#you’re back to square one.
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Lmao my friend makes it a point to take a picture like this on her horse at the various places she goes. But her horse practically needs to be stabbed to get it to move
If I tried this on my current horse… well, it’s been nice knowin ya lol
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/ac7e4a9381ef25fa6f8379250f38bc3d/fe02ef49981b84da-19/s540x810/1f232cd20c9697a2fe218ea78432b9833bb28dc9.jpg)
#man likes to run and needs a firm hand#although last summer when I was riding him *literally* every single day#and spent half that time just working on making him listen#and standing still for mounting and all that#he actually was a really safe horse#like I had kids and family who had never ridden on him#it’s just that he’s so hot headed#if you go like. two days without riding him#you’re back to square one.#he’s a good horse… just not for the inexperienced lol#or for dumb things like this#but you need to rope something? he’s your man#i love my glennyboy. he’s just a piece of work.#but so am I so it fits 😂
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Big mama moment ❤️
I wanna hug her
Also I hope you dont mind, I really wanted to color something so I could practice my rendering and you're a huge inspiration to me
aYO COLORED MOB FEM!ROB-!!!!
#YAAAAAAAA#Also if you’re wondering where the original drawing came from it’s from alt JDHFDH got a lil silly on there#Also I do not mind personally- but please ask ahead of time for other creators if ya can color their art!#But anyway YEAHHHH COLOREDDDD#Will probably post more mob gender swaps today if I can get the mOTIVATIONNNNNN#AUGH I HATE ARTBLOCKKK#AND BACK PAIIIIINNNNN#I was right btw I reversed my back pain and now it’s back to square one I:I#PAIINNNNN
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i know everyone and how they take things is different and that’s ok but something still hurts when it feels like everyone else around your age has currently experienced the teenage dream and you feel kind of like a boring square
#bluebell complains#it hurts man idk 😭😭😭#my idc and dgaf attitude sometimes doesn’t work#i want to go on cool teen adventures but here i am at almost 19#and haven’t had cool hip summer teen adventures with a cool car and shit but nah#especially since it feels like i only started getting friends my senior year#and most of the time it feels like now most of them#are going on separate paths so you’re kind of back to square one#i really appreciated and loved the times i did go out with them and hang#but now it’s just back to square one 😔#also feel emo seeing pics from post eras seeing those friend groups#living in the moment with their very much relevant at the time tech and clothes#just having fun but still having that universal#experience of hanging with friends like going to the store or festival and here i am#esp doesn’t help to see others from your grade on instagram do that
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i’m so tired of these people ordering studies and i, the person who will actually read this study, explain to them that the thousands of dollars they’re about to spend on this test will not benefit further management of this patient and it goes ‘well we want it’
#there’s like so much resource waste that goes into hospital admissions#and like i get that half the time it’s just ‘we wanna be sure’#but I AM THE ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THE IMAGING LIMITATION#you’re gonna do this test and be back at square one#and mind you i don’t lose sleep over this#it takes minutes for me to read a negative study#and our department gets richer#but like why do you think healthcare is so expensive#i am trying to help YOU#mimi medicine
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#funny how you can feel like your heartache is healing nicely and then you do something that just rips the scab completely off#and it’s like you’re back to square one#shaking and sobbing#and using up all your tissues in one sitting#feeling thrown away abd beating yourself up for driving her to to the point of needing to throw you away for both your own good#ten years we were together#a third of our lives#a decade’s worth of love turned to poison in your veins#in your heart and soul#and the secobd longest relationship i’ve ever had only lasted 2 weeks#ya it’s just part of life#and it will make good times feel so much more significant#but that does jack shit for me right now
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#i hate even using this word but like. it’s always so cool when you haven’t seen your ‘situationship’ in months and feel like you’re fine#and great#only to see them in passing one day and IMMEDIATELY feel like you need to be committed into an asylum#the universe really said: ‘back at square one bitch you thought you were fine!’#and now i’m in the grocery store staring at lettuce heads wishing i could have novacaine injected into my BRAIN!!!!!!#fuck!!!!!!#anyway <3
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Cons of living on the countryside at high elevation: The roads are so fucking slippery omg. You also need a car to get literally anywhere. There’s barely jobs and everyone knows each other so flying under the radar is virtually impossible
Pros: I forgot a bag of frozen fries in the car yesterday and it was still frozen today 👍
#today I learned that the beeping noise my car kept making was the traction control#brother I almost died and shat myself so many times today and yesterday#i was driving to my new apartment yesterday and it was raining#which was fine okay. i go to the supermarket. come out twenty minutes later. and it’s SNOWING#not only snowing. no#there’s already like three inches of snow on the ground#fell on my ass in the parking lot it was THAT slippery#I almost lost control of my car four times on the way home and if you wonder what it feels like to approach an intersection#on an icy road and you brake but your car keeps going? you might feel like you’re being electrocuted by a million pins and needles in your#hands and legs#because there’s CARS coming and you know they won’t be able to brake and neither will you#but in the last moment you do manage to stop#and then you drive into another intersection and in the middle of the tight curve a huge chunk of snow smacks onto your windshield and#scares the living crap out of you so bad that you pull another#emergency stop because I thought I hit something#or someone else#and then you drive okay and in the roundabout in front of your home you suddenly start drifting at 15 km/h#and you’re only like oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck#anyway you then make it home and have to park in a crappy downhill parking spot and you drive over a block of ice so the sound scares the#crap out of you again and when you try to go backwards your car slips forward instead#ahahaha yeah anyway then the next morning you wake up to find your car covered in a cm of ice#and you have the equipment to free it! you have ice scrapers and thawing spray#but unfortunately it’s all inside your fucking car so you’re back at square one#but at least my fries were still frozen :)
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idk if I’m just playing the game poorly but is progression supposed to be as extremely slow as it feels in darkest dungeon
#I’ve only cleared like. two quests.#I get that it’s okay when heroes die bcs it’ll happen but how am I supposed to level up heroes if they get stressed so quickly#cause then you gotta either spend money to de stress them or cut your losses and dismiss them#but if you dismiss them you’re back at square one needing your heroes to level up to hold their own
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HEY IM BACK TO BOTHER UU
OK IMAGINE THIS
simon seeing how you always coo at babies you see in public (grocery store, shopping, park, etc) and he decides then and there that you WILL be the mother of his children. and like maybe he never even wanted kids but after this happens one or two times he is SET on it.
idk just a thought that i had to share!
I am listening so hard
Simon gets hit with baby fever hard, he doesn’t even know what baby fever is - he just sees you with chunky little babies and snotty kids and something in his brain goes off. he just gets the itch to make you a mom, the urge to buy those stupid little baby shoes that look so fucking cute and why don’t you have a baby now—
Simon isn’t subtle either, he’ll silently guide your shopping trips so you end up in baby aisles, little onesies and pacifiers on display. you don’t even have a kid, but Simon picks up a cute little ducky pacifier and sets it in the cart. “Simon? We don’t need tha—”, turning his back to you, he just sets off out of the aisle, “Might.”, he mumbles
Simon who empties your guest your room one day, paint buckets in hand. he claims to just be ‘redoing’ the room, also lovie, if a box for a crib gets delivered call for him - Simon will sign for it! he’s like a man possessed, just mutters something about, “Could ‘ave a permanent guest…”, and it leaves you chuckling. he’s even got the 141 over to help, Gaz helping Simon paint while John squared try to assemble the crib
Simon who acts shocked when you tell him you’re pregnant, pretends to be innocent, “Really? How could tha’ ‘ave happened?”. he’s extremely excited even though he’s keeping a straight face, but you can tell - his fingers are tapping against his thighs and he’s bouncing his leg a little. and what a coincidence, Simon somehow predicted you’d need a nursery! good thing he converted that guest room, right doll?
#ghost#simon ghost riley#simon riley#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost headcanons#ghost x you#ghost x reader#simon riley x you#simon riley x reader#cod#cod thoughts#call of duty#hit post
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I'm not your enemy
credits: thank you to @mad3ylncline
The sandy building groaned under the weight of time, its cracked walls and sunken roof barely holding together. Dust and grit hung in the air, and the dim sunlight streaming through broken slats created an eerie haze around the tense group.
Rafe stood at the center of it all, the map clutched tightly in his trembling hands. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. He glanced between John B, Sarah, JJ, and Kie like a trapped animal, his paranoia simmering just beneath the surface.
“Rafe, baby,” you said gently, taking a small step toward him. Your voice was steady, but your heart was hammering in your chest. “Just give John B the map.”
Rafe’s head snapped toward you, his jaw tightening. His eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill over. “No!” he barked, shaking his head violently. “You’re just going to screw me like everyone else in my life!”
His voice cracked, and the rawness of his words echoed off the fragile walls. His fingers curled tighter around the fragile parchment as though letting go of it would unravel him completely.
“I know you will,” he muttered, his voice breaking as he looked at you. His hands trembled, and his gaze darted between you and Sarah. “You all will.”
You took a tentative step closer, hands raised to calm him. “Rafe, no one’s trying to screw you over,” you said softly. “We just need the map so we can find the crown. That’s it.”
He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, yeah? And then what?” His gaze fixed on Sarah, a storm brewing in his eyes. “You’ll just take it for yourselves, won’t you, Sarah? My own sister would rather side with them than with me!”
“Rafe, that’s not true,” Sarah said, her voice trembling. She took a cautious step forward, but JJ grabbed her arm, pulling her back.
“Don’t,” JJ muttered under his breath, his eyes never leaving Rafe. “He’s a ticking time bomb right now.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Rafe snarled, his voice rising as he took a step back. The fragile map crinkled under his grip, and the group collectively tensed.
You watched him closely, your chest tightening at the desperation in his eyes. This wasn’t just anger—it was fear. He felt cornered, betrayed, and utterly alone.
“Rafe,” you said again, your voice calm and unwavering. “Look at me.”
His gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment, his hardened expression softened.
“No one here is your enemy,” you continued, taking another step closer. “I’m not your enemy.”
His jaw clenched, and he shook his head. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “They’ll screw me over, just like they did Dad, just like everyone else.”
“They won’t,” you insisted, your voice firm. “And even if they try, I won’t. I’m here, Rafe. I’m always here.”
He stared at you, his chest heaving. The cracks in his armor were widening, the vulnerability he worked so hard to hide bleeding through.
“Rafe,” Sarah said softly, her tone cautious but sincere. “This is what Dad would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted us to work together.”
Rafe let out a harsh, bitter laugh, tears welling up in his eyes. “Yeah? Like you worked with him? You let him die!”
Sarah’s face paled, her breath hitching as the accusation hit her squarely in the chest. “He died taking a bullet for me, Rafe,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “He died protecting me.”
Rafe’s lip quivered, and tears began streaming down his face. His hands shook as he clung to the map, but the anger drained from his expression, replaced with pure sorrow.
Sarah’s heart broke as she stepped toward him. “I’m so sorry, Rafe,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. Rafe stood stiffly for a moment before his shoulders sagged, and he let himself lean into the hug. His tears soaked into her shirt as his walls crumbled, his sobs muffled against her shoulder.
When Sarah finally let go, her own tears glistening on her cheeks, Rafe turned to you. His face was still streaked with tears, his vulnerability laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. Without hesitation, you reached for him, your hands gently cupping his face.
“Rafe,” you murmured, brushing a tear from his cheek. His blue eyes locked onto yours, searching for something—comfort, reassurance, hope. You leaned in, your lips meeting his in a sweet, tender kiss. His hands instinctively found your waist, grounding himself in the moment.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “You’re not alone,” you whispered. “You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here.”
For a moment, it was as if the rest of the world melted away. Rafe exhaled shakily, his grip on the map loosening as he let the weight of his pain lift, even if just a little.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
You smiled softly, taking the map from his trembling hands. As the group exchanged nervous glances, you kept your focus on Rafe, your fingers brushing his one last time.
“We’ll figure this out,” you said quietly, holding his gaze as the group began to move out of the crumbling building.
He didn’t respond, but the flicker of hope in his eyes was enough.
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#rafe x reader#rafe x you#rafe outer banks#rafe fic#rafe#rafe cameron x reader#outerbanks rafe#rafe cameron#rafe imagine#rafe obx#obx#obx season 4#obx4#outer banks#obx s4#obx cast#outer banks season 4#outer banks netflix#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron blurb
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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬
Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k
c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here
⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆
“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”
You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks.
“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.”
“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out.
“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”
You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask.
“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says.
They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world.
There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.
Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation.
You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person.
Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about.
“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.”
Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.
“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him.
“He was nice,” you murmur.
“Yeah, he’s okay.”
“How come you fell out of touch?”
“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?”
“You’ll be alright?”
“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”
You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands.
You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare.
What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought.
The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.
Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage.
Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little.
“Darling.”
You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand.
“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says.
Me, you think.
“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.”
“You didn’t,” the woman says.
“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.”
Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense.
“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says.
Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.”
“Hardy-har.”
“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks.
“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”
“But?”
“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.”
“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”
“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.”
“Gentleman and the tramp.”
“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.”
You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape.
You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth.
You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water.
What the fuck?
You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down.
Your head races with hurt feelings.
You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman.
You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees.
What had they meant by usual woman?
Mismatched?
It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is.
“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.”
You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky.
He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“
You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in.
Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal.
Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing.
Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse.
She was unbelievable.
“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?”
“What?”
“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.”
You startle at his scolding. “I–”
“You should feel my heart.”
“I didn’t mean to come out here.”
“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks.
“Sorry.”
His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.”
“That’s romantic.”
He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?”
“Scavenging for food.”
That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.”
—
Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?
You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…”
After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones.
“I love you, too,” you say.
His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”
“Mm.”
“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…”
You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable.
You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it.
“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath.
You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands.
“These aren’t good tears,” he says.
He’d know. They’re not.
Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out.
“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not you.”
“But something does hurt?”
“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs.
“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.”
It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not.
He looks sick.
“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage.
For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring.
“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly.
“It’s so stupid.”
“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?”
You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.”
You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin.
He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.”
He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs.
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.”
You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.
“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.”
You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh.
“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble.
“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.”
“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.”
“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says.
You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying.
“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.”
“Aaron.”
“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.”
You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.”
“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown.
You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.”
His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.”
“Aaron!” you laugh.
“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.”
“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased.
“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.”
“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.
“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips.
“I don’t know.”
“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.”
“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.”
You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask.
He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.”
“You said you weren’t getting any younger.”
“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze.
”You said it.”
“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.”
“I’m glad you asked me.”
You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now.
“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders.
He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress.
“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.”
“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.”
He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”
You shush him quickly.
He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.”
“And you can make me feel even better.”
His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear.
—
Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast.
The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast.
Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind.
“Are you eating that one?” you ask.
Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?”
“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”
“You could’ve made dad cook.”
“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?”
“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?”
“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.”
Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.”
“Did you eat?” you ask.
He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.”
“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says.
He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour.
“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.”
“I thought Miss Jareau went?”
“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.”
“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks.
You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.
“Hey,” Aaron says.
You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw.
“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe.
Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?”
“I didn’t take any, sorry.”
“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says.
“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.
“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.”
He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text.
Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal
Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding?
Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that
Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless.
Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette
Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right?
Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online.
Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D
The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆
thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️
also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner x y/n#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner blurb#aaron hotchner drabble#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fanfiction#hotch x reader#hotch#hotch x you#hotch blurb#hotch drabble#criminal minds
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Don't Look at Me Like That [18+]
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader. Summary: You get stuck in an awkward position in a very tight space and Bucky's dick decides it's a good time to get hard. Themes/Warning: Comedy Smut, forced proximity. Oral sex - Male Receiving. Guided Deep throating. A/N: Hah......to have your throat ruined by bucky ;_;
@classicrebound can you guess what inspired this? LOL
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Bucky groaned as the door of the janitor’s closet clicked shut, trapping the two of you inside.
The Avengers’ compound was massive—thousands of square feet of pristine, state-of-the-art design, but you and Bucky had somehow found yourselves stuck in the one claustrophobic, cramped janitor’s closet with a broken door handle.
“Move your stupid foot,” you muttered, glaring up at him.
“I can’t move anywhere, doll. There’s no room,” he snapped back, looking like he was trying very hard not to elbow you in the face as he shifted.
He wasn’t lying. There was barely enough space for one person, let alone two. Your shoulders were pressed against shelves full of cleaning supplies, and your knees were almost touching the floor, awkwardly bent as you knelt in front of Bucky.
“Why didn’t you wait until I finished grabbing the damn broom?” he complained, glowering down at you.
“Because I needed it!” You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “You were taking forever, and— Look, I’m sorry, okay? Just… help me up.”
Bucky tried shifting again, but with the tight space and the way your body was jammed into the corner, it was impossible. “You’re wedged in there like a sardine. I’m gonna have to—”
“Just move!” you snapped, tugging at his belt for leverage.
The sudden force made him stumble forward. You yelped as his hips knocked into you, and you lost your balance, falling forward—right into the worst possible position imaginable.
“Whoa—! What the hell?” Bucky’s voice came out in a strangled yelp as you braced yourself on his thighs, your face now directly level with his crotch. You looked up at him, scowling.
“I swear, Barnes, if you don’t—”
But the words died on your lips when you met his gaze. His chest heaved with the effort of keeping his balance, and his hands hovered uncertainty in the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. The tension in his face slowly turned into something else as he looked down at you.
You blinked up at him, your annoyance fading as his expression shifted. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and you could feel the air change between you—growing thicker, heavier.
“Bucky…?” you asked, voice softening as you looked up at him, noticing his breathing had gone ragged.
He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat working visibly.
“Doll,” he managed to croak out, his voice strained.
“What?” You frowned, looking at him in confusion.
“I—” He glanced down at you, his gaze darting to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. His nostrils flared, and he shifted awkwardly. “You… gotta stop looking at me like that.”
You furrowed your brow. “Like what?”
“Like—” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before looking down at you again, his cheeks flushed. “Like you’re about to… you know.”
Your eyes widened, and it took a second for his words to register.
“Wait… What?! I’m not—!” You pulled back slightly, trying to put distance between you, but it only made things worse.
Because that’s when you noticed it. The growing, unmistakable bulge in his jeans, right in front of your face.
“Oh my God, Bucky,” you gasped, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. “Are you— Are you getting hard right now?!”
His face flushed crimson. “I— No! I mean— I don’t know! You’re the one kneeling in front of me like— like—”
“Like what, Barnes?” you demanded, eyes narrowing. “Like I’m about to— Oh my God!”
You threw your hands up in frustration, accidentally brushing against his thighs in the process. His breath hitched, and you pulled your hands back like you’d been burned.
“Stop it!”
“I’m trying!” he hissed back, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “You’re making it worse, dammit!”
“What do you mean I’m making it worse?” you snapped, staring up at him in disbelief. “You’re the one getting turned on in a janitor’s closet!”
“I’m not doing it on purpose!” he growled, his hands flexing at his sides. “You keep looking up at me like that, and I— I don’t know, okay? It just— happens!”
“Stop saying it happens!” you squeaked, your face heating up as you looked at the bulge right in front of you. “Just— make it go away!”
“I can’t!” Bucky barked, his eyes wild with frustration. “I’m not a damn magician!”
“Then just think of something!” you snapped, voice rising. “Think of— of— I don’t know, dead puppies or—”
“That’s not helping!” he yelled, his voice cracking in a way that would have been hilarious if it weren’t for the very real problem growing in front of you.
“Then stop thinking about me!” you shouted back, your voice a panicked whisper.
“You think I’m doing this on purpose?” His eyes narrowed, his gaze dark and dangerous. “I can’t stop it, okay? It’s a reflex!”
“Reflex?!” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “What kind of reflex?”
“The kind that happens when someone’s looking up at you like they’re about to—” He cut himself off with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face. “God, this is the worst.”
“I’m not looking at you like that!” you protested, shaking your head furiously. “I’m looking at you like you’re a goddamn idiot!”
“Well, your face is saying something else!” he shot back.
“What’s it saying?” you demanded.
“Like you’re about to— I don’t know—” He faltered, his eyes darting down to your lips and then back up. “Like you want to—”
“Oh my God, stop it!” You covered your face with your hands, utterly mortified. “Just— Stop getting turned on, okay?!”
“I’m not trying to!” he groaned, dropping his head back against the wall. “Christ, do you think I want to be stuck in a closet with a hard-on right now?”
“Then do something about it!” you yelled, glaring up at him.
“I can’t just tell it to go away!” he yelled back.
“Then tell yourself to go away!” you shouted.
“Where the hell am I gonna go, Y/N?!” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “We’re stuck in a goddamn closet!”
The two of you fell silent, glaring at each other. Bucky was breathing hard, his chest heaving with every breath, and you were trying very hard not to look at the problem that was still very much in your line of sight.
“This is insane,” you finally muttered, shaking your head. “Just— take deep breaths or something. Think. . .Think of Steve in a Speedo!”
Bucky made a face. “Why would I think of Steve in a Speedo?”
“Because it’ll kill the mood!” you shot back. “Just do it!”
Bucky sighed heavily but nodded. He closed his eyes, muttering to himself as he took slow, deep breaths. “Steve… in a Speedo… Steve… in a Speedo…”
You waited, watching his face closely. After a few long moments, his shoulders relaxed slightly, and his breathing steadied. He opened one eye and glanced down at you.
“Better?” you asked cautiously.
“Yeah.” He let out a long, relieved breath. “Better.”
“Good.” You nodded. “Great. So, can we get out of here now?”
“I’ll try the door again,” he muttered, reaching for the handle. But when he moved, he shifted just slightly forward—and the bulge that was supposed to be gone brushed against your shoulder.
You froze.
Bucky’s eyes flew open.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you shrieked. “Bucky, stop it!”
“I can’t!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the tiny closet.
“Why can’t you just—”
“I don’t know! You’re the one who’s all— all down there, and—”
“Stop saying I’m down here like I’m doing something else!” you screamed back, face burning. “Just— I don’t know— stop thinking about my face!”
“I’m trying!” he yelled back. “But you keep looking up at me like—”
“Like what?!” you demanded. “Like I want to blow you or something?!”
“Yes!” he shouted, then slapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening in horror.
The closet fell silent.
You stared up at him, mouth hanging open in shock. “Bucky… did you just—”
“I didn’t mean—!” he spluttered, turning even redder. “I mean— I just— Oh God—”
“Oh my God, this is— This is the worst,” you whispered, covering your face with your hands again. “This is literally the worst.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, sounding utterly miserable. “It really is.”
The two of you sat there in stunned silence, the reality of the situation sinking in. Bucky was still very much hard, you were still very much kneeling, and neither of you could move an inch.
“…So, how long do you think it’s gonna take for this to… y’know… go away?” you asked hesitantly, still crouched awkwardly on your knees. You shifted a little, trying to get comfortable, but every slight movement made your face closer to the obvious problem in Bucky’s jeans.
“I don’t know, okay?” Bucky muttered, his voice dripping with frustration. “Just… don’t look at it.”
“Look at what?” you asked innocently.
“My… my—DICK.” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as if to gather his composure. “Just… stop looking at my dick!”
You blinked up at him, eyes wide with feigned confusion. “I’m not looking at anything.”
“Yes, you are!” Bucky hissed, gesturing at his crotch. “You’re staring right at it, doll. I can feel your eyes on me.”
You glanced at the bulge again and then back up to his flushed face.
“Oh, this?” you asked, pointing at it like it was a random spot on his jeans. “Sorry. Didn’t realise I was staring.”
“Y/N…” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.
“What?” You shrugged, doing your best to keep a straight face. “It’s kind of hard to not notice, y’know?”
“Just—” Bucky exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his metal fingers. “Just stop. Stop looking at the dick. Stop talking about it. Just… stop it.”
“Fine, fine.” You nodded and turned your head away, doing your best to ignore his predicament. But after a few seconds of awkward silence, your eyes involuntarily drifted back.
And there it was—still very much… present.
“Y/N!” Bucky growled, his voice strained. “Stop looking at it!”
“I’m sorry!” you blurted out, throwing your hands up in a helpless gesture. “It’s just— it’s right there, and it’s not going away!”
“Well, you’re not helping by staring!” he snapped, his voice a mix of irritation and something else—something that sounded suspiciously like desperation.
“Okay, well, maybe…” You hesitated, biting your lip as you considered your options. This was already the most awkward situation you’d ever been in, but if it wasn’t going away…
“Maybe what?” Bucky demanded, narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously. “Don’t even—”
“Maybe I should just…” You waved your hand in a vague motion, indicating the space in front of you. “Y’know… help or something?”
Bucky’s entire body went rigid.
“Help?” he repeated slowly, his voice barely a whisper.
You nodded, feeling a wicked smile tug at the corners of your lips. “Yeah… I mean, it’s not going away, right? So maybe if I just—”
“And what?!” Bucky interrupted, looking both horrified and intrigued. “What are you saying, Y/N?”
“And maybe if I…” You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek suggestively, your eyes dropping down to the bulge again. You heard Bucky’s breath hitch, and you had to suppress a grin as his gaze darkened.
“Don’t,” he warned, his voice a low growl. “Don’t you dare.”
You tilted your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “What? I’m just trying to help. You said you couldn’t get rid of it, so…”
“So what?!” Bucky’s voice was almost hysterical now, and he shifted on his feet still not knowing what to do with his hands. “You think— You think you can just—”
“I mean…” You leaned in slightly, your cheek brushing against his thigh as you moved closer, your lips dangerously close to the outline of his jeans. “If it’ll get us out of here faster…”
“Y/N, don’t.” Bucky’s voice was strained, his hands coming up to hover uncertainty in the air as if he wanted to push you away but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. “I’m serious. This isn’t—”
“Isn’t what?” You raised an eyebrow, pressing your tongue against your cheek again in that infuriatingly suggestive way. “What do you want me to do, Bucky?”
“Not that!” he blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. “Just— Jesus, Y/N—”
“What?” You tilted your head, batting your lashes up at him. “It’s not going away on its own. And you said it’s my fault, right?”
Bucky groaned, his head dropping back against the wall with a soft thunk. “You’re gonna drive me insane, you know that?”
You bit back a laugh.
“So, should I…?” You trailed off, your eyes flicking pointedly to his crotch again.
“No,” he growled, his jaw clenching.
“Just trying to be helpful,” you murmured, smirking up at him.
“Helpful, my ass,” he muttered, but his gaze dropped to your lips, and his expression softened for just a split second.
You tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into a mischievous smile. “You sure you don’t want my help, Sergeant?”
His breath hitched again, and for a second, you thought he might actually say yes. But then he shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut.
“No,” he muttered, his voice rough. “No, I— We’re not doing this. Not here.”
You sighed dramatically, sitting back on your heels. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
Bucky let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you.”
“But you know…” You leaned in again, your breath ghosting over the front of his jeans as you looked up at him with a wicked grin. “If you change your mind—”
“Y/N!” he groaned, his voice breaking. “I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” You grinned, thoroughly enjoying his torment. “Push me away?”
“I—” He faltered, his gaze darting down to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “I—”
“Didn’t think so,” you murmured, pressing your tongue against your cheek one last time. He let out a tortured groan, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“You’re evil,” Bucky muttered, his voice low and rough.
“And you’re still hard,” you teased, eyes drifting down to the very obvious bulge in his jeans.
“Yeah, well, whose fault is that?” he shot back, his voice strained, his gaze boring down at you.
You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Guess you’ll just have to suffer, then.”
Bucky let out a long, tortured breath, his head falling back against the wall. His shoulders heaved as he struggled to keep himself under control. It was endearing, really—seeing the big, bad Winter Soldier at a loss for words, his composure unravelling inch by inch.
“I— I mean it, Y/N.” His voice was a mix of a plea and a warning now, and you felt a rush of satisfaction ripple through you. “Don’t… don’t mess with me like this.”
“Mess with you?” you murmured softly, leaning closer, the space between you narrowing. “Who said I was messing with you?”
He stilled, his jaw clenching as you brushed your cheek against the front of his jeans. You heard him suck in a breath, and when you tilted your head up to look at him, you saw the raw, unfiltered desire in his eyes.
“Doll…” He swallowed hard, his voice coming out rough and gravelly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” you asked, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. “Like I’m about to do this?”
Before he could fake his protest, you reached up, your fingers lightly tracing the outline of his length firmly through his jeans. Bucky let out a low groan, his hips jerking at the contact.
“Shit,” he hissed, his head falling back against the wall.
You hummed softly, applying more grip to the fabric. He was so thick and hard beneath the denim, and the heat of him seared through the fabric. You ran your thumb along his length, pressing against the tip slightly, and Bucky let out a ragged moan, his hips twitching again.
“Want more, Sergeant?” you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes. “Want me to touch you properly?”
“Jesus—Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his voice breathless, “Just do it.”
With your deft fingers you unbuckled his belt, unzipping his jeans, pulling down freeing him from the constraint of his clothing. He sprang free, thick and hard, the tip flushed and glistening. You wrapped your hand around him, though your hand couldn’t fully envelope him.
“God, you’re big,” you murmured softly, giving a slow stroke from base to tip. Bucky shuddered, a low, needy moan escaping his lips.
“Doll, I—” His voice was rough and breathless, his hands hovering at his sides, watching you. “Just like that. Nice and slow. I want to feel every inch of your hand.”
“Yeah? Does it feel good?” you murmured, gripping him with your other hand. You ran your thumb over the sensitive head, smearing the precum that had gathered there, and Bucky let out a ragged groan, his hips bucking involuntarily.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, his hand sliding down to your chin, tilting your head up further. “Look up at me, doll. Want to see those eyes on me while you make me feel so fucking good.”
You stared up at him, your gaze locking onto his as your hands continued to pump his hardened length, your hand slick with precum as you moved faster, firmer. Bucky let out a choked moan, his hips thrusting into your grip as he lost himself in the sensation.
“Like that, Sergeant?” you asked softly, twisting your wrist at the end of each stroke. “You can’t even fit in my hands.”
“God, yes—” he muttered, “Your hand feels so fucking good. But you know what I really want?”
You raised an eyebrow, your lips parting slightly as you looked up at him. “What’s that, Sergeant?”
“I wanna feel that mouth on me,” He murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip before gently pressing it into your mouth, your eyes locked with his as you slowly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking it seductively, “I want to come into your mouth and you swallow every drop of me.”
“Mhm, yes please.” You moaned softly, your breath hitching as his words sent a rush of heat straight to your core, making you undeniably wet under your skirt.
“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower. “You like that, huh? Like the idea of me using that pretty mouth? You gonna let me fuck that throat until it hurts, doll?”
“Hmm…” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of him before pulling back, your gaze never leaving his. “Yes can you fuck my mouth good, Sergeant?”
“Holy shit—”
You leaned forward again, your lips brushing against his tip as you gave him a slow, teasing lick. Bucky’s hips jerked involuntarily again, as he was not expecting this, accidentally forcing his cock further into your mouth. You just smiled around him and worked on the head of his cock, the tip of your tongue tracing the grooves of the head of his penis. You slurped your way to the tip and suckled on the head for a minute, keeping him in your mouth as you nursed on it. You worked your way down to his balls, and took one and then the other in your mouth, and started the whole thing again.
You weren't even sucking him and he felt like he was about to scream.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Just like that…”
You took your time with him, lavishing attention on his tip with soft licks and teasing strokes of your tongue. Every time you flicked your tongue over that sensitive spot just beneath the head, Bucky let out a low, desperate sound, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
“Y/N,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. “More… need more…”
You wrapped your lips around his tip, sucking gently as your hand continued to stroke his length. Bucky let out a choked moan, his fingers twitching in the air as if he was fighting the urge to grab you.
“God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he muttered, his head falling back against the wall. “. . . you’re gonna make me lose it—”
You glanced up at him, your eyes locking onto his as you slowly took him deeper into your mouth, your lips stretching around him. Your jaw widened and you pressed forward, letting him slide along your tongue. When Bucky hits the top of your throat, you paused.
His fingers itched to take the back of your head and shove his way inside, but he let you do this. You knew what he wanted, and he needed to see how far you would go to give it to him. You widen your thighs, changing the angle, and relax your throat muscles enough for him to slip in.
“That’s it,” Bucky crooned. “I will let you breathe in a moment. Eyes on me, baby.”
Your wide, almost panicked gaze met his and he saw the fear and determination. It made his dick pulse, and he gave a short thrust of his hips to tunnel deeper. You worked together for a few seconds until he was fully inside, exactly where he wanted to stay.
“Relax,” Bucky instructed. “Don’t pull off.”
Tears gathered and spilled over your lashes, the most beautiful sight Bucky’s ever seen. His cock filled your mouth and throat, your lips pressed to his pelvic bone.
“Swallow, Y/N.”
Your throat muscles worked, squeezing him, and he gasped. “Oh fuck,” He moaned, pulling back so you could take in air.
After a few seconds, he lifted a brow in question, asking silently if you were ready, and you nodded once. This time Bucky didn’t wait, unable to keep from grasping your head and ramming his cock in your throat. When he was as deep as he could go, he held there, loving the way you looked on your knees, suffering to make him feel good.
Bucky could feel the orgasm building, his balls growing tight and heavy, the need to empty his seed in your mouth. You saw it in his face, swallowing twice, then again, trying to force his come from his body, and the idea of it was so hot that he began roughly fucking your mouth.
Every third or fourth stroke went in your throat, and he was like a man possessed. It was so much better than he imagines, your sweet tongue rubbing the underside while your lips pulled to give him suction. Like you couldn’t wait to drink him down.
You let him set the pace, your eyes locked onto him as his movements become more erratic and desperate. His cock was sliding in and out of your mouth like an oiled piston, and the suction noises you created were squelching into the room. You held yourself steady, hands holding onto Bucky’s ass, while his hips moved faster, his grip tightening as he chased his release. His mouth hang open while ragged gasps escape past his lips and his moans filled the tiny closet, raw and needy and desperate.
“I am going to shoot all over your mouth,” Bucky panted.
You moaned in your throat as if you liked the idea, and the sound vibrated along his shaft. The thin threads of his self-control snapped and his balls sizzled with the impending orgasm. Pulling out of your mouth, Bucky fisted his cock as he aimed his spurting cock into your waiting mouth, thick jets erupted in pulses, his come pooling at the back of your mouth, coating your lips and chin. You sat patiently, taking it, letting him paint you with his release, and Bucky snarled in satisfaction, wishing he could drown you more in his come. When he finished it dripped off your chin and onto the floor.
“Fuck,” Bucky said, slumping against the wall. “I wish I could keep you like this. Just like this, baby. At my feet, covered in my come.”
Swallowing, you grinned, you licked your lips, tasting the thick mess. “Yum.”
Wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb as you sit back on your heels. "Glad I could help, Sergeant," you murmured, your voice soft and teasing as you licked your lips, making sure to savour every last drop.
#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes imagines#bucky barnes x f!reader#winter solider x reader#winter soldier x you#winter soldier x y/n#james bucky barnes#james barnes x y/n#james barnes x reader#james barnes#sebastian stan x you#sebastian stan fanfiction#sebastian stan characters#sebastian stan x reader#winter soldier smut
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The Ocean Sciences Building at the University of Washington in Seattle is a brightly modern, four-story structure, with large glass windows reflecting the bay across the street.
On the afternoon of July 7, 2016, it was being slowly locked down.
Red lights began flashing at the entrances as students and faculty filed out under overcast skies. Eventually, just a handful of people remained inside, preparing to unleash one of the most destructive forces in the natural world: the crushing weight of about 2½ miles of ocean water.
In the building’s high-pressure testing facility, a black, pill-shaped capsule hung from a hoist on the ceiling. About 3 feet long, it was a scale model of a submersible called Cyclops 2, developed by a local startup called OceanGate. The company’s CEO, Stockton Rush, had cofounded the company in 2009 as a sort of submarine charter service, anticipating a growing need for commercial and research trips to the ocean floor. At first, Rush acquired older, steel-hulled subs for expeditions, but in 2013 OceanGate had begun designing what the company called “a revolutionary new manned submersible.” Among the sub’s innovations were its lightweight hull, which was built from carbon fiber and could accommodate more passengers than the spherical cabins traditionally used in deep-sea diving. By 2016, Rush’s dream was to take paying customers down to the most famous shipwreck of them all: the Titanic, 3,800 meters below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.
Engineers carefully lowered the Cyclops 2 model into the testing tank nose-first, like a bomb being loaded into a silo, and then screwed on the tank’s 3,600-pound lid. Then they began pumping in water, increasing the pressure to mimic a submersible’s dive. If you’re hanging out at sea level, the weight of the atmosphere above you exerts 14.7 pounds per square inch (psi). The deeper you go, the stronger that pressure; at the Titanic’s depth, the pressure is about 6,500 psi. Soon, the pressure gauge on UW’s test tank read 1,000 psi, and it kept ticking up—2,000 psi, 5,000 psi. At about the 73-minute mark, as the pressure in the tank reached 6,500 psi, there was a sudden roar and the tank shuddered violently.
“I felt it in my body,” an OceanGate employee wrote in an email later that night. “The building rocked, and my ears rang for a long time.”
“Scared the shit out of everyone,” he added.
The model had imploded thousands of meters short of the safety margin OceanGate had designed for.
In the high-stakes, high-cost world of crewed submersibles, most engineering teams would have gone back to the drawing board, or at least ordered more models to test. Rush’s company didn’t do either of those things. Instead, within months, OceanGate began building a full-scale Cyclops 2 based on the imploded model. This submersible design, later renamed Titan, eventually made it down to the Titanic in 2021. It even returned to the site for expeditions the next two years. But nearly one year ago, on June 18, 2023, Titan dove to the infamous wreck and imploded, instantly killing all five people onboard, including Rush himself.
The disaster captivated and horrified the world. Deep-sea experts criticized OceanGate’s choices, from Titan’s carbon-fiber construction to Rush’s public disdain for industry regulations, which he believed stifled innovation. Organizations that had worked with OceanGate, including the University of Washington as well as the Boeing Company, released statements denying that they contributed to Titan.
A trove of tens of thousands of internal OceanGate emails, documents, and photographs provided exclusively to WIRED by anonymous sources sheds new light on Titan’s development, from its initial design and manufacture through its first deep-sea operations. The documents, validated by interviews with two third-party suppliers and several former OceanGate employees with intimate knowledge of Titan, reveal never-before-reported details about the design and testing of the submersible. They show that Boeing and the University of Washington were both involved in the early stages of OceanGate’s carbon-fiber sub project, although their work did not make it into the final Titan design. The trove also reveals a company culture in which employees who questioned their bosses’ high-speed approach and decisions were dismissed as overly cautious or even fired. (The former employees who spoke to WIRED have asked not to be named for fear of being sued by the families of those who died aboard the vessel.) Most of all, the documents show how Rush, blinkered by his own ambition to be the Elon Musk of the deep seas, repeatedly overstated OceanGate’s progress and, on at least one occasion, outright lied about significant problems with Titan’s hull, which has not been previously reported.
A representative for OceanGate, which ceased all operations last summer, declined to comment on WIRED’s findings.
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Speaking of breed standards, would you be able to give me some context on what the heck is up with the German Shepherd "stack"? I see a lot of GSD owners saying it's breed standard and therefore fine, but the slant looks so extreme in some dogs that I have some skepticism about it (and also because, of course, breed standards have nothing to do with animal health).
This is a pretty hot button issue and you’re right that there is a ton of bickering back and forth about it online. I’m happy to share my thoughts, but keep in mind that as a veterinarian I am biased towards function over form. I care way more about if a dog can do the things it wants/needs to do than how it looks. I won’t get into it here but I actually have real qualms with the distinction between “working line” and “show line” in some breeds.
My quick takeaway opinion- There are several orthopedic issues in the German Shepherd dog (specifically show lines) that have likely been exacerbated if not entirely caused by breeders striving for the classic “sloped back” look that is considered breed standard.
Now that being said, it is a fact that the three point stack (how a dog is positioned when standing) greatly exaggerates the angulation of the back and hind legs. You will often see comparison images like this one that show a dog in stack versus standing square and you can clearly see the top line looks more sloped when the dog is stacked. This image is from a GSD subreddit, a pretty dog here nicely demonstrating how the stance can change the appearance of the top line.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b81973cfe0342e476a69c42b64a793af/2cf0dc5a38913030-17/s500x750/c69592130240c2543a6ed9b9ba70ec93c1a37b03.jpg)
This phenomenon is what certain hardline GSD breed standard loyalists will point to when discussing this issue. They posit that the sloped back is essentially an optical illusion caused by aesthetic posing, and therefore a German Shepherd is no more prone to orthopedic problems than any other large breed dog. This is where I disagree.
You can easily find stark examples of a poorly put together dog in any breed or mixed breed out there, so when discussing my concerns with the GSD I will only use photos of titled dogs that are accomplished within the show ring. These are not random backyard bred shepherds, but champion dogs from acclaimed lines that will almost certainly be bred to pass on their genes. When breed clubs like the AKC award these dogs as exemplars of the breed, they tacitly endorse the conformation issues I’m about to discuss. So my beef is not with German shepherds or dog breeds in general, but specifically with breed clubs that refuse to examine whether their standard harms animals. An important disclaimer, not every breed club is like this and many take health concerns extremely seriously.
Dogs have a very different limb anatomy and gait to humans and a healthy dog is meant to walk on their paw pads. The “ankle” or hock should be upright and angled as you can see here in this nice-looking champion shepherd from 1902.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/31481035242a601d202913a453571d08/2cf0dc5a38913030-ec/s500x750/e0447264bd26bd5c35f69fa7d480a8c60160ac3b.jpg)
German shepherds can sometimes have a problem that is colloquially called “dropped hocks” where that joint is abnormally loose and in more serious cases can even be touching the ground, which is completely abnormal and something I would consider a serious physical flaw. A dog having dropped hocks/tarsal hyperflexion like this is proven to cause medical issues for these dog, but unfortunately the sinking joints also help to give the dog that “classic” sloping look that breed clubs love.
This dog “Ch Kysarah's Pot of Gold” won best of breed at the National dog show in 2015. You can see his hock is literally flat on the ground even when not stacked
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9ae5c62a4fe73355cb69f71607a221a9/2cf0dc5a38913030-cc/s540x810/3fb30bf3cfa91b4a867378a0ddb291e08ad9b009.jpg)
And it’s not just one dog. Here is another champion dog (Cruaghaire Catoria), who got some controversy for winning best of breed at Crufts in 2016 despite an extremely abnormal gait.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e67f1e61a98393c26b7368c841593e60/2cf0dc5a38913030-d5/s540x810/e72a492f749af6422f4790667084e6eef1f2fc25.jpg)
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/2fa5033279eb6c0ac8196f32f840cff3/2cf0dc5a38913030-e2/s540x810/4b6a317bb5d447d8f991cea57f298ac88f015938.jpg)
Perhaps we could excuse the low hocks when the dog is standing as being the result of the stack, but it is glaringly obvious when she moves that this is no trick of her positioning. Her entire tarsus rests on the floor as she runs and in close ups you can even see bald patches there to suggest this is a “normal” gait for her. In this video, the announcers agree that this is the ideal gait for a shepherd. If I saw this gait in a friend’s dog I’d politely express my concerns for long term mobility issues and recommend an orthopedic consultation. To see it win best of breed is galling to say the least.
And lest you think the problem has been solved, here’s another from the National Dog Show in 2023
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/77a76035931c278c8b203c331fdbfe2f/2cf0dc5a38913030-3b/s540x810/bbb8e7ae76710700c95ce001060895f040cc3494.jpg)
None of these dogs could charge athletically into a field and effectively herd sheep. If we are prioritizing aesthetic over function to the degree that a dog cannot do what it was bred to do, or more importantly that it cannot do the simple things that dogs love to do, then we have veered unforgivably off course. Not to put too fine a point on it but what the fuck is the point of a breed standard if it impedes the dog’s function in any way? We have no right. German shepherds are an incredible breed of dog that have stood by us humans in some of our darkest moments; I think the breeders and kennel clubs who claim to love them the most should work harder to ensure the “champion” dogs they are producing can live long pain-free lives. If we have to adjust our notion of what the breed is “supposed” to look like then so fucking be it.
This is too long already so I’m not getting into hip dysplasia, DM, carpal laxity, elbow dysplasia or other conditions that exist in the breed. If German shepherd clubs want to distance themselves from the notion that their breed standard is causing problems with canine health then they will need to stop publicly lavishing awards on dogs with medically concerning gait issues and start focusing on breeding dogs that can run around a ring without causing even the most casual of onlookers to realize “something’s not right there”
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CAVE CANEM #oneshot #squidgame #thefrontman
Cave canem. Beware of dogs. In the ruthless games, there are countless hounds looking for prey. Oh Young-Il promises to be your shield, your shepherd, your guardian angel— but you soon find out that it’s often the unassuming ones who are the most dangerous.
feat. the frontman / hwang in-ho / oh young-il ⎯⎯ wc. 2.5k
cw: female reader, yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, manipulation, squid game spoilers, i’ll use all of his names & nicknames here so don’t get confused, i do not condone yanderes irl, no beta we die like all 455 players in season 1
I.
It’s funny how tragedy brings people together.
It has only been twenty two hours since you entered the twisted battle royale with 45.6 billion won dangled on top of you, but you’ve found companionship in fellow participants: Player 456 Seong Gi-hun, Player 388 Kang Dae-ho, Player 390 Park Jung-bae, and Player 001.
Oh, Player 001.
“How are your wounds?”
You look up to see Player 001 — or, as he introduced himself to you, Oh Young-il. His eyes gleam in worry as he takes in your appearance: hair disheveled, knee bruised, sleeves rolled up to reveal the scratches littering your hands.
You’re just glad you didn’t get killed during the Red Light, Green Light stampede.
“This is nothing,” you assured him with a genuine smile, “thank you for helping me.”
Young-il pauses. Then, as if remembering something, he reaches into his pockets and hands you a small carton of milk. “Here. You must be dehydrated.” He watches as you gratefully take it, instantly drinking the contents, “Don’t worry about the next game. We’ll get through it together.”
Tears are brimming in your eyes at the kind man’s encouragement. You let him take your hand and nod at him, smiling. “Thank you, Young-il-ssi.”
Young-il gives you one last smile before climbing back down to rejoin the rest of the group. His movements alerts Jung-bae, who mindlessly throws a glance his way.
Jung-bae instantly pauses. He knew from the start that Player 001 is not a simple man, but the expression on Young-il’s face is nothing short of terrifying, like a tiger eyeing its’ prey. He follows Young-il’s line of sight and finds you, curled on one of the beds.
A chill runs down his spine.
II.
You don’t know how you got through the Six-Legged Pentathlon, but you did.
Chosen as the one to play ddakji — it’s not like you sucked at it, but you were scared you would be a burden to your teammates — your hands couldn’t stop trembling.
The squares of ddakji felt like rocks in your hand, your shoulders heavy by the fear of dragging everyone down. Their encouragement and cheers merely heightened your anxiety.
That was, until a hand gently clasps your own. “Don’t think too much about it. You said you won more times than the ddakji guy, didn’t you?” Young-il’s eyes twinkle, his shoulders lax, as if he’s not currently playing for his life, “Well, you won’t receive slaps if you fail, so go wild.” It’s amazing how he manages to silence all your fears.
You flipped the ddakji on your first try.
III.
In-ho knew it from the start, but the reality of it still disgusts him. Humans are selfish creatures, blinded by greed, driven by instincts.
He sighs, looking at the results of the vote— 139 for ‘O’ and 116 for ‘X’. One hundred and thirty nine people marching to their own deaths like brainless maggots.
He sneaks a glance your way and sees that you’re shuddering. His heart drops to the pits of his stomach. Slipping away from Gi-hun, he makes his way to you. He keeps on surprising himself: joining Player 456 in the games, cheering with the others during the pentathlon, and now comforting you?
But In-ho is not one to ruminate over his actions too much. He knows what he wants, he gets what he wants, and right now all he wants is to hold you in his arms.
“Young-il,” your eyes instantly land on his and he wonders how it will feel to hear you call him by his real name, “I’m scared. I’m so scared, I don’t want to die!”
He’s beside you the next second, catching you before you can fall to the ground, strong arms wrapped securely on your waist. In-ho falters for a fraction of a second, but his hand quickly shoots up to caress your hair.
Receiving the kindest act for the first time in many years, you can’t help but to cry in his warm embrace, letting out all your frustration and fear. His touches are so tender, so serene, and being enveloped in his tall figure makes you feel protected.
In-ho calms your sobs with gentle shushes, rubbing circles on your back. He was unsure then, but his heart is determined now— he wants you, he’s got to have you, and there’s nothing under the seven heavens that will stop him.
He shudders at the thought of having you all to himself. In-ho can barely control himself right now, when you fit so good in his arms, your skin brushing against his. What would it feel like? To have you next to him every second of every day? He’d shower you with all of him— all his riches, all his affection, all his time.
First, the two of you will have to exit the game safely.
His grip on you tightens as he lifts his gaze from your trembling figure to the several pink guards stationed near the door. In the distance, they straighten their posture in alarm.
Even among the many faces of the players, they can locate their boss in a heartbeat — the Front Man is still the Front Man, even if he’s amusing himself by playing dress up. The way he carries himself is so telling, they have no idea how the players are none the wiser to the wolf hiding amongst the sheep.
... And right now, their superior’s glare speaks volumes about what he’s conveying.
A warning.
IV.
‘One more game,’ they said, ‘it’ll be fun,’ they said.
The rotating stage under your feet is spinning at a controlled pace, yet you feel like you’re going to throw up. The light feels blinding, the gasps from the participants making your head spin even more.
Amidst all the chaos, Young-il’s hand clasping yours serves as an anchor.
“You okay?” His voice is as gentle as ever, unworried.
Even Gi-hun, the former winner of the games, is not exempt to the anxiety and apprehension that shadows the rest of them, but Young-il has never showed any signs of stress— like he has a safety net... or like he’s very sure of his own abilities.
You nod, grateful that he’s allowed you to stick by him like glue all this time. He squeezes your hand in encouragement, smiling.
“Two.” The woman’s voice announces cheerily. In an instant, the crowd erupts in disarray.
Young-il looks around. “Stick close to me,” he murmurs before pulling you with him towards one of the rooms. Not wanting to be a burden to him, you quickly fall in line, matching his steps. His back is very comforting as he cleverly navigates the chaotic hall, avoiding the other players.
Just when the two of you reached the door, a player appears, crashing into the two of you and sending you tumbling away from Young-il. Your world spins as you struggle to pick yourself up, searching for him.
Thankfully, you locate him almost immediately. A few steps away from the door, Young-il is strangling your attacker. “Get in! I’ll be right behind you!”
Fueled by adrenaline, you nod frantically, moving to enter the room. But there’s already another person inside.
True to his word, Young-il quickly scrambles to the room, slamming the door behind him. He immediately takes note of the anomaly, his expression dark.
“I-I was here first!” The stranger sputtered, shuffling away from Young-il.
There are loud bangs coming from the other side of the door and you quickly hold onto the lock, tears now falling from your eyes. “Sorry!” You yell, ”Sorry!”
“Five. Four. Three.” The countdown continues mercilessly.
You look back, “The other guy—!” but your words are caught in your throat.
Young-il has the man in a chokehold. For a moment you had no idea why he’s handling the guy so aggressively when it’s obvious that he’s more scared of the two of you than the two of you are of him.
“Two.”
“Young-il!”
“One.”
CRACK!
You scream. The man slips from Young-il’s hold, limp.
Lifeless.
Young-il’s gaze meets yours. There’s an emotion you can’t quite place on them, but it’s quickly replaced by that of horror. “I-I had to do it.” Tears start to brim on the corner of his eyes, his hands visibly shaking, “I had to-” he desperately crawls away from the dead man as he covers his face in terror, “I’m a monster, I-”
Crying, you kneel next to him, pulling him into an embrace, “No, you’re not,” assuring him in between sobs, “it’s this game, it’s the game’s doing, it’s not your fault!”
Breath haggard, In-ho rubs your head comfortingly. You didn’t even realize that he has long since stopped crying. He covers your ears, knowing by now that the sound of gunshots horrifies you, and glances at the body of the man he just killed.
You watched him kill one guy and you get this rattled? He sighs quietly.
For you, he would kill a thousand more.
V, PART ONE.
“Hey girl,” a voice booms from behind you, catching you by surprise.
You let go of your hand that’s holding Young-il’s, turning your head to address the stranger.
“Saw you from afar and I can’t believe I didn’t talk to you sooner.” The purple haired man wastes no time getting into your space, running a hand through his hair. “D’ya know who I am? Because I wanna know who you are.”
You stiffen up. Of course you know him. Who didn’t? The number one ambassador of the ‘O’ team, aka the people who wish to continue the games, the outspoken menace, Thanos.
Thanos catches sight of something behind you and wavers before looking back at you. “A-anyway. I’ll see you around. Team’s always open, baby!” He exclaims, but it’s obvious that he’s trying to hide his nervousness.
You look back to see Young-il smiling at you. “Wonder what that’s about.”
The people here freaks you out. You sigh. “I know, right?”
In-ho hums, his finger treading along the sharp edges of the fork.
V, PART TWO.
The bathroom is a mess— team ‘O’ and team ‘X’, warring against each other, fueled by the actions of a junkie who’s high out of his mind.
In the middle of it all, Hwang In-ho calmly makes his way to a purple haired man who is slumped on the ground, yelling at his friend.
“Get him, get that sucker! He tried to kill me, man!”
A dark shadow looms over Thanos, and he looks up in terror, recognizing In-ho immediately. “W-what are you-?”
In-ho eyes him coldly before swinging down.
The cold gleam of a fork is the last thing Thanos sees before it penetrates his neck.
VI.
The fire of revolution burns bright behind all of you. Your hands may tremble, but your rifle is secure in your arms. All those first person shooter games are finally coming in handy as you manage to actually shoot down several guards.
“You okay?!” Young-il questions in panic, “You’re doing a good job! It’s gonna get more dangerous afterwards, but I can’t leave you behind!”
You nod, reassuring him, following him up the stairs with two other men in tow. Right now, you are brother-in-arms, comrades, fighting for your freedom.
Young-il halts, sensing the presence of a guard, before speaking into the comm, “Gi-hun-ssi, we found it.” he holds out an arm in front of you like a shield, “Start attacking and draw their attention. Then we’ll hit them from behind.”
Your knees tremble in fear and anticipation. Somehow, with Young-il on your side, you feel like this ragtag team of freedom fighters can actually succeed.
“Okay, got it!” Gi-hun’s invigorated reply came from the other side.
Young-il pockets the comm, nodding to the two men. They nod back in response and move forward. He quickly moves in front of you, signaling you to stay behind him.
Just when you thought about how reliable he is, two sharp gunshots resonates in the air.
Is it over?
You peek from behind Young-il’s back only to be met by the horrific sight of Player 015 and Player 047 sprawled on the ground, choking on their own blood.
Young-il’s rifle is still pointed at the two of them, his eyes cold.
Who is this person? You scramble to get away from him, alarm bells ringing in your head. Did he miss his shot? Did I see wrong? Is there a guard in front of him?
“Young-il-ssi, what’s going on?” came Gi-hun’s distressed voice from the comm, “Are you shooting?”
You watch in horror as Young-il calmly reloads his rifle before squatting down and glancing your way. “Gi-hun-ssi, I’m sorry.” Like a seasoned actor, the unscathed Young-il puts on a strained voice, “It’s all over. They got us too.”
Gi-hun’s voice is blurred as you fall to your knees, finally coming into terms with the betrayal of the person you’ve come to trust the most.
Young-il momentarily looks away from you to shoot the two men one more time. Cold, unfeeling, his fingers steady like he’s done this countless times before.
This is not the Young-il you know.
When it’s all over, several pink guards march up to him, a coat and a black mask in tow. Young-il (?) lifts a hand up to stop them, turning to finally address you.
Your breath gets caught in your throat, your fingers desperately trying to locate the trigger on your rifle, but the man in front of you is much quicker. He yanks the rifle from your trembling hands, unloading the bullets and kicking the weapon away as you back away to the wall, shivering in fear.
He sighs, taking the coat from one of the guards before kneeling down to your height. “I won’t hurt you. You know that, right?”
Confused, you can only gape at him. “W-who are you..?”
“Hwang In-ho. My real name.” he offers, tenderly wiping a tear from your cheek, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lie to you. I’ll explain everything, if you’ll just give me a chance..?”
In one swift motion, he wraps his coat around your shoulders. You look at his eyes, as tender and unchanging as ever— then it dawns on you: he has always been this way.
“Mr. Front Man, sir, everything is ready.”
You let In-ho pull you to your feet, his touch as comforting as ever as the two of you pass by countless guards. They make way for the two of you, the hierarchy crystal clear when not one of them dare to step out of line.
You’ve been such a fool. All the signs were there, the reason why Player 001 carries himself with such grace as if he’s untouchable. How the guards say things about ‘not tolerating actions that will disrupt the votes’ and yet kept quiet when it’s Player 001’s turn to speak his mind. The way they would shuffle away from him slightly whenever he walks—
In-ho turns to look at you, his eyes kind, “Do you trust me?”
Yet, you can’t bring yourself to say no.
note: i know i appeared on the dash absolutely losing it over the recruiter/the salesman/ddakji guy (he’ll get his own fic after this don’t worry) but i took one look at this man with his hair down and i fell into a SPIRAL. this is totally a passion project. front man ftw 🙆♀️
#maru writes...#squid game#squid game season 2#squid game x reader#squid game fanfic#squid game frontman#the front man#front man#player 001#hwang in ho#oh young il#young il#in ho x reader#frontman x reader#the frontman x reader#hwang in ho x reader#player 001 x reader#young il x reader#lee byung hun
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