you too, Steve.”

By the time you got back, hands clean of the essential oil and full with a mug of tea and a tall glass of water, you found him fast asleep, still on his front, arms hugging his pillow.

Not bothering to fight off your smile this time, you set the mug on the nightstand, tucked the blanket higher to his chin and climbed up to the bed to sit and prop up on the headboard.

You reached for the engagement ring you had taken off for the massage first and put it back where it belonged, and only then for your half-read book, gaze once more flickering to man who had stolen your heart and would never give it back.

Attention divided, you read; but mainly you kept your future husband company, watching over his peaceful and more than deserved sleep.

Because that was what you were supposed to do; watch over each other, look out for one another, and take care of each other.

And in a few months, you’d promise to continue doing that with love for the rest of your lives, swearing so in front of your friends and families.

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love?” he teased, every syllable dripping off his lips rich and heady like honey, and even with your eyes fluttered shut, you could see his beautifully wicked smile, the spark in his eyes that shone dark, lit alive in a way that was reserved for you; and only for you. “Does it feel good right there?"

You recognized the echo of your own words, Steve’s voice coloured with sweet vindication. He knew exactly what he was doing and he revelled in it; you would protest and complained again if your lips remembered how to speak beyond Steve’s name and breathless pleas. You would protest if you truly wanted to and he would stop in an instant. You would protest if your hands were not literally tied.

Again, unlike your other patients, all Steve had needed was your skilled touch and a good rest. A few hours of sleep, Erskine’s serum working its magic and he had been good to go; perhaps not for another mission, not for a training session, but for repaying your service with love and adoration and desire.

Hugging your middle after waking up, resting his head over your thigh, he had sent a single glance up at you and you had very well forgotten what you had been reading.

He had kissed your palms in thank you, one and then the other, lingering with his gaze and his lips, and you had already been forgetting your own name.

He had pressed a kiss to your wrists, wrapping them in satin like a precious gift, smiling as he had to ruck up the sleeves of his very shirt you had chosen to wear to bed to do so.

He had ghosted his lips over your fingertips as he tied your wrists to the headboard, making sure you rested your hands, the most important asset for your work; conveniently putting your engagement ring on display for him to see at all times while doing so.

He had met your lips in a kiss so sultry you barely caught your breath, before they strayed over every inch of newly revealed skin as he unbuttoned the shirt, lingering in all his and your favourite places, hands roaming, caressing, holding, owning.

You arched against his mouth when he reached his prize, forearm draping over your middle, keeping you grounded as he lifted you towards the stars once, almost for the second time, until his fingers joined to show off his own talented touch and to bring you to the brink of madness.

“Did not quite catch that, sweetheart,” he muttered to the burning skin of your inner thigh, rendering you speechless with his tongue before you could catch your wits and answer. “I suppose I should try again…”

“Steve-“

“Right here, love… give me one more. Let me take care of you… you said you knew I would take care of you when you’d need it, didn’t you? Do you need it now, love?”

Steven Grant Rogers, you little shit- was the thought that flew through your head so fast you couldn’t hope to catch it let alone verbalize it. Not with how your head was beginning to spin when his lips, his hands, his wicked tongue and seemingly innocent filthy talk carried by his deep voice overwhelmed your senses and chased you higher and closer to your peak with every passing torturous second.

“Yes-“ was what actually spilled from your lips breathily, followed by a keen of please.

“Then be good and stay still.”

Steve’s dark mischievous gaze met yours, the erotic sight of him between your legs, wide shoulders barely fitting, with his palm sprawled to your belly and seemingly enjoying himself thoroughly was your undoing, along with things he did and you could not hope to put into words; not when your vision whited out with a cry of his name and wave of numbing bliss washing over you and pulling you under.

You were trying to catch your breath as he let you ride out your high, firm, wet languid kisses pressed to your thighs, your stomach, your breasts with just a graze of teeth to both increase your pleasure and to satisfy the man who loved to get lost in exploring your body and consuming you whole.

When his lips finally met yours again, you did not care you still hadn’t quite earned enough oxygen, whimpering against the demanding kiss as Steve’s fingers curled just to press at the spot again, while he casually rested his weight on his elbow, left hand interlacing his fingers with yours to feel the ring he had slipped on your finger just a few weeks ago.

“Love you so much, sweetheart. Love seeing you like this, so beautiful, so blissed out and so, so mine…” he whispered, voice hoarse as if he had been the one to crying out in ecstasy.

“I love you too, Steve.”

Instinctively moving to touch him, to keep him closer, you tugged at the soft fabric around your wrists, huffing in frustration when all you could do was squeeze Steve’s hand tighter.

“Hands, love?” you pleaded, arching your body against his, hovering too high for your taste even when your bare chest brushed his, your body drinking hungrily the heat which his own was radiating. “Want to touch you.”

“Anything for you, love.”

As thoroughly distracting as his lips were, pressing back to yours as he blindly loosened the knots, your hands sprang the moment you were free, sighing as the utter delight at holding onto your lover flooded every cell of your body, fingers raking through his hair, digging into his back to pull his closer to your embrace.

His lips eased the pressure, nose bumping yours, fingertips brushing your cheek tenderly, his smile as sweet as sinful, and when you blinked your eyes open, you couldn’t but bask in the blinding light of adoration shining in Steve’s blown pupils.

“You alright, sweetheart? Can you take more?”

The question nor the concern were new; yet they tasted as lovely as Steve’s smile when he leaned in to kiss you again.

You ran your hand down the lovely expanse of his back, pressing to meet his hardness, a wordless agreement.

“Yes, just… be careful.”

Steve’s lips parted from yours with a wet pop, genuine worry instantly overtaking his features, his weight easing from your body – almost making you regret what you were about to say when he’d inevitably ask-

“Are you hurting? Did I do anything-“

“I’m fine, Stevie…” you assured him, brushing a lose strand away from his forehead, smoothening the crease that formed there, your wildly pounding heart shivering from his tender care for you, his consideration, his willingness to walk away from chasing his own pleasure and just hold you should you wish so for whatever reason.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, his frown only deepening with disapproval as he probably thought you were about to downplay whatever it was that bothered you, what he had done to hurt you or was causing you pain – like Mr. Hypocrite, your softest, biggest love.

“No need to worry, Steve. I just want you to be careful, you know… you might pull a muscle and need medical and fluids after.”

A beat of silence, bated breaths.

And then you were bursting out with laughter at Steve’s scandalized expression, the sound blending into a yelp as he grabbed you by the hips and lifted you to the air. He stood up in a whirlwind of a movement, spinning you until your back hit the wall, blow softened by his palm while his other moved under your bottom, fingers digging to your flesh, pinning you to the hard surface by his hips, his chest, and mainly by his lips crashing against yours, stealing the laughter from you very lungs, drinking your love from the very bottom of your heart.

He nipped at your bottom lip, hips bucking against yours, his voice a sultry promise you couldn’t wait for him to make good on; for all the teasing, you knew that indeed, your Steve would have caring for you at the forefront of his mind. You could feel his love undeniably present in his touch, be it his hands or his lips, be it his words of affection or the gentle, exhilarating threats:

“Oh just you wait, love… we’ll see who’ll need what after I’m done with you… I was so well-taken care of by my future wife, I think I want to start training for our wedding night. And sweetheart,” he whispered, warm breath brushing your ear, “I think it’s time we try to push our record to double digits.”

As a shudder ran down your spine like a livewire, your heart jumping to your throat with how your blissed-out mind scrambled to try to imagine that, you let your body sink into his, counted your blessing, and let yourself feel whatever was about to come.

You let yourself be consumed by love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving feedback.

May November be kind to you💕

#steviebbboiwritingchallenge #bbboi200celebration #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #happy Steve rogers #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #thirst for life as it is #anika ann

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impishjesters · 2 years ago

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Jax x Reader w/depression/suicidal tendencies

warning(s): mentions of depression/suicidal behavior/tendencies, nothing graphic though, mentions of morbid/dark humor note: it's only mentioned that he has feelings for you, whether romantic or platonic is left up to the reader. A/N: I think this is the fastest I've ever wanted to write for something utterly new to me, usually it takes a while of being into a series or liking a character to wanna write something. This was...less than twelve hours? This was probably the most self-indulgent thing I've written in a while.

Nobody was safe from Jax’s pranks, including you—regardless of how much he found himself gradually enjoying your company.

It’s actually a right of passage at this point that every new person (as rare as it is) who shows up is subjected to some awful prank to gauge just how much of an easy or difficult target they’ll be.

You handle the pranks with ease. Sure it can be annoying, but there’s little that can seemingly “kill” you here.

Which is a shame really—well, only slightly.

Your therapist would’ve probably found it a good thing, trying to off yourself in a digital world where sleeping and eating were no longer required likely meant the inability to die.

Not in a traditional sense anyway.

You’re the only one ballsy enough to prank Jax back, which isn’t easy but when a prank is successful? Oh, it’s worth it to see his reaction.

There’s an unspoken prank war back and forth, but typically the other’s are the subject of your guys’ pranks. Somehow it feels more rewarding with the joint effort.

It's not often, but sometimes Jax's pranks will go a step too far and trigger something unpleasant. He's not really sure why you just walk off like that, those pranks don't make him feel as satisfied for whatever reason.

Once a special type of friendship grows between the two of you, the pranks lessen—not entirely though—nah he loves the unsuspecting reactions of a prank you didn’t see coming.

The pranks become less hostile and more casual—he’s got a reputation to keep after all, regardless of how he feels about you.

The initial reaction to someone being told there was no way out was to panic, you however, didn’t..well not outright. Your initial reaction is dark humor—even with the whole censorship thing.

Ragatha is the only one initially disturbed/worried over your dark sense of humor, which should be expected from one of them since they’ve been there longer.

Jax is aware of your morbid sense of humor and often plays along with it, especially in the beginning—later in the friendship though? Yeah, there’s no noticeable physical change, but he’s only a tad worried.

When not tormenting the other’s Jax stuck with you, or vice versa.

After the attempted drowning and standing (willingly) in harm’s way of one (or three) of the rides, Jax keeps your bedroom key closer in hand than the others.

And honestly? Ragatha doesn’t even blame him. You aren’t distant from them, but you do tend to favour Jax’s company. Regardless of her feelings about him as a person, it becomes obvious that he feels something less hostile towards you compared to them.

It takes a while before you finally confess to Jax that prior to being trapped in this digital hell, you were medicated for depression/suicidal tendencies. And while the digital world took away things like needing sleep and food, it didn’t get rid of the thoughts or urges.

Now—had this been someone else telling him all this? He’d be very uncaring and probably make a nasty “joke”, but because it’s you? He’s treading into foreign territory here when it comes to emotions.

There’s not really anything he can say that would make you feel better, but he does show a more rare tender side, offering to be there whenever you need him. Just to backpedal like a tsundere and say that he won’t always be free ( a lie, the fuck else does he have to do?), but he’ll try and make time for you during those moments.

He doesn’t do some pinky promise bullshit, I mean he can and would, but he doesn’t expect his offer and attempts to do that much (words of promise aren’t on the same level as a prescription drug after all).

But if being around his rude ass self and doing the occasional nice *gag* gestures of like, hugging or whatever helps you, he’ll do it—just, not with others around obviously. Again, man has a reputation.

From then on Jax is more aware of where you are around him at all times, not in a suffocating way though. Well, not intentionally, he has his moments. But he’s trying, again this is new territory for him.

Jax makes it his unspoken, personal goal to make sure you don’t tread the line of becoming abstracted.

Bonus (fluff)

Jax will make an attempt not to immediately recoil from your touch when others are present.

I’m not talking “Whoops, sorry to bump into you”, I’m talking about grabbing onto his arm or being in his personal bubble because you need something grounding or whatever.

More often than none his immediate reaction is to just use you to lean on, elbow or arm resting on top of your head to give you some contact and pressure. (He does it out of habit even when you don't need it.)

Sure he probably looks like an ass to others, but after a while, they sort of just get used to it since you never bring up being offended by the act.

But in private? Yeah, sure shoot, just don’t expect him to put any effort into returning anything. Maybe the drape of an arm or his legs, but if it’s really bad? He’ll lay or sit there while you cling to him like a koala.

Jax actually finds it kinda funny how tightly you hold on whenever he gets up.

“Wow, you really holdin’ on there.”

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc jax #jax #jax x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader

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cherry-pop-elf · 7 months ago

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Follow My Lead

Curly x Disabled!Reader

Can be read as platonic

AN: Purely self indulgent. I’m suffering extreme disability issues do to the change in weather and it’s very painful and exhausting. So here we are. Friendly reminder of disability’s existing and lives can still be lived. Thank you

SUM: You were returning to the Physical Therapy center for your weekly appointment. As you enter the designated gym, with its nurses, you noticed someone new. New people in the waiting room, and new people in the gym. Wonder who that new nurse is to…

Warnings: Disabilities, medical discussion, reader’s disabilities are vague but will have issues that are common in the disability community, PTSD, Trauma, Everyone lives except Jimmy, lots of medical discussion, so much trauma Jesus Christ

“Just wait for a few minutes and we can call you back.” The woman would tell you. You would give a nod and returned to your seat in the waiting room. Right next to quite the chipper fellow. With floral attire. There with a much older man. Perhaps his father?

“Hi-!” The floral guy would say, before the older man nudged him. Telling him not to bother the other people here at the gym here. You didn’t mind. People can make the atmosphere here so depressing sometimes. It’s nice to have some sunshine.

“Hello!” You returned, meeting his energy. That had him just beaming.

“You two are new here, aren’t you? First time here?” You asked, as the floral man nodded. The older just let the younger do all the talking. The floral one seemed the social butterfly anyway.

“Yeah. It’s not for us though. It’s for our friend Curly. And also Anya! She’s a nurse. Since she’s a nurse she’s helping him with the other like physical therapists here. He really needs a-lot of extra help. His arms and legs are missing, eye is missing, had so many skin graphs. He’s been through A LOT. So we’re here for moral support.” He explained to you, and you would listen.

Damn that Curly really went through alot. Sounded like he lost the limbs then actually was without them earlier in life. He’s going to have a long journey ahead of himself.

“Swansea here is also helping install stuff at Curly’s place to make it easier to move around in. Like railings, changing door knobs, stuff like that! He’s got prosthetics he’s still getting used to, but he also uses a wheelchair when they make his muscles ache too much.” He would ramble on, and you happily listened.

It was so nice to have someone be so positive. Many able bodied people just treat disabled situations with such mourning and sadness. It was refreshing to have someone have a positive outlook. To be excited to help compared to just mourning and worrying.

“You can come back when you are ready-!” A physical therapist would call for you. As you went to leave, the floral man was quick to call out.

“Oh! I’m Daisuke!”

“Well hello Daisuke. Please talking to you-!” You would wave, before heading back to the gym area with everyone else.

Typically most physical gyms would have a designated nurse for each person, that way you can be watched carefully and monitored for improvement. This gym, however, allowed that people who had progressed to a certain level can work out independently with the gear offered here. As a means to allow more independence, and for them to improve or care for their health by their own speed.

It seems like that Curly guy won’t reach that milestone for ages.

He was very easy to notice amongst the often elderly folks there. The rare younger type, but often it’s from some kind of long turn injury or recovery of surgery.

There you would see a man using the standing bars. Metal bars on each side, and a person would walk through the middle. Gave them the ability to use their arms to keep support instead of using all their weight on their legs.

Just like Daisuke said he was in pretty rough shape. His arms had prosthetics and same for his legs. A eye patch covered his missing eye, and much of his skin still was incredibly rough.

Despite it all, he’s trying. He’s shakily walking through, with his arms on the metal, and he’s taking it step by step. Still trying to adjust to having somewhat of limbs again.

Next to him was a kind looking woman. Her eyes looked like they had seen too much, but her smile said she is willing to keep on living. To spite the world she will be happy.

“There you go Curly. You are doing a good job. Just take it very slow. There’s no need to rush. You will be able to do more once you adjust. How about you finish this walk and we can sit down. Then we can try and use your arms for a while. Legs are the most exhausting.” She would say to him.

She had such a warmth in her voice. A nurse that everyone wished they had after any life threatening event. She was perfect for a physical therapist.

“Shit shit shit-!” He would start to panic, and he would end up slipping. She was quicker though. She managed to grab him by his chest, as his limbs went limp. Just dangling like a doll. He looked so humiliated.

Maybe he needed a friend.

“Hi! I heard you two are new here. That guy in the waiting room, Daisuke, told me a little about you two. Do you need help with like, oh I don’t know, anything? I’ve been coming here for a while now. If you want anyway.” You would offer, as Anya would help him stand back on his bionic feet again.

“Oh that is very kind of you. I think we are alright, for the time being. But thank you so much.” She was so gentle with her words. Clearly each word was truly kindness, and not just words to push someone away.

“I wouldn’t mind it. I….I have no idea what I’m doing.” Curly would admit, as there was still shame in his expression. As if he felt unworthy to be there. To be helped at all. That he just deserved the worse.

Very relatable.

“Oh sure! Oh oh! Maybe I can be on the other side of the bar. You can place your hands on my shoulder and your other arm on hers. We will hold you up ourselves so when you slip you don’t fall.” You offered, as you stepped into position.

Anya would do the same, and made sure there was a hand on his back and one on his chest. To help him keep himself straight, and if he slipped you both can push him back into place.

“Deep breaths Curly. You got this. You are almost to the other side.” Anya reassured, as you smiled as well. Suppose seeing you both trying so hard helped him gain the motivation to push through.

Each step was heavy, slow, and frustrated. He was trying his best, but sometimes his muscle spasms kicked in and his leg would just move the wrong way. You could relate to that. Muscle spasms were so annoying to deal with. Especially in public. People think you are on some kind of drug and question you. Annoying as hell.

It was slow, but you didn’t care. He needed a little extra help and you figured you could offer it. Make things just a little easier for him. It’s rough. You know it so well.

He finally reached the other end, and Anya couldn’t help but clap and beam. So proud of him. So damn happy he did it. Course when she let go he ended up falling into you, but you managed to help him get back up again.

“Sorry! Just you did it! Before you know it you’ll be running and jumping. You’ll be back to skiing in no time.” She would encourage, before bringing the wheelchair over. The two of you helping him sit in it. Such a relief.

“You ski?” You asked, as Anya would help take his legs off. Let him breathe for a while. While she did that, he gave a small nod.

“Before all….this….I used to really be quite the athlete. I loved winter sports. If it was in the snow I was there. Snowboarding, Skiing, ice skating, ice climbing, I used to do it all. Even was a body builder. To think I used to do so much…..” He sighed, as he looked over at his arms. Looking at what was once muscle and bone. Now just metal and specialized plastic.

“Hey….I know you’ve been told this a million times, so I’ll just say it from a person that also doesn’t have the best mobility either. You’ll have good days and bad days. Some more extreme than others. It’s gonna to fucking suck. It’s gonna hurt. It’s going to be exhausting. You’ll have days wondering why you should even stay alive. But you’ll also have days where you can accomplish simple things like making your own dinner. Taking out the trash. Fold some laundry. You’ll get there. It’s gonna suck but you’ll reach it.”

Having someone keep it blunt with him seemed to be what he needed to hear. Was like he learned a mistake about keeping things to sweet. That sometimes you need a reality check.

“Thank you….I think it was very important for me to hear that. Thank you.” He would do his best to smile at you, but the nerves in his face were rather damaged. You wouldn’t be surprised if he needed some more surgery there to.

He’s still going to go through so much, but maybe having someone who can genuinely relate to it all could help.

“Hey, I come here every Saturday. That way when I’m painfully exhausted from it I can just relax and have Sunday be a complete recover day.” You said, as you walked with him as Anya rolled him over to a spot to not bother people. She would soon sit across from him, with a small ball, and the two of them would try and play simple catch with it. Both to help with his arms and his new adjustment with a single eye.

“Think that sounds like the best plan for me right now as well…” He nodded, as that was the way you two could agree on it.

He would do his best to play catch with her, but it kept falling in his lap. His limbs just not moving quite fast enough, and his send of direction never quite there. Was so frustrating, and you understood it.

“Said a million times, I know, but take it from me. You’ll genuinely get there. But it will take a while. Not days. Not weeks. Months if you keep at it. But it’ll get there.” You reassured, as you stepped away. Off to do your own exercises for your own issues.

Was a peaceful gym day like that. Spending what spoons you had to take care of yourself. Every now and again, when taking a breather, you looked over to him. Seeing Anya help him get used to his limbs. Small things like picking up something, catching, even paddy cake. Taking it slow for him.

Once you ran out of energy you would kinda hang out with them.

You didn’t ask him how he ended up like that, you just let yourself breathe. Breathe as he spoke what he wanted to speak about. Same for her.

From what little pieces you could pick out from them it sounded like they were victims of a ship crash. No wonder he ended up so fucked up. That fact he’s alive at all is insane to you. Anya deserved way more credit.

There also seemed to be a shared enemy between them. When a person called over for a therapist, named Jimmy, the way they flinched and looked around like someone started unloading a gun. Whoever this Jimmy was sure made his mark on them.

Once he finally couldn’t go on any longer she would take the arms off as well. Letting what was left of his limbs breathe. He was so exhausted, but he seemed happy. Happy to have made some kind of progress, and even happier he had someone to talk to through it.

“I’ll see you next Saturday.” You smiled, and waved, as you started to leave. He gave a wave of his own, before Daisuke and Swansea returned to him. There to carry his prosthetics and be his cheerleaders.

You were happy for him. He deserved a support network.

He deserved to smile again.

You just knew he did.

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murdrdocs · 5 days ago

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roommate aus are always on the mind and now im thinking abt roommate carmen berzatto. someone at the bear (tina, fak, richie, sydney, so many options) go and visits carmy at his apartment that he has yet to fully move into. the maze of half-opened boxes isn't even what disturbs carmy's guest, its the sheer dissatisfaction of a place that the apartment is in general. it's rundown, the living quarters of someone struggling, which carmy certainly is not (well, not for the most part).

"you deserve someplace better," is what they tell him, and carmy might not believe that he deserves someplace nicer, he's still up for a change of scenery. his therapist thinks it would be good for him. so carmy is looking at places on his laptop, jittery and scarred hands clicking on place after place, blue eyes flicking across the screen and reading details.

resort style pool, private conference rooms on each floor, located in a prominent area....

buzzword after buzzword that catches carmy's attention. but then the price tag motivates him to click out of the website and try again.

he does go tour a few places, but nothing is up to par. the kitchen is too small or the appliances are too faulty, and if this isn't an issue then the price is. chicago is expensive, especially to stay in a somewhat close location to the bear which happens to be a priority for carmy now.

he starts to give up and begins to resign himself to living where he is now for the foreseeable future. until a recommendation comes.

"i have a friend in one of those upscale apartments who needs a roommate. if that's what you're interested in."

and carmy really isn't all that interested. at least he doesn't think he is. but then he's sending a text message after rereading it once, twice, and thrice just to be sure. first impressions and all.

he meets you over coffee and accepts your invitation to come back and see the place. clean, good location, very nice appliances, and a big room for carmy.

there is no reason for carmy to have a roommate, he reasons this with himself late at night when sleep evades him as it typically does. but he likes you, something inside of him is drawn to your energy, and he suddenly craves companionship in its most innocent form.

so he accepts your offer and you help him move into your place. and things are good and innocent for a while.

it takes a minute for the two of you to get your schedules acclimated. you work normal hours and rarely bring your work home with you, but when you do you're sitting at the kitchen island on your computer late at night when carmy comes home from the bear. off days are spent barely seeing each other, carmy choosing to sleep until he needs to go run some sort of errand and you half knocked out on the couch with some show playing in the back.

but the two of you get used to having another person in your home eventually. you become friends, relatively close, and its then that carmy realizes he really likes you. well, he doesn't realize it until a pretty girl at the grocery store shows interest in him and carmy immediately starts comparing her to you.

her smile isn't as kind and effortless as yours. her perfume doesn't make his heart rate spike like yours does. he didn't feel that intense internal buzzing when she first looked at him like he did with you.

of fucking course he's fallen for his roommate. and maybe he should do something about it, but that's not the carmen berzatto way.

the carmen berzatto way entails ignoring it until he physically cannot anymore. and that's exactly what carmy intends to do!

#not proofreading this any errors are actually not real #carmysworld!#carmy berzatto x reader #wrote this just to remind myself that i can write btw

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scariusaquarius · 2 months ago

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rehab. 28.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

A/n: Kind of shifting slightly from (y/n). This is gonna be so damn painful. I'm not sorry >:) Also, if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

Author: ScariusAquarius

rehab masterlist. chapter 26 / chapter 27

His nerves were shot as Bucky sat in the quinjet; the hums of the engines a monotonous symphony within the tight and confined space. The scent of oil, metal, and fuel burning had Bucky's nostrils flaring and cursing his enhanced ability to smell. It was familiar-clinical and cold and making his hackles rise with every second he laid eyes on the bruised man locked up in the back.

He was on his way back to the US, Clint and Steve in the front within the cockpit. Natasha was sitting across from Bucky, the two of them watching over Rollins as they transported him. The man, thankfully, was still unconscious, but Bucky couldn't stop glaring at the man. His blue eyes were steeled, his lips pursed, and Natasha's voice made him glance at her before glancing back at Rollins.

"You're doing the staring thing again."

Bucky didn't respond for a moment and Natasha just smirked slightly before she asked, tilting her head as she sat back in her seat with an inquisitive look on her face.

"I thought you were going to stay in Wakanda with (Y/n)? Did you get cold feet?"

Bucky shook his head, reaffirming to her as his fist slightly clenched.

"I am. I just have some things that I need to do."

Natasha observed him for a moment, trying to read him and understand what it was that he was doing before she huffed a little, unable to get a good read as Bucky continued just to stare at Rollins.

"You want to let me in on the scoop?"

"Nope."

His voice was clipped and short; signifying his desire to stay quiet about his business, and Natasha just gazed at him before shrugging.

"Alright, I'll find out one way or another."

Bucky finally looked at Natasha, a serious look on his face as he spoke.

"I really do not want you, or anybody, to know about this. It's not like I'm doing something illegal that you'd have to notify my therapist about...and have to have her break out the emergency couch and that passive-aggressive fucking notebook of hers."

Natasha hummed, shrugging again.

"Not my monkey, not my circus. Though, you realize that once you get back, you're going to have to talk to her, right?"

He absolutely did not want to do that. While Bucky knew that the court-mandated therapy sessions were apart of his condition to being pardoned and becoming an Avenger, Bucky wasn't a huge fan of Dr. Raynor. He'd only been seeing her for a few months, but her no-nonsense and blunt demeanor made it hard to talk to her.

Even if she was able to get him to speak.

Fuck the notebook, disrespectfully, however.

Bucky just pursed his lips and stated, shaking his head a little as the annoyance began to ripple through him like a tidal wave.

"I'll give her a call when I get back...or just have Steve tell her that I'm on official business and to leave me the hell alone."

Natasha nodded, and when the quinjet finally landed at the Avengers compound, Bucky already began to miss the quiet that came with Wakanda. The compound was hustling and bustling as everyone prepared for Rollins arrival, but Bucky didn't intend to stick around. The smells, the sounds, the ungodly bright lights, it was just too much for Bucky. He quickly stood up, but was stopped by Steve calling his name.

"Bucky, what's going on in that head of yours?"

Bucky felt a sense of guilt run through him as he looked at Steve's concerned face.

"Is everything okay?"

Bucky nodded despite feeling horrible for lying.

"Yeah, everything's fine. I just wanted to get some things for (Y/n)...maybe to see if she'll remember or if something will jog her memory."

Steve nodded before offering.

"Do you want me to help you?"

Bucky gently clasped Steve's shoulder, thanking him.

"Thanks, but I got it. Just don't do anything stupid until I get back."

Steve then grinned, the familiar line settling Bucky's nerves just the slightest as the Captain replied.

"How can I when you're taking all the stupid with you? Be careful out there, Buck."

Bucky nodded before he was quick to get out of the compound. Weaving in and out of the crowd of people, Bucky was glad to finally step out of the building and set his eyes onto his motorcycle. Heaving a sigh of relief, he swung his leg over the seat and murmured to himself as he turned the bike on.

"Hey, doll."

Bucky immediately set off, the way to his destination engraved into his brain as it had been for years. Despite the determination and desperation that licked at his heels as he speeded down the blacktop, Bucky wasn't sure if what he was about to do was smart.

But he had to see if her life still existed somehow outside of HYDRA.

The trip took about 12 hours normally, but Bucky had been able to shave it down to just 9 with minimal stops reduced to just refueling. When blacktop turned into gravel and the modern environment evolved into the familiar countryside, the sun beginning to shine brightly high in the sky, Bucky's heart began to race once more.

He knew these roads like the back of his hand; could remember him and Rebecca running all over the small town while their mother and father yelled at them to stay close. However, the further he got into the town, the more jarring it became to see the many new houses standing within the terrain.

Houses that he had known well were turned into modern dwellings, streetlights that had never been in the area decorating every inch of the streets, and the ghost of nostalgia began to whisper when Bucky noticed that some houses from back then were still standing. Turning down a particular road, a ping from Bucky's phone made the man slow his bike and pull off to the side.

Sam: You owe me for this, Bicentennial Man. Had to ask Natasha for some help too since a lot of (Y/n)'s records were scrubbed. (Y/n) had an Aunt named Mavis Greene-Callahan that lived in Shelbyville. Her husband, Bobby Callahan, was enlisted and stationed at Camp Atterbury for a while. If she's still around, she's living on Maplewood Lane.

Bucky was surprised by the information. Maplewood Lane was only a few streets away from where he grew up. The fact that his childhood home was so close to (Y/n) in an indirect way...it made Bucky unsure how to feel, if he was honest. Surprised? Guilty? Worried? Did HYDRA keep tabs on Rebecca because of all of this too?

Bucky then continued down the street towards his destination. The first house he passed as he went deep into Shelbyville still carried the same weathered charm it had before-ugly, yellow shutters against the white alabaster paint that was in dire-need of pressure-washing.

For a brief moment, Bucky could have sworn he saw an image of Rebecca and him sitting on the porch while their father spoke to John McGowan, the owner of the home. Shaking his head, Bucky pursed his lips. He couldn't let himself get distracted by the beats of the past.

His bike slowed to a coast as he began to near Maplewood Lane, and when he spotted the large two-story house with a big sign hanging from the leaning mailbox 'Greene-Callahan!' in faded green paint, he paused. The porch was modest, a nice open porch with a worn-down rocking chair that was swaying gently in the wind. Flowerboxes were beneath the window, planted with (fave flower) that shined brightly within the sun and carried their scent to him; familiar and comforting.

The mundane sight of the home made Bucky wonder if he should disturb it, but Bucky couldn't ignore it. He had to do this. He had to. Pulling his bike into the driveway where a deteriorated bullnose Ford pickup sat, the unsightly turquoise paint fading into a pastel green from sun damage made his eyes hurt.

Kicking the stand down and sliding off of his seat, Bucky became nervous, wringing his hands together; leather crinkling as he fidgeted. The stone path that led to the porch was cracked, weeds fighting to peek between the crevices, and Bucky felt as though he was walking straight into the past.

In a way, he was.

Would she remember him too?

Standing in front of the screen door, Bucky took a deep breath and knocked on the door. An elderly woman's voice called through the door, and after some time of shuffling, the door slowly opened to reveal an old woman. As the woman looked at him, Bucky sucked in a breath.

The resemblance was there; (e/c) eyes that were kind but weathered from time, sun spots littering her skin from time tending to the garden, and her white hair was pulled into a loose bun; strands framing her face. She was wearing a modest Sunday dress that was decorated with flowers, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and her face lit up with a smile as she greeted Bucky.

"Oh, my, forgive me, dear. My legs aren't as they used to be. How may I help you?"

Her voice was kind and soft; no ounce of pain or sorrow within her words, and Bucky immediately felt terrible about having to dredge up the past; a past he wondered if the woman still remembered. His voice was unsure, unsteady as he spoke as the woman regarded him with a curious look.

"Um, hello, ma'am. My name is James...I was looking for someone who used to live here? Mavis Greene-Callahan?"

Although the woman didn't seem to mean to, her eyes squinted slightly as an air of suspicion came about her. She tilted her head, asking as she straightened up just the slightest, her weathered hands using her walker as support.

"Mavis? Well, I'm Mavis. You've come to see me?"

Bucky nodded, and he felt the anxiety begin to eat at him. How did he ask about (Y/n)? How did he broach this topic with the woman? How did he make it easy?

"Yes, ma'am. I...wanted to ask you a few questions, if you had the time? It's...it's about your niece. (Y/n) (L/n)."

Bucky noticed it immediately: Mavis faltered just the slightest; her eyes becoming tainted with the weight of the name. Her hands tightened against the walker for a moment, her lips pursing just the slightest, and she readjusted her glasses carefully as she let out a shaky breath.

"(Y/n)...now, that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Why don't you come inside, dear? I just made some fresh lemonade! My sons are supposed to come to mow the lawn and help with my garden. I'm sure you've traveled a long way if you wish to talk about (Y/n)."

Bucky immediately reached out to hold the door open for Mavis so the screen door didn't crash into her as she slowly turned, and she gave him a thankful and sheepish smile before she turned and slowly walked inside. As Bucky stepped inside, he carefully scanned the town before closing the door behind him.

Turning, Bucky felt extremely out-of-place.

They were immediately within the living room, a light brown wallpaper decorating the walls. There was a large entertainment center with a TV that was playing the latest episode of Wheel of Fortune.

There was a small coffee table in front of a worn sofa, a couple of books stacked and a Bible currently flipped open and a candle burning that filled the living room with the scent of lavender and vanilla.

Pictures were hung on the wall, a large portrait of what Bucky assumed to be Mavis and Bobby's wedding photo. There were a few others, some Bucky immediately recognizing Doris in, and another photo caught his eye. It was Doris and Mavis with Robert and Bobby, a baby (Y/n) within Doris' arms.

You wouldn't have been able to guess that Robert and Doris were involved with HYDRA with how happy they looked.

There were a few more photos of (Y/n) as she was growing up, but the pictures seemed to jump between eras; one of (Y/n) as a child, a teenager, when she was in high school, and the last photo...

The same photo that (Y/n) clutched onto like a lifeline.

Bucky glanced at Mavis, who was still walking towards the kitchen, and Bucky followed after her. The sound of old-time country music filtered through a radio that was sitting on the ledge of a window situated right above the sink, the slightest bit of static breaking through every now and then.

A shelf was built above the outdated stove, a collection of spoons and fruit-shaped salt-n-pepper shakers with various State names on them. The tile flooring was in need of some TLC, creaking in the spots that were more commonly walked upon, and there was a dish towel hanging from the door of the oven that was printed with 'Merry Christmas! - 1957'.

There was a distant smell of freshly baked bread and a prominent scent of sugar and citrus. A large pitcher of fresh lemonade was on the counter, a couple of lemons both juiced and simply sliced were lying on a wooden cutting board that had definitely seen better days. Mavis' shaky hands reached to grab some glasses, and Bucky jumped into action.

"Here, allow me, ma'am."

Mavis was surprised, a pleasant look upon her face as she smiled and patted his shoulder; Bucky freezing and hoping she didn't notice how his left arm didn't exactly feel human.

"Oh, aren't you just the sweetest, James. Thank you. Would you mind pouring my glass for me? These damn hands don't work like they used to either."

Bucky nodded, pouring lemonades for the two of them, and he held his flesh arm out for Mavis as he helped to steady her as she sat down in a chair with homemade crocheted seat covers at the kitchen table before sitting adjacent to her, his ass immediately uncomfortable with the feeling of the cushion beneath him. Mavis adjusted her glasses before regarding James with a gentle expression.

"Now, I'm sure you have some stories to tell. It's been...a very long time since anyone has mentioned (Y/n)."

She sipped her lemonade carefully, her eyes glancing down with a twinge of sadness to them before she continued after taking a quick breath.

"Why do you ask about her?"

Bucky wasn't sure what to do. Did Mavis know about Project Achilles? Did she have any idea of what had become of (Y/n)? By the way Mavis spoke, it seemed that she was no longer aware or had simply forgotten, but Bucky knew he was going to have to rip the bandage off anyway.

"I...don't really know how to say this to you, ma'am. I don't want to drop this on you if...if you're not ready."

Mavis watched him carefully before she muttered, a strange new demeanor coming about her that had Bucky immediately on edge.

"If you're afraid to tell me of what's become of (Y/n) because of Project Achilles, don't be."

Bucky was stunned, his mouth dropping open as he stared at Mavis, and the silence between them was palpable-heavy and thick enough that it was like it began to choke him against his will. Bucky couldn't help but to ask quietly.

"You...you knew?"

Mavis closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring just the slightest as she held her frail hand to her lips. She took a deep breath before she replied softly.

"I didn't know a lot...not in the way that Doris and Robert did, but the signs...the feelings...they were there. I never got the full picture. I knew something was wrong when Doris stopped calling and sending letters, when Robert stopped allowing me to see my niece, and...she just disappeared."

Her face became sullen as her voice choked slightly, and Bucky couldn't help but to feel terrible about forcing the woman to relive memories she probably hadn't thought of in a long time.

"I tried to ask questions...knocked on doors that I shouldn't have...and HYDRA made it known that they wouldn't tolerate nosiness. Bobby...Bobby wouldn't let it go, and it cost us both."

Her eyes strayed to a large portrait of a man on the wall, a plaque beneath it listing Bobby's name. He was in his uniform, a large smile on his timeless face, and Mavis' lips smacked as she took another breath.

"Tell me...what became of her?"

Bucky took a deep breath before he revealed quietly.

"HYDRA had (Y/n) taken and made her into a Winter Soldier. Robert...Robert was in on it, cultivated the super soldier serum specifically for her."

Mavis' eyes widened, a gasp leaving her lips as she clutched her chest, and tears began to wet her eyes. Bucky took a moment to allow Mavis to process the information before he continued.

"She's still alive, and...we found her."

Mavis' hand clutched at the table, the worn wood contrasting greatly with her skin, and she whispered in shock, her eyes looking off into the distance somewhere over Bucky's shoulders.

"She's...alive? Oh, James, please...is (Y/n) alright?"

Bucky pursed his lips, murmuring truthfully.

"Not entirely. HYDRA...they did some pretty bad things to her. They made her forget everything about her life to turn her into a weapon...but since she's been found, we've been working on rehabilitating her...helping her to remember. She remembered...Shelbyville...specifically a woman named...named Rebecca Barnes, and we found you by digging into Doris and Robert's lives."

Mavis let out a small little laugh, a sound that Bucky hadn't been expecting before Mavis explained as she took her glasses off to wipe her eyes of the tears that had gathered and kissed her lashes.

"She remembered Rebecca? Oh, of course she would have."

Mavis shook her head slightly as Bucky leaned in, giving the woman his undivided attention.

"Rebecca was a part of the church, which is how I met her. A sweet young thing, she was. Rebecca would come for tea and to have my husband and I watch the kids when she needed to go into town. When I brought (Y/n) here to find some peace from the chaos that came from being in Doris' home, she met Rebecca."

Bucky couldn't help but to feel his chest cave in a little as he listened, but he tried not to let any of his emotions bleed onto his face as Mavis continued on.

"I swear, (Y/n) fell in love with Rebecca instantly! (Y/n) was a big writer, she loved to journal and scrapbook when she wasn't helping me in the garden or going to the market for groceries. Rebecca would bring her notebooks and novels to read. They would sit on the porch together to read and write together while watching the kids."

Bucky couldn't help but to smile slightly, the image of an older Rebecca befriending (Y/n) not too far-fetched. His sister had always been a friendly soul. Mavis smiled as well, tilting her head towards Bucky in an almost teasing manner.

"They were close, you know. Not in that frivolous way teenage girls sometimes cling to older women, but… Rebecca saw her. Treated her like her mind was worth something. I think that meant more to (Y/n) than she ever said out loud. (Y/n)...she held a lot of weight from the stress of homelife thanks to Robert. She wanted to be a writer...but HYDRA didn't want that."

Mavis glanced down the hallway before glancing at Bucky and she gestured to him, standing up shakily.

"Wait here for a moment, son."

Bucky was left at the table, the sound of the grandfather clock in the corner ticking loudly in time with his hammering heart; the sound of the static-laced country music echoing through his mind, and Mavis came back with a couple of worn-leather bound journals and a few letters.

"When (Y/n) left to go back to (hometown), Rebecca hadn't been able to get her address. She'd been out of town to take James and Beverly to the doctors, and wasn't able to give (Y/n) her goodbyes. She would write her letters often...but I knew that if I sent them, they would never reach (Y/n). So...I kept them...and her journals...hoping that...that one day my niece would come back."

The names James and Beverly had Bucky's mind reeling, and he couldn't help but to breathlessly stutter.

"Rebecca...named her son James?"

Mavis gave Bucky a quizzical expression before nodding and setting the letters and journals down onto the table in front of Bucky for Bucky to sift through.

"Yes. Rebecca thought it would honor her brother, who was killed in action during World War II. His full name is Nathan James Barnes-Proctor, and her daughter is Beverly Winnifred Barnes-Proctor."

It took everything within Bucky not to burst into tears, and Bucky shakily grabbed the journals. He flipped them open, careful not to tear the age-worn pages as (Y/n)'s beautiful penmanship jumped out at him.

There were certain pages that served as diary pages, and others that were hastily-scribbled story ideas that made Bucky's lips tick up slightly with amusement as the curious words and premises lit up the pages.

Some pages had a different handwriting that Bucky instantly knew was Rebecca's-her cursive looser and more rounded. There were doodles in the margins of the paper, a habit that Rebecca had since she was young. The entry that was on the page seemed to be a message from Rebecca, and Mavis elaborated with a small chuckle.

"The two of them would pass the journals off to each other like kids passing notes. It was quite endearing...and sometimes, James and Beverly would scribble their own little things in. (Y/n) was in the process of teaching them math since they weren't very good at it, and she would use her journal to let them work."

Bucky didn't respond, his eyes scanning Rebecca's handwriting over and over as he read the message written into the page.

You remind me of James sometimes. The way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating, the way you never seem to give up—even when the odds are stacked against you...and those horrendous jokes of yours! I think you would have liked him. I think he would have liked you, too.

His fingers trembled against the edges of the page, his throat tight. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, and Bucky looked up at Mavis with an almost boyish expression of loss and surprise. Mavis murmured quietly.

"If...if these things can help (Y/n) remember...to come home...please give them to her. I'm not getting any younger...and I'd love to meet my niece again."

Bucky nodded and Mavis handed him a crochet bag to put the journals and letters in. Bucky began to pack away the journals and letters, but was stopped by Mavis holding out a tin container. Her white eyebrows were furrowed slightly, and she whispered.

"Pictures...she needs to see to remember."

Bucky nodded, thanking Mavis breathlessly.

"Thank you...Thank you. This...this helps more than you know."

Not just (Y/n), but Bucky as well. Mavis smiled at Bucky gently before walking with him to the porch. Bucky turned to Mavis, stating with a determined tone to his voice.

"I promise...I'll help her to remember so she can meet you again. Whatever it takes."

Mavis smiled wistfully before she stated fondly.

"I know you will, son."

Bucky nodded before saying his farewells, and he was careful to tuck the bag into the saddlebag that was attached to his bike. Sliding on, Bucky was stopped by Mavis' voice carrying through the Indiana breeze.

"Oh, James?"

Bucky looked up, his eyes catching the teasing quirk of Mavis' lips, a strange knowing look within her eyes that had Bucky on edge just the slightest.

"Rebecca never forgot about you...and she would have been very proud of you. Oh, and you should look into getting that metal arm of yours heated. Helps with the illusion."

Bucky felt the wind get knocked out of him, but before he could respond, Mavis was already on her way back inside. She had known this whole time? Bucky sat in the driveway for a moment, the weight of her words hitting him, and Bucky clenched his fists a bit before he fished out his dog tags from beneath his shirt. Clutching onto them, he stared down at them, even as they glinted at him in the light of the sun, and he let out a breathless huff of disbelief.

After all this time, Rebecca never forgot. The weight of the knowledge was heavy with the regret that he couldn't have been there for her; that he was never able to meet his niece and nephew, but Bucky wondered if it had been for the best.

He was glad she never knew him as he was before, but Bucky wished that he could have spoken to her one last time. Given Mavis' wording, he had to assume that Rebecca had passed. It filled him with a bittersweet sadness, and Bucky turned his bike on.

There was a part of him that was tempted to visit his childhood home; to see what Rebecca had turned the home into, but Bucky resisted. This wasn't entirely about him...but someday.

Carefully backing out of the drive, Mavis waved at him through the window, and Bucky waved back, a small smile on his face before he revved the engine and sped down the road, eager and content to get back to Wakanda.

Bucky to Sam: I owe you for a lifetime.

STORY NOTES: Bucky has accompanied Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Clint as they travel back to the US with Rollins' to deliver him into government custody. Natasha is sitting across from Bucky, and she asks him about staying in Wakanda. Bucky affirms that he is planning to stay in Wakanda, but that he has a few things to take care of in the States. Natasha inquires about this, but Bucky refuses to tell her. He tells her that he doesn't want anybody to know what he is up to, that what he was doing was perfectly legal, and nobody would need to notify his court-appointed therapist. Natasha tells him that he will need to speak to her at some point, and Bucky tells her that he will or to have Steve tell her that Bucky is on official business and to leave him alone. When the team arrives back to the Avengers compound, Bucky tries to leave as soon as he can but is stopped by Steve. Steve asks him what is going on, and Bucky states vaguely that he wants to get a few things for (Y/n). Steve offers to help, but Bucky refuses. When Bucky gets to his bike, he immediately sets off for Shelbyville, Indiana.

When Bucky gets back to Shelbyville, he begins to reminisce about the town, remembering bits and pieces of his childhood. He is interrupted by a text from Sam, telling him of the relative that (Y/n) had stayed with during her summer excursions. In no time, Bucky arrives to Mavis Greene-Callahan's house. After some hesitation, Bucky knocks and is introduced to Mavis. Once they get settled, Mavis inquires Bucky on why he wants to ask about (Y/n), and when Bucky tries to broach the topic carefully, Mavis reveals that she knows about Project Achilles and to not be afraid to tell her about what happened to (Y/n).

Bucky is stunned, and Mavis reveals that she didn't know a lot about it, but knew something was wrong when Doris and Robert stopped contacting her. She reveals that she tried to figure out what happened along with her husband, but alludes that HYDRA killed Bobby to warn Mavis to stay out of their business. Bucky reveals that (Y/n) is alive, was found, and is currently being rehabilitated. He tells Mavis that (Y/n) remembered Rebecca and Shelbyville and that he was able to find Mavis by digging into Doris and Robert's family.

Mavis isn't surprised that (Y/n) remembered Rebecca, and tells Bucky that Mavis had met Rebecca through church and would watch her kids for her when Rebecca would go into town. When (Y/n) came to Shelbyville, that's when she met Rebecca. Mavis tells Bucky that Rebecca and (Y/n) became friends instantly and bonded over their shared love for writing. She reveals that Rebecca would often buy journals and books for (Y/n) and they would write together. Mavis tells Bucky that (Y/n) admired Rebecca because Rebecca recognized her for her mind and not her accomplishments like Robert and Doris.

Mavis then leaves to retrieve some old journals and letters from Rebecca to (Y/n) that she had kept. She explains that (Y/n) left while Rebecca was taking her kids to the doctors, and Bucky finds out that Rebecca named her son after him and her daughter after their mother. Bucky then looks through the journals, and Mavis tells Bucky that Rebecca and (Y/n) would trade the journals like children passing notes, and that the kids would often use the journals as well since (Y/n) was in the process of tutoring them in mathematics. Bucky finds an entry from Rebecca that tells (Y/n) that she reminds Rebecca a lot of Bucky, and she thinks they would have been good friends too.

Mavis then asks Bucky to give the journals and letters to (Y/n) in hopes it will make her remember and come to see Mavis, and she also gives Bucky a tin of old pictures for him to give to (Y/n) as well. Bucky promises Mavis that he will help (Y/n) to remember. Before Bucky leaves, Mavis reveals that she knew who Bucky was the whole time, and jokes that he should get his metal arm heated to uphold the illusion of a human arm. Bucky is shocked, and he then begins to mull over the knowledge that Rebecca had never forgot about him. Bucky sends a text to Sam telling him that he 'owes him for a lifetime' and then he leaves to go back to Wakanda. End Scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

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