#not two trained soldiers who hang on his every word

[deepouterspacecandy]

Ink and Paper Hearts

I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, and wound up with over 8k words. Sheesh! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being here! Be kind to yourself and others. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes. Angst, fluff, etc.

Raised on a cattle ranch, you spent your early days on horseback tending to the farm and living off the land. When disaster left you orphaned, a ragtag group of survivors embraced you as one of their own. Over time, they had become your family, and together, you’d endure natural disasters, famine, and hordes of infected.

It only took one sweep of malevolent raiders to destroy your home and turn everything you’d ever known to dust. You escaped the attack within an inch of your life.

Isaac was the one who discovered you withering away in an old diner off the freeway, fending off the infected with nothing but your integrity and a baseball bat. His medical team, which accompanied him as they moved between compounds, took care of your recovery, and nursed you back to health.

The leader of the Washington Liberation Front admired any person who possessed the strength to fight and the compassion to care for animals simultaneously, and in exchange for a safe place to lay your head, you promised to do just that.

It was a relinquishment of power; you learned early on. Anything involving Isaac came at a cost. Your bond with him was duty-bound, but he offered you another chance at having a family and a purpose. After being all alone in that desolate place, you’d been more than willing to fall in line.

Still, you were a different person when you first arrived in Seattle.

Some would say naïve. You saw yourself as a practical optimist. Now, you’re not so sure.

It’s truly astonishing how a year of unrelenting conflicts with the Scars can diminish the brightness of your silver lining.

The ability to find distraction in your work is a double-edged sword.

A jack of all trades, you spend most of your time working with the four-legged soldiers of the WLF. You have extremely limited patience for the human variety, on both sides of the fence. You tolerate a handful of your comrades, but between assignments, you’re happiest with your nose in a book, savouring the quiet and escaping into distant realms.

The drive for escapism hasn’t been a difficult undertaking lately.

A group of thirty soldiers left the grounds on assignment last month, and only two returned.

It left the stadium halls quieter, heads hanging lower than what you’d ever witnessed. Interactions that would otherwise leave you with a sunny lilt, instead left you carrying a heaviness that you couldn’t quite shake.

Few civilians choose to dive into surface level banter like they used to and the collective fear and sadness shrouding the compound has kept it that way for some time.

It serves as a reminder that even with extensive training and the most advanced military equipment, tragedy can strike without discrimination.

Unchecked and alone, the infected will forever wander through the shadows, driven by an unending quest to find their next victim. Maybe the same idea is true for all adversaries.

Your primary objective is to ensure the community remains united and intact. If you manage to stay sane, that’s a plus.  

“How are you today, my little sunflower?” Manny asks, mischievously tugging your jacket.

“You better be talking to the dogs.”

“And if I’m not?” he asks, kneeling to offer unlimited ear scratches to the newest litter.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to refer you to every other time you’ve ever asked,” you say, giving the bottom of his boot a kick. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes, he does!”

A woman’s voice booms from the other side of the unit, and Manny forces a smile.

“The bane of my existence.”

You chuckle at his misery, knowing little about his relationship with Abby outside of the kinship they portray in combat and their supposed insufferable roommate arrangement. Something you’re only privy to after running into her after hours at the library as she was trying to catch some shuteye on the couch there.

“Will you quit harassing pretty girls and grab a damn dog already?”

As she approaches, tails of all shapes and sizes wag with incredible speed, exuding pure happiness. You wonder how much time she has spent in the kennels when you’re not around. Isaac has her spearheading every mission from here to Chicago, so you rarely see her. But the dogs never forget a kind face.

You exchange a few pleasantries with Abby before she drags her unenthusiastic partner to work. Manny’s womanizing ways at the stadium serve as a constant reminder of your boundaries in relationships.

You’re safer by yourself.

Abby does seem like a sweetheart, though.

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“We ship out tomorrow morning,” Abby says, handing you an empty canteen and a backpack, a clipboard braced to her side by her white knuckled grasp.

Her abrupt tone makes you jump when it normally wouldn’t. She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, but you suspect she has more important things to worry her mind about. 

“Right,” you nod. “Any idea how long?”

As she’s rushing to complete the next task, your query hits her at the worst possible second, adding to her already teetering stress load. You recognize it a moment too late and your teeth ache at the back of your jaw when she spins on her heel, pinning you with a glare.

“Do you expect a serious answer, or are you just trying to piss me off?”

“No, I—”

“Promises around here are as worthless as the ETA themselves, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Promises? What did that have to do with anything?

“I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

“Anything else I can assist you with, soldier? Or can we finish wasting my time?” Abby bellows.

You knew it would be a mistake to leave the K9 unit, but circumstances with the Seraphites have forced your hand. They not only invaded WLF territory, causing destruction and casualties among your people, but they’ve also been blocking your teams from conducting supply runs, leading to a rather grim situation in the reserves.

“You don’t have to bite my head off,” you say, feeling the tension rise as you widen your stance against her more imposing one. “We’re all stuck in this mess.”

“Oh, really?” she seethes. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to hand you a shovel next time our people turn up in body bags. Give you a break from scooping dog crap to help us grownups with the actual shit.”

Abby is your superior and you know better than to test the hierarchy. The moment you denied Isaac’s advances, you tumbled from the top spot. But you’re no chump.

“What’s your problem?”

In a split second, Abby’s body looms over you as she detonates, “You’re my problem,” her breath hot against your face.

She flinches when you lose your balance and stumble backward, narrowly catching yourself. If her instinct was to rescue you, she restrained herself just in time, her hand frozen in mid-air. A twitch nags at the corners of her tired eyes.

“You’re no different from the rest,” you say, walking backward, chest heaving. “It’s all the fucking same.”

You’re down the hall and veiled by the four walls of your room before the opportunity to fumble your conversation further buries you in shame.

It’s going to be a long night.

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Manny runs through his roll call sheet twice, inspecting each soldier with every measure but a squat and cough. If he thought he’d catch you on a minor clothing infraction, hell, a mismatched pair of socks, he’s sadly mistaken. You wouldn’t give Abby the satisfaction and besides, you hadn’t slept a wink preparing for this assignment.

“Where’s Anderson?” Manny asks under his breath. The team surrounding him dip their heads and you try to avert your attention. Brush it off like you had been too busy inspecting your gear to overhear him.

“We’re not going blind, are we, Alvarez?” Abby says, shouldering through the group to drop her bag on the tailgate of the Humvee.

When her arm brushes yours, you recoil, your fist hitting your stomach with a muffled thud. Her head snaps in your direction, but her gaze is less volatile than before. You make a point not to place too much trust in that emotional assessment, finding solace in the familiar sensation of your twisting hands.

“Alright,” she shouts above the murmurs of your unit, the quiet chatter falling into silence. “You will work in pairs, at all times, even when we are in proximity to each other. This is unnegotiable, so don’t ask me if you have to bring a friend to the pisser. The answer is yes.”

The group’s attention is undeterred, even as a faint chuckle escapes them, their eroded black boots facing her commanding presence.

“If you hear something, say something,” she continues, her chin bowing slightly. “It may save a life.”

You swallow thickly and lean against the armed vehicle, its cold steel biting into your back. It’s possible that your sleepless night will affect your performance, but you decide not to emphasize it and hoist yourself upright before anyone notices.

“Our destination is approximately sixty miles from here, and we will cross into Scar territory temporarily, so we’ll need to be cautious. Eyes on rooftops, balconies, you know the drill.”

The group divides between the Humvee and a military truck, and it’s only after twenty minutes of driving that you realize Abby has chosen you as her combat partner for the time being. You feel the weight of her thigh against yours, as she adjusts her legs to accommodate her backpack, and you’re left pondering her decision.

There is a clear sense of trust between her and Manny, making him not only her closest friend, but a lifeline in warfare. Does she think you’re weak and in need of a stronger match? You gnaw on your bottom lip at the notion, focusing on the greenery flitting past your window.

“Come on, Anderson, your balls aren’t that big,” Manny teases, gesturing to her outstretched posture, particularly the way her legs take up enough room for two. You shift toward the door to free up some real estate between you and concentrate back on the road.

As their banter fades into background noise, your attention shifts to observing the deserted surroundings, vigilant for any indication of danger. Apart from a pair of rabbits hopping around, the streets are completely motionless.

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The cavalry parks outside a derelict warehouse, its craggy roof adorned by a lush carpet of moss. Rust-bitten chain link fencing surrounds an expansive lot at the rear, cube vans with faded labels scattered throughout. It’s a tempting location to scavenge, but the prospect makes your stomach lurch.

The presence of tall grass and the lack of windows on each vehicle creates ample opportunity for trouble. A lurking enemy, dead or alive, is something you’d like to avoid. It’s possible that someone has already searched the vans, despite their undisturbed appearance.

“Let’s break this down into teams and tackle it all at once,” Abby announces, nodding at the parking lot and the adjoining building. “Six outside, inspecting the trucks, and six inside. We’ll scour the property first, and then we can set up for the night.”

“Wait,” you say.

She blows out a frustrated breath.

“This better be good.”

The temptation to tell her to fuck all the way off is intense.

“Maybe we should put a couple scouts up high, search the grounds together,” you say, pointing to the safest vantage points. “Eyes in the sky.”

“Any other suggestions?” she asks.

“I mean, no—but,” you begin.

Abby interrupts, holding her hand up. “Like I said. Six and six. We don’t need to be out here longer than necessary.”

“Fine.”

She guides you toward the building, her palm on your lower back, and you jerk away from her grasp. She may have the authority to call the shots, but you decide where you place your neck on the chopping block.

“I’m with them,” you say, trudging toward the trucks.

“Hey!” Abby says.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. What?”

She gives you a once over, gritting her teeth.

You throw your hands up and let them slap against your sides, waiting for her to hurl her discontent at your head, clearly eager to tear a strip off you in front of your squad. With a distant gaze, she fixates on the hollow space behind you before heading towards the warehouse.

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It took several hours to secure the perimeter and set up camp inside.

Your heavy eyelids rejoice at the promise of rest. The team in charge of the mail trucks uncovered a mother lode of undelivered packages, chock full of useful supplies. It was almost as impressive as the haul the WLF brought back from the airport a few months back.

Within the building, soldiers set up their bedrolls among a labyrinth of cluttered offices. It’s quite comical to overhear the entertainment value of some dusty, redundant telephones and keyboards. You catch snippets of the amusing conversations while rearranging your own space, the sound of playful jabbering rising from the ashes, finally allowing you to release a deeply trapped breath.

Abby eases up on her protocols to make the rounds and ensure everyone is okay. You make use of the time alone to freshen up and explore, gathering candles from various boxes to arrange in your shared office, the wax and wicks a rare, comforting find.

Abby spots them as soon as she returns.

“Nighttime always feels darker away from home,” you explain, worried she might find them frivolous.

She doesn’t.

“Candles are good,” she says, picking one up to roll in her hands. She scrapes her thumbnail along the wax base and shifts on her feet. “I like them.”

“Alright,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

You try to ignore the intensity of her gaze as it grazes over you, but beads of sweat build along your lower back. It might be time to crack a window. Occupying yourself with that activity, you grow increasingly frustrated as the most accessible ones refuse to budge.  

“Let me try,” she offers.

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” she huffs, and you glimpse her crossing her arms over her broad chest.

You reckon Abby isn’t used to being turned down, and it sours your stomach a little to be the outlier.

By climbing the desk closest to the wall, you gain some leverage and drive your palms into the ridge of the window. You feel the sharp edge digging painfully into your flesh, your back muscles tightening to an impossible degree.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grunt, putting all your might into another attempt, the image of a bottle smashing through the pane something you’d seriously consider acting upon if you were alone.

“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”

“I don’t need your help,” you groan, the tickle of sweat now threatening to break into a full stream down your spine.

“Sure seems like you do,” she says, the arrogance in her tone combined with the weight of her gaze on your back, sending your lid rocking chaotically over a burgeoning boil.

You suck in a rigid breath and ignore her remark.

“Look, if you just—”

“Abby!” you say, jolted by your own shout.

Manny must overhear the commotion, slinking against the door frame to clear his throat. As they murmur behind you, you bow your head and brace your hand against the glass, waiting to be reprimanded.

When you twist your body to offer an apology, the room is empty.

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Even as the sun disappears below the horizon, the air in your office, as well as the rest of the building, becomes oppressively warm. You dig through your bag for a less cumbersome shirt but resort to stripping down to your sports bra and a pair of boxers. Abby hasn’t come knocking for a while, long enough for a clicker to obliterate you ten times over, but you temper your outrage.

Downstairs, there’s a treasure trove of unopened loot piled on racks, beckoning your interest. Abby abandoned her rule of two and frankly, you couldn’t care less.

Truthfully, she never wanders too far from her pack.

It’s possible she’s unaware of your whereabouts while you gather boxes from the metal racks downstairs in your underwear.

But it’s also possible she has eyes on you wherever you go.

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“What’s all this?” Abby asks, lingering in the doorway.

Lost mail spills from the bins surrounding you. You’re captivated by the untold stories inside them. A peek into a world you’d never known.

“Letters, mostly,” you say.

Just inside the entryway, Abby slouches against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the fibers of the carpet using her socked feet.

“What kind?”

You’ve torn through dozens of envelopes, the contents of each one wildly different. It’s almost disturbing to imagine how many people had an entire universe they experienced through their eyes only.

You’ve already envisioned yourself journeying from one post office to another, gathering historical accounts and breathing new life into forgotten tales.

“I’m a bit lost with most of them,” you say, credit card debt and bank statements flying straight over your head. “Structures before the outbreak are a lot different from ours.”

Abby clicks her tongue, moving further into the room to sit across from you. She’s careful not to encroach on your space and a twinge of remorse worms into your belly. You offer an olive branch, handing her a photograph.

“But then there’s stuff like this,” you continue.

Abby’s eyes widen at the provocative image of a woman, her slender figure draped across a pristine silk sheet, the vibrant red of her lace panties and sharp stilettos creating a striking contrast. Attached to it is a note that reads:

When you’re alone, close your eyes, and I’ll be whispering your name.

Abby puffs a quiet laugh as a flush of pink creeps along the high points of her cheekbones.

“Who’s it addressed to?” she asks.

You search for the envelope among a sea of scribbled addresses and realize it’s a futile endeavour.

“I’m honestly not sure,” you admit. “I think I lost it.”

“Damn,” Abby smirks, running her thumb over the curled edges of the polaroid. “Lost in transit twice.”

You give a half shrug, noticing how enraptured she is with the picture. Her blonde lashes catch the candlelight at an angle that cast long shadows across her freckled skin.

“Manny would lose his mind,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “He’s obsessed with shit like this—women in general, really. Horny bastard.”

You can feel the giggles bubbling up inside you, and you clamp your lips together to keep them from escaping. Abby Anderson, the most revered soldier of the Washington Liberation Front, sitting criss-cross applesauce talking smack about her best friend.

It is about the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.

“Have you—ever sent one?” you ask, treading dangerous waters and bracing yourself.

She blows out a ragged breath, pocketing the evidence.

You wonder if it’ll be a gift for Manny or something she keeps for herself. The notion causes vicious heat to rise across your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.

“Not a chance. It’s not really my thing.”

The mountain of mail between you becomes a welcomed distraction, and you make use of having a focal point to stare at.

When she tosses the question back your way, it throws your stuttering heart into a full gallop.

“Have you?” she whispers, leaning back to study you with a leg outstretched. The heel of her foot rocks to a slow tune only she can hear.

Her muscular arms bulge as she balances herself and you do your level best to pretend you don’t care. You expect her to wriggle uncomfortably or try to change the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she waits on you to bounce the ball she has rolled onto your court.

It’s you who can’t stop squirming.

“I haven’t found anyone worth the effort,” you say, and it feels a little embarrassing, maybe, but you figure honesty goes a lot further with Abby. “People suck.”

“Would you?” she asks. “If you found someone.”

Your racing heart leaves you dizzy.

It’s too goddamn hot in this office. You crane your neck to fire silent vitriolic arrows toward the stubborn windows, desperate for a fresh gust of air to grace the back of your damp shoulders. Abby stumbles to her feet, stepping over you to solve your problem once and for all.

With a soft click, the lock releases, and the window glides open, allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the space.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” Abby smirks, dropping back down to her spot on the floor. This time, she lies on her side, head propped up by her arm. “You almost had it.”

The crooked smile quirking up on her mouth hits you like a flashbang.

“I kind of hate you right now,” you say without venom. “But I should probably say thank you, huh?”

“Probably,” she grins, teeth raking slowly over the pout of her bottom lip.

She has freckles there too, and you’re suddenly envious of them.

“I won’t,” you blurt, tearing open another envelope. “Say thank you.”

“I wouldn’t either,” she laughs, and it’s a deep, warm cadence. A laugh meant only for your ears. She gestures to the letter in your hand. “What’s that one?”

The grin you’re desperately trying to hide causes your face to ache.

The brash woman you’re hardly accustomed to sharing a home with at the stadium is full of surprises, it seems. There’s a side to her that isn’t militant and melancholy, but rather the opposite.

She’s playful and witty. Her eyes, a staggering blue lake, are gentle and kind.

You could fall madly, painfully in love with a woman like Abby.

Abby herself, even. If she wasn’t an unstable box of dynamite.

You skim the handwritten letter with the tip of your finger, and another wash of warmth blooms inside you at the bulk of the sentiment.

“It’s a confession,” you explain, fixing your attention on the last paragraph. “He’s been in love with her for a long time, since they were kids.”

“Will you read it to me?”

Her gentle query sends a shiver of sunshine down your spine. Her eyelids are heavy like yours, and the shadows beneath hers speak volumes about the burden she carries. The weight of the world.

“Only if you promise to read the next one.”

“Deal,” she murmurs, sliding your bag over to use as a pillow. She snuggles into it and your whole body vibrates.

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The trip home is lighter, despite the nearly crippling load. Clothing, toys, garden seeds, tools, home goods, toiletry items — the list is a mile long. You couldn’t take everything, but the mass of what hadn’t deteriorated or spoiled made it through the gates.

It’s a hopeful thing, not only to witness your group returning home unharmed, but with enough supplies to ease the strain taken from a new fruitful avenue.

The moment you and your squad walk into the chow hall together, you’re met with a chorus of cheers and applause. As Abby vanishes amidst the swarm of people, you exchange a few handshakes before seeking escape from the cacophony.

Your sleeping quarters are the chaotic aftermath of hurried packing and abandoned reading material, with your mattress being the only semblance of order in the disarray. It was Manny who taught you how to make your bed to military standards and perhaps his goal was to inspire more in you than routine, but either way, the habit stuck.

Gratitude simmers for it now more than ever, the crisp, clean sheets offering respite. Freshly showered and dead on your feet, you crawl into your cozy bed and drift away.

A thunderous crash shocks you awake.

You blink against the abyss, immediately comforted by the stadium lights leaking through your curtains. It drives other citizens insane, the absence of darkness, but you’re thankful for it.

Someone appears to be banging your door down.

“Cool it, already,” you say, scrambling for your cotton robe. The brutal assault on your sleep at this hour deserves to be outlawed—prohibited by the laws of the WLF. “Holy hell, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?”

You tear open the door and any visceral anger coursing through you evaporates at the sight. Tall, fierce, and devastatingly gorgeous, all blended with the rich spice of amber liquor.

Loose tendrils of hair cascade along her shoulders and collarbone in protest of her braid.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have something for you. Can I come in?” Abby asks, and it’s not a question.

Before you can even request a moment to compose yourself, she unceremoniously dumps a heavy grey bin on your living room floor, adding to the chaos, before collapsing onto your couch.

“What’s going on, Abby?”

She may be a delightful, luminous drink of water when she wants to be. But damn, can she ever snore the walls down in record time.

You plop yourself onto the bin beside her and try to make sense of her unexpected visit. Should you venture down the hall to wake her roommate? There’s likely a sock hanging from the doorknob by now, but it’s an option.

“Anderson?”

The sound of your hands drumming on the sides of the plastic container fills the room, while you contemplate the amount of bourbon your crew has consumed from lunchtime until now. An indulgence that landed on your doorstep all the same.

When Abby whimpers and curls in on herself, you resolve to drape her in your heaviest blanket, hoping to help her tackle the unsteady beats of her sleep cycle and a looming hangover. She bundles the fabric in her fists and clenches it underneath her chin.

Captivated by her klutzy aura, you nearly trip on the forgotten bin.

The lid doesn’t want to come apart from its secured spot and you have the presence of mind to check for a locking device, just to be sure. There isn’t one, of course, but you’ll never let yourself live down the office window debacle.

It’s going to require elbow grease and a hefty tug. You hiss as it separates in several loud pops. Luckily, the noise only costs the weary girl on your couch a flinch or two.

Letters fill it to the brim, and you’re enthralled by Abby’s decision to bring them back with her. Your instinct is to open each one, but it doesn’t feel right without her there to chirp commentary at you.

“I don’t get it,” you breathe in disbelief, expecting your words to meld with the shadows and disappear.

Her ghost-quiet voice turns the thermostat up a thousand degrees.

“I was mean,” she stammers. “You didn’t deserve it.”

It appears that you’re tapping into her guilt-ridden subconscious, which feels so delicate you consider shaking her awake. You doubt she’d want to lay it all bare.

Does she always talk in her sleep?

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Water under the bridge.”

Your response seems to placate her overworked brain. You can relate, as your own tries to lure you back to the land of lonely slumber.

You notice her face doesn’t relax, even when her breathing slows, the lines in her forehead streaked with dirt. To never find peace, even during sleep, must be exhausting beyond what most can fathom. It seems cruel to disturb her, even if she’s restless. You settle for leaving a glass of water on the side table for her before settling in at the end of the couch. If she startles awake, you’d rather she doesn’t do it alone.

Cramped onto the only slice of cushion she hasn’t claimed, you let the commotion of the day pull you under.

As morning greets you, you find yourself back in your bed.

The familiar scent of Abby drenches your blanket, but she’s long gone.

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It’s your first day off in months, but you check the work assignment list to confirm. On your way back from the bulletin board, the classrooms are abuzz with joyful energy. Children eagerly play with the toys and delve into the books your squad brought home, and it gives you a sense of belonging. A goal beyond surviving.

Until now, you have thought little about your life beyond protecting the community. It always made sense to put your neck on the line for the greater good. While casually strolling past the gym, not in search of a certain soldier, you can’t help but wonder if there might be other adventures awaiting you.

Abby’s breath tickles your ear, and you leap a mile out of your skin.

“Looking for me?”

“Son of a bitch,” you wheeze.

She doubles over with laughter, imitating the strangled noise you make when you’re caught off guard. She takes a minute to catch her breath before she gives you a generous shove.

“You’ve got quite a potty mouth,” she teases, wrinkling her nose impishly at a passing group of young ones. “There are little ears around here, you know.”

“Yeah, well, they probably know better than to sneak up on a person,” you say, finding Abby’s laughter rather infectious. You bite back a grin. “Who does that? Is an apocalypse not enough for you people?”

Abby breaks into another bout of giggles, seeming to enjoy your newfound passion for merging the old world with the new one.

“Is it our apocalypse though, if we were born into it?”

“Yes, Abby, it is,” you huff, eager for your heart rate to return to baseline. “We’re in an active apocalypse and you’re awful.”

As she leans against the large window you’d been peering through, the sounds of the gym fade into the background. She tilts her head at you, eyes sparkling with intrigue. Clad in workout gear that accentuates her sculpted body, she doesn’t appear sweaty.

You must’ve caught her on her way in.

“Are you busy later?”

“Not really,” you say, fidgeting with a frayed string on your sleeve. “Are you?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Okay,” you say, staring at a scuff on your sneaker before catching her gaze.

“Okay,” she mimics, directing her nose scrunch at you this time, turning your mouth dry. “Feel like being busy later?”

It’s not as if her tone is explicit or even her language, but this woman is a supernatural force. So, tingles rise into gooseflesh from your head to your toes, regardless.

“What do you have in mind?” you ask.

The roars of a lively group of soldiers reverberate through the gym, their spirited chants urging their champion to hurry her ass up. They beckon to her as if they are a part of the kindergarten cohort, causing both of you to snicker and shake your heads. One of them wolf-whistles, the rise and fall of the pitch echoing into the hallway. Abby wastes no time throwing up her middle finger in response.

“I can come by around seven. Does that work?” she asks, reaching for your wrist. She gives it a quick squeeze and slowly pulls away, her fingers sliding to the tip of your pinky.

Her simple touch is unexpected, and it electrifies you.

“Works for me.”

She beams, walking backwards through the gym doors, brows jumping at your frozen form.

You amuse her. This much is obvious.

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A rhythmic tap grabs your attention, a stark difference from the first time Abby came knocking. But to keep with tradition, she doesn’t arrive empty-handed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, gesturing to the dishes balanced precariously in her arms.

“I wanted to.”

She sets the meal fit for an army battalion down onto the counter and searches your kitchen cupboards for something to drink from.

With a single, forceful movement of her forearm, she clears space by shoving your knick-knacks aside to make room.

“Juice cool?”

The way she effortlessly makes herself at home in your space leaves you speechless. You nod.

“Good,” she says, a repentant grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Pretty sure I’m off booze for the rest of my life.”

With the same delicate touch she used to tidy your countertop, she pours the freshly squeezed liquid, causing both glasses to hover on the verge of spilling. Abby takes a step back to assess the situation before bending over the rims, producing the most obnoxious slurping noise. It nearly sends you into hysterics as she levels out both glasses.

She hands one to you with droplets of orange decorating her chin and the collar of her shirt.

“Thanks,” you chuckle. “Quality service right here. Plus, I love germs.”

Balancing the glass to the best of your ability in your right hand, you pull your sleeve over your left and use it to pat her face dry. Abby snorts, her normally lively body becoming static under your ministrations. She swallows heavily, and a calmness settles over you.

“I don’t have germs,” she pouts. Her eyes drop to your mouth for a split-second before her cheeks erupt in swaths of vibrant pink. “I swear.”

“You’re a mess,” you scoff, enamoured by this clumsy woman, blazing a path directly into the pit of your stomach. “Did you know that?”

As she nods, her broad shoulders relax, and her frenetic breathing begins to slow.

“Nobody else sees it,” she says, her words hanging heavy in the air.

The pressure of that emotional cargo would cause any person to buckle under the weight sometimes. It’s a strenuous life for everyone on base, but the expectations placed on her are especially burdensome.

“I see it.”

Your confession doesn’t offend her; instead, it seems to liberate her.

She sighs an exhale of relief, and it makes your heart squeeze.

“I can live with that,” she whispers.

The food was prepared with love as is anything set aside for Abby, and she tells you all about the cook who put it together. An original member of the Salt Lake crew, and a phenomenal chef, he got them through their bleakest days.

When the WLF opened their arms, he committed fully to helping Abby achieve her goals, working tirelessly to support her training and keep himself on the straight and narrow after their tragic end with the Fireflies.

She doesn’t go into detail about what happened, and your instinct is to let that be okay. The heart-wrenching rumours are more than enough to go on for now.

“He’s stoked for me to have a little downtime,” she says, waving her fork at the spread now spilling onto your coffee table across various plates. “Hence the whole smorgasbord situation. As soon as I told him—”

She pauses, letting out a little whimper of embarrassment, seeming to scold herself for being so open.

“Told him what?” you press, detecting a subtle grin playing at the edges of her eyes.

“He wanted to make an impression on my friend, I guess.”

Your neck tickles with heat and you attempt to ventilate by pulling the collar of your shirt away from your collarbone for a moment.

“The man can cook,” you say with your mouth full. It comes out funnier than you expected, muffled by chewing. “Sorry.”

“You’re quite a mess yourself,” she smirks, leaning to drape her arms along the back of your couch, scanning the state of your apartment. “Your poor books.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my books!”

She hauls herself off the couch to make an example of you, crouching at a cluttered stack. So, an earthquake must’ve hit only your room—what of it?

“I mean, this is just sad.”

“We can’t all have bookshelves and organizational skills, Anderson.”

“Says who?” she chuckles, her attention diverted by a novel that has piqued her curiosity. “This isn’t a lack of skill, either. Where’s your discipline, girl?”

Maybe it’s crouched in front of you, a blonde bombshell waiting to go off and properly reduce you to human rubble.

“I’m plenty disciplined, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” she says, tongue tucked behind her teeth in challenge.

The audacity, when you’re currently over the moon about this delicious meal, you’ll likely never get to enjoy twice.

“Yeah,” you retort, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve like a feral beast. You strip off your shirt and toss it into the abyss, grabbing a clean one from its home on a toppling lamp.

Her bright bursts of laughter make you giddy, a woman who never finds time to play, sitting on your carpet waiting for you to join her.

“Who even are you?” she asks, and it’s so gentle it stops you midway through redressing to ponder her question.

The cotton tank top falls past your hips and you smooth it out, sensitive to the wrinkles in a way you haven’t previously been.  

“It looks good,” Abby blurts, reading you like the sea of books strewn about. “You’re—good.”

There’s something about the fortitude of her honesty that helps you decipher between barbs and a genuine fondness for your idiosyncrasies.

Maybe she’s someone you can trust after all.

She shuffles across the floor to the bin filled with letters and lifts it above her head with ease.

“What on earth are you doing?”

As her brows jump mischievously, she dumps the skeletal remains of a past life onto your floor, filling the room with a waterfall of bones. It ignites a fierce desire to protect this girl—create a time capsule of this moment for the next generation to build upon.

A reminder that not all broken things are hopeless things.

“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my tidy apartment.”

“My bad,” she giggles.

----------------------------------------

Each passing moment feels like tiny punctures in an hourglass, causing time to trickle away. You’re both aware of it, trying to stretch the night. Abby leaves for a spell to hunt down her chef, in pursuit of caffeine. She returns flushed and sleepy, the bitter aroma wafting through the door alongside her soothing presence.

Curiosity and exhaustion get the best of you, and you ask about her friend. His thoughts on your late-night rendezvous with history. She does a goofy impression that makes you want to wrap your arms around her, and you watch her in fascination like an old cowboy reel, projected onto your heart.

“He says you’re a bad influence.”

“Bullshit,” you snicker, tossing her another envelope.

“Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he did tell me to give him a heads up if I decide to run away with you.”

You try to push that thought aside.

“Really, now? And why does he think that’s in the cards?”

“He thinks you’re my dream girl.”

She speaks as if she’s describing weather patterns to you, and you’re bewildered. The blunt force of her words mixed with the softness of her tone leaves you shell-shocked. You search for a tether; silently categorize every reason it can’t be true.

“What did you tell him?” you ask, busying yourself with a letter you read while Abby was away.

A tale of woe between two quarrelling families. It reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, some less violent, modern-day version, and based on the contents of their struggle, you gather at least one of them was grateful for the pandemic.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks, pinning you with her gaze.

You nod, a buzz of energy flitting through you.

“Yes,” you say.

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

Cackles burst from your chest, finding her candour rather precious. Of course, Abby told the guy off. But she doesn’t look away after she tells you; doesn’t shrug or scoff. She studies your reaction and holds her breath until a tiny smile breaks her anxious expression.

You forget where you are in proximity to the earth for a second.

“I guess I’ll debrief you on that situation at a later date,” you say.

“I hope so.”

----------------------------------------

The sound of her steady breathing is peaceful as the light of early morning whispers through the fog. She idly sips at her coffee and takes her time, setting each letter into their respective piles. It’s engrained in her to keep things orderly, an obvious clash with your paper heap. Unlike you, she finds the government letters intriguing, even the boring ass mortgage and debt related ones, and reads them all thoroughly.

Your hand catches on an envelope shaped differently from the rest. Inside is a card, with a dozen raised hearts adorning the front in varying shades of red. When you flip it open, it reads:

With you by my side, every day feels like Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being my rock, my love, and my everything.

Your family never spoke of this while you were growing up.

“Valentine’s Day?” you yawn. “What’s that all about?”

You show her the card, and she rubs her eyes, nursing the tail end of her own yawn with the back of her hand.

“Give it here, woman.”

She looks it over to confirm her suspicions, and with a knowing smile, sits up straight. She taps the card against her knee.

“My dad told me about this.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s um—it’s a tradition people celebrated near the end of winter. A day to do things for the ones you love, I guess.”

“Like a holiday or something?”

“Sort of,” Abby says, fumbling a bit with her own understanding of it. “Romantic stuff, mostly.”

She rubs her neck, mulling something over while you try to wrap your head around this new information. One day out of the year to do what exactly? Who was supposed to do the things—both people? Did the traditions start after breakfast or were you meant to wait until suppertime? Was it an endeavour meant to last the entire day?

“My dad didn’t really make time to celebrate it,” Abby continues. “He was always too busy at the hospital and then my mom—well, she worked there too, so.”

The veil of exhaustion lifts when you realize she’s peeling back a wound right before your eyes. You suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t mistake it for anything but your desire to let her speak. She drops the card on her lap and wrings her hands.

“They did these small things instead, you know? On regular days,” Abby explains. Her body droops as she seems to pick through her retention of their conversations.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice just a hair above a whisper.

“Like—okay. My dad loved to dance,” Abby says, leaning forward with a sad smile, the slouch of her shoulders regaining composure at the happier memory. “He was fucking terrible at it,” she puffs a laugh. “But he was a music buff and when he met my mom, he said it was the best excuse he could find to get close to her.”

You ache for her to have them here to tell the story, instead.

“So, they danced together a lot?”

“All the time, according to him,” Abby says, her face lighting up. “He told me that my mom was super shy, so she’d always give him hell about it. But he’d ask her to dance pretty much anywhere. Parking lots, gas stations, one time they danced in the middle of the grocery store.”

You try to imagine what Abby’s mom looks like, but your mind can’t seem to conjure up anything beyond Abby’s own image, a showcase of strength and grit.

“Do you remember much about her?” you ask.

“Not really. She died when I was a baby,” Abby explains, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. “She loved being pregnant with me, though, apparently.”

“Well, duh,” you murmur.

Abby crinkles her nose at you and bites the edge of her smile.

“Dad said her stomach got so big that he started dancing with her from behind. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d just sway back and forth.”

“I love that,” you say.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, fondness heavy on her breath.

Abby’s speech becomes slurred as the birds on your balcony greet the dawn.

“Every time they danced, the scent of her reminded him of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by these giant pine trees he used to pass on his way to work. He’d dream up this elaborate plan for them to quit their careers and live off-grid. I think he promised it to her about a thousand times.”

“That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”

“Yeah,” she says, tapping her nose with the Valentine’s card, her sleepy gaze drifting to yours. “He was a sap.”

She finishes with the most outrageously loud, cavernous yawn and you’re too tired to do much more than giggle at her larger-than-life spirit.

“You can crash on my couch again, if you want,” you offer.

She wobbles to her feet, reaching for your hand to help pull you up.

“I’m on assignment in a couple of hours anyway,” she says, supporting your elbows while you try not to slip on the paper graveyard below. “I’ll be MIA for a while, but let’s meet up when I’m back, if you’re up for it.”

“Totally.”

“Cool,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on the tips of yours before reluctantly letting go.

As she turns to walk away, her steps falter, and she abruptly spins around to face you.

“Can I hug you goodbye?” she asks.

“Of course.”

Before you can blink, Abby’s arms wrap around you, and you’re a puzzle piece, snug in her embrace. She melts you from the inside out, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming against your body. The heat of her chest against your cheek lifts blissful sleepiness from the edges of your resolve and a part of you wants to ask her to stay.

As she gently moves to cup your head and support the back of your neck with her warm hands, you instinctively wrap your arms around her waist, afraid she might drift away.

“I feel so safe right now,” you whisper into her shoulder, and she nuzzles closer, squeezing you tight. Your feet are nearly off the ground before she relaxes her grip.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

----------------------------------------

Two weeks have passed since your visit with Abby and it’s hard to think about much else. It’s a pleasant distraction, even when the memory of her makes your insides flutter as if she tipped a bucket of butterflies between your ribs and set them free.

An unusually large number of soldiers from different stations have packed the grounds, and you’re grateful to have a unique job to keep you relatively separate from the chaos.

Dogs are coming home, but not all of them, and it shatters your heart to toss out their registration papers. You understand the nature of your contribution to this war machine, but it never gets easier. If you could, you’d gather up all the puppies and take them to the same cabin in the woods Abby’s father always dreamed about. Let them bask in the warm sunlight and frolic together amidst a maze of towering trees.

It’s a lovely thought followed closely by the sobering reality before you.

“You’ve done well.”

You drop the leash you were holding, and it clatters on the concrete.

“Isaac. You scared me.”

If Abby is a rare sight at the stadium, Isaac is a ghost. You haven’t seen him in months. He has expanded the WLF across several locations along the west coast and the number is only growing. Reports of a nearby prison piquing his interest have been swirling for a while now.

You’re not sure where he rests his head at night, but it’s almost never here.

“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, inspecting the four-legged fleet without getting close enough to pet them. “I hear your training program is working wonders.”

“I try. They make it easy,” you say, noticing that many puppies have tucked their tails between their legs. “What brings you to the stadium?”

“I’m—restructuring,” he explains, his footsteps echoing as he paces the unit, meticulously inspecting the facility.

Your heart sinks.

“What does this have to do with me?”

He exaggerates a smile, and it sets you on edge.

“You always ask the right questions,” he drawls, heavy hands landing on your shoulders. “I respect that about you. There’s never any fat to trim, just straight to the point.”

It’s more than you can say about him, frankly.

“I suspect you’ve heard about the prison.”

“I have,” you say, bending to pick back up the leash. A narrow excuse to put space between the two of you.

Isaac is still standing uncomfortably close, so you wrap the nylon around your wrist as an act of self soothing.

“Well, it’s proving to be an integral training facility. It’s both secure and unaffected by the flooding, which has been my biggest obstacle up to this point.”

You’d never seen the inside of a prison before, but you’ve read about them. A cold cement cage without access to sunlight, its surface striped with iron. It offered zero curb appeal. You made it a priority to give your dogs a comfortable enclosure for that very reason.

“They need me here,” you say, desperate to get ahead of his plan. “This is where I’ll be most effective.”

“I disagree.”

Your arms tingle with an icy chill as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.

“You said I’ve done well here,” you call out.

“It’s true,” he says over his shoulder. “And your expertise will be crucial. Transport leaves at oh-six hundred.”

---------------------------------------

You should pack to leave, but you’re frozen.

Isaac isn’t one to sugarcoat things and for once, you wish he would’ve.

You curl up in a plastic chair on your balcony and take in the fields below. Neatly organized rows of vibrant crops bordered by fruit trees, bursting with hues of orange and red. Berries snaking through walls of trellis, sweet and ripe. People milling about with baskets of laundry and boxes of produce, keeping society peaceful.

“You should’ve married him,” Manny sighs, dropping beside you. His hand rests on your knee. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you admit, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “All these fresh faces, and I’m the only one leaving.”

Manny moves his hand to your arm, offering a kind squeeze.

“You are not the only one,” he says, handing you a clipboard.

It’s a short list of dogs you’ll be taking with you, and you’re caught between wanting to laugh at Manny’s ridiculous disposition or sob at your utter misfortune. You wish the dogs could stay behind. They love when the little ones throw the ball for them in the afternoon.

“I have a life here,” you say, and it’s a plea to the universe. “This is supposed to be my home.”

Manny offers you a freshly picked apple and you roll the waxy surface between your palms. The image of Abby’s face flashes in your mind. Maybe it’s silly to feel so much, but you can’t stop it. The weight of never seeing her again makes you nauseous.

“I’m fucked,” you groan.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you in.

“Keep your chin up, Hermosa. Something tells me you won’t be gone long.”

----------------------------------------

Hey you,

I’ve tried to write this about a dozen times, and I still don’t know where to start. Fuck it, right?

I barely know you and somehow you made me miss you so fucking much while I was away. When I got home and you weren’t there, it felt like someone shot me in the chest.

Manny brought me your bin of letters and I swear I cried for the first time in years.

How did you get under my skin so fast?

I hear you were sad when you left, and that breaks my heart. It kills me thinking of you being unhappy. I hate that you’re somewhere I know nothing about.

What is it like over there? Are you safe?

I check in on the kennels every day. You’re missed around here a lot.

Keep your head up for me. I’m going to make this right.

Please write me back,

A.A.

You’re busy fixing the fence with a skeleton crew when a delivery truck arrives, and someone throws a letter at you. The thrill of it causes your heart to pound in your throat, a rush of adrenaline washing over you. It takes every ounce of self control to keep from disappearing to read it somewhere private.

Trucks come and go regularly, as they divide resources between stations. Isaac seems to prioritize the prison, especially on the artillery front.

You finish reinforcing the fence and race to your cell to lose yourself in your first piece of mail.

You can’t wait to steal a pen to write her back.

Abby,

I read your letter every day.

Okay, maybe more like three times a day, but who’s counting? Seriously… this place has no concept of time and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single clock to be found.

It makes me sad you were sad. I feel like we’re on a carousel of sadness! We should change that. (Have you seen a carousel before?)

The dogs aren’t doing too bad. They like the open fields here and they’re allowed to sleep in bed with these smelly ass soldiers, which I think is more for us than them, truly.

Thanks for checking in on my crew there. Means a lot.

My bed feels like a hard slab of steel because it is, but at least I don’t have to make it every day. Don’t tell Manny.

It’s nothing like the stadium here. We don’t have gardens and schools and we definitely don’t have a gym. I know, devastating! How will I ever beat you in an arm wrestle now?

The hot water is a work in progress, so I’m learning how to not die during cold showers. That’s also a work in progress, but I squeal less now. Which is something, right?

Try not to worry your beautiful head. I’m tough. I miss your face, though. There’s so much I want to ask you.

Please tell me something about you that nobody else knows. I promise I’m the best secret keeper, ever.

P.S.

If you find any letters from actual prisoners, be sure to fill me in. I feel like they’d have some great tips!

Yours truly,

Me

You hope she lights up as much as you did when her letter arrives. It’s all you can hope for, aside from her safety and possibly a warmer blanket.

To: My Favourite Inmate,

You sure know how to make a girl laugh.

It’s good you don’t have clocks. That way, you can’t obsess over how long you’ve been gone the way I do.

Shit, I should send Manny over there for one of those cold showers. I gave him that polaroid we found, and he hasn’t come up for air in weeks.

It helps a bit to know those pups are there to keep you warm at night. I hope I can be that for you soon. I considered writing another letter because I was afraid to say it, but I think I want you to know. You belong in my arms.

Something I haven’t told anyone before…

Sometimes I miss being a Firefly, especially since things around here are getting worse by the day—but sometimes I guess I don’t want to be anything.

Maybe I’d like to try being just Abby for a while, you know? I’ve never tried that before. What do you think that would look like? Would you want to be a part of it?

I wish you were here beside me.

I’ve made it my mission.

A.A.

P.S.

When you wrapped your arms around me, it felt like lightning.

#abby the last of us #abby x fem!reader #abby tlou #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #abby anderson #lesbian

[clairewritesjjkxreader]

a petty wife (original form!sukuna x reader)

WARNINGS: Murder, baby trapping (not Y/N’s doing), mistaken adultery

Ryomen Sukuna was a deviant who conquered a quarter of old Japan, he was the demon feared by the Emperor himself, and he was the master of mortals and curses alike. He was renowned throughout the land as someone who took pleasure in punishing the pettiest offense–from a soldier daring to speak out of turn to a lowly maid meeting his eyes without permission. Cruelty unbridled, the man couldn’t even be considered human anymore. 

This monster who had over a thousand soldiers at his beck and call, who had hundreds of powerful slaves licking at his feet, was currently tailing his wife with a branch blooming with fresh cherry blossoms. A train of pink petals fell behind him with each antsy step forward.

The servants-in-training watched from a distance.

Seeing their seven-foot-tall master seemingly struggling to keep up with the mistress of the house was a hilarious sight to behold, but they were more baffled than anything else. 

 “What’s happening?” A newbie asked.

The eldest in the group answered as they resumed sweeping the ground, “It seems that the madam is upset with Lord Sukuna.”

It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep up with your steps, it’s that he knew better than to walk next to you when you couldn’t even bring yourself to meet his eyes, so Ryomen had no choice but to slow down his steps as he did his best to coax you to speak with him–

“How many times must I plead innocent?”

“...”

“Because I am innocent.”

“...”

“Love?”

“...”

“What do you want me to do? Do you want me to kill her?”

You flung your body around, accusing finger pointing at him. “This isn’t about her and you know it.”

“My love–”

“Hmph!” With a huff, you crossed your arms and spun around. Of course, you knew he was innocent. If there was one thing you knew for sure in this life was that your husband, king and conqueror, would cut down an entire mountain to build you a palace before he would betray your trust. But you despised how many times different women tried to seduce him–and the gall of others to claim that they succeeded! Inconceivable. 

And he seemed to revel in your shock. Every. Single. Time. 

Unforgivable!

He sighed and two free hands carefully reached for your shoulders. “Darling,” he cooed, rubbing circles over your clothed skin. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

“...Stop being charming.”

He let out a ha! but quickly cleared his throat, withering under your glare. 

“I’ll do my best.” He nodded.

You sighed and finally unlocked your arms. 

Smiling, Ryomen tenderly turned you around before lowering the sakura branch to you. “Do you still want me to kill her?”

Without saying a word, you plucked a single blossom from the branch before giving him a soft smile.

He grinned and leaned down to press his lips on yours.

extra

“Is this proof enough for you?” Ryomen asked, pulling back his claws.

You really didn’t need confirmation, and yet there was a joy in seeing the wench unmoving on the floor as you peered down into her torn torso. Despite her ridiculous claims, her abdomen was empty of life. Not that it would have mattered. 

With you as an exception, Ryo-chan wasn’t fond of anything or anyone. He was an equal-opportunity hater who did not discriminate in his hurting. On the other hand, while you didn’t hate children, you weren’t particularly attached to them either. Whatever was inside her would’ve been gotten rid of immediately by your husband for fear of pissing you off.

You sighed and went to embrace him, who raised two of his arms, careful not to get any blood on your new kimono. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry for doubting you. Kiss?”

He leaned down to meet your puckered mouth before embracing you with his lower set of arms. You glanced over his broad back and at the body on the ground. 

Smiling quietly, you wondered where to hang this one.

A/N: It feels weird addressing Sukuna as Ryomen, but it would be a lot more peculiar for the love of his life to call him by any other name. 

Also, I feel like for Y/N to be in a “healthy” relationship with the likes of Ryomen Sukuna, they’d have to have a rather abnormal sense of right and wrong. Forget black and white, we’re talking blue and orange morality here.

#jjk #jjk x yn #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #jjk x reader #wife #husband #married #original form #original form sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen #jealous #petty #cheating #yandere #i'm so tired djfhksjdhfsd

[lillian-gallows]

Kinktober Day 17: Threesome with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader x Bucking Barnes. Work Count: 767 Warnings: Threesome, Oral (M receiving), P in V sex, Spit-roasting, Dirty talk. Kinktober Master(sub)list.

Minors DNI

There’s a very long list of perks to Super Soldiers. Hightened strength, healing, speed, it goes on and on, but the best thing, by far, is the stamina.

You, Steve, and Bucky have known each other for a while. Officially you’re their handler, and that’s all you had been at first, their anchor to modern times, making sure they can get from point A to point B without issue.

But as happens when people adults are left to their own devices, the three of you became friends, then later, lovers.

Two years of ups, downs, and a lot of communication, led three of you to where you are now.

And where you are right now, is spit-roasted between the two men.

Bucky was gripping your hips as he drove into your weeping cunt over and over again; while Steve had a hand wrapped in your hair, filling your throat with his thick cock, the taste of salt lingering on the back of your tongue as his precum leaks.

A veteran of this particular position after two years helped you keep your eyes open and trained on the baby blues looking down at you, clouded with lust. It also helped keep you from being pushed too hard forward by Bucky’s hips, who you could hear sighing and muttering filthy things.

“Christ, Doll…Perfect fucking pussy…Grippin’ me so fucking tight…” You could picture the look on his face, eyes dark and locked on the place where your bodies meet, mouth hanging open just a little as heavy breaths puff out, sweat dripping down the side of his face, making his hair stick.

You didn’t have to picture Steve’s face. He loved watching you suck his cock, and he loved you watching him watch. He always gets this little smirk, like he’s proud of the mess he and Bucky can reduce you to with a handful of touches and filthy words.

“Such a good little slut for us, aren’t you, Baby?” He asked on equally heavy breaths, not expecting an answer, nor needing one, not with the way your eyes roll back for just a moment before snapping back to his, half-lidded and foggier than before as your head had long since gone floaty. “She’s so far gone, Buck…You should see her.” Steve said, gaze flitting up to the other man for a split second before returning to you.

Bucky let out a curse as Steve’s words made you clench around him. “Took the words from my mouth, Steve- Fuck…” He gasped, the sound of a gulp, like he was running out of breath, it wouldn’t shock you, this was round 3 after all. “Grippin’ me like a fucking vice…All pretty pink and puffy…” He let out a breathless laugh, which Steve returned.

“Hear that, Pretty Girl? Makin’ Buck feel real good…” Steve’s touch in your hair turned gentle as he brushed strands back. “Makin’ me feel real good too…” The his was gripping hard again. “Smack my leg if you need me to stop.” That was the only warning you got before he was fucking your mouth the same way the man behind you was fucking your cunt.

Whether it was on purpose or not you couldn’t tell, not when your brain was barely functioning, but they found an almost perfect rhythm, when one was pulling out, the other was pushing in.

The blond in front of you nearly tripping you gag reflex every other thrust, stinging your scalp from his grip on your hair, balls smacking your chin, and the brunette behind you battering your cervix and dragging over you g-spot without fail, hands gripping your hips so tight you hoped there would be bruises.

A perfect recipe for absolute bliss.

The room was filled with a symphony of filthy sounds, wet squelching and the slapping of skin on skin, hard breathing and the muffled whimpers from your throat that were just barely audible through it all.

You were so lost in the sensations that you didn’t even realize how close you were to orgasm until Bucky spoke. “Tightenin’ up, Princess…You gonna cum? Hm?” He asked, then promptly laughed when you clenched around him again, always drunk on their words. “Go on. Cum on my cock…”

Steve pulled himself free of your mouth and fisted his own cock, watching you cry and whine and whimper as your orgasm ripped through you, Bucky’s onslaught never stopping.

And once he deemed that you’d gathered your breath enough, Steve was right back between your lips.

“We’re far from done, Babydoll…”

Stamina indeed.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #Steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #kinktober #kinktober 2023

[patchoulimademoiselle]

Bat Shit Crazy. (Part 2)

Bucky Barnes x Reader Fic

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: language, sub/dom dynamic, large age gap, smut, praise kink. Reader has bpd, and a personality switch takes place. Bucky cusses you out in Russian. All the good stuff.

Summary: Your first mission together in a while doesn't exactly go as you expected it to. 

Notes: This fic is dark, and it only gets darker. This is more Winter Soldier Bucky in terms of behavioral traits and dynamics with other characters. This is not a soft lovey dovey style fic, and if that bothers you DO NOT READ. 

Masterlist

You savor Bucky being home, home, as if you can call it that without a guilty conscience. Your trigger finger is itching by the time you’re assigned a new mission, but you’re disappointed to find that its only recon, and it’s in harsh winter terrain.

Your black tactical gear has been switched for white, a thick winter coat and light colored combat boots. The air is crisp, stinging the tip of your nose every time you inhale. You hate recon, and you hate whatever country this is, Russia maybe? You have a bad habit of not paying attention during mission briefings. You are not the brains in this equation. More like a secret weapon hidden in a small frame, so as you find a million ways to distract yourself, Bucky soaks up the details like a sponge.

Your short attention span does bother him, one day it can cost you your life if you aren’t careful. But the dynamic between you tends to work with it, he gives you a shorter version on the way to the drop sight, and you have signals assigned between each other as code. You can never ignore a signal. That’s the deal between you. It’s all fun and games until you take it too far, he has warned you so many times that it will cost you everything.

I will not let you kill me and yourself by being reckless, the warning replays in your head and it sends a shiver down your spine, you reach to grab his arm, struggling to keep up with his pace.

“Bucky,” You smile, a little breathless. “I’m dying here.”

“You’re fine.” He says, “Tighten up.”

This is who he is, traces of his training are hidden in everything he does, his life before this making him cold and rough around the edges. But here, stalking through the snow, like a predator searching for prey, you can sense how dangerous he really is. There are traces of the winter soldier still in him, and it concerns him to know that it excites you. Those rough edges will do more than cut you one day, but for now, he is no more dangerous to you than a guard dog to its owner, loyal, trusting. You know he will die before he lets you get hurt.

You trust him, so you tighten up, fighting through the burn in your thighs as you continue uphill for what feels like hours. The hike only takes about two before he’s signaling you to stop, his footsteps stopping abruptly.

You hear nothing, but as you look up at his face, you know he senses something. He starts to crouch, you follow his lead until you’re both belly down in the snow. He sets up the rifle that was hanging on his shoulder, using it to survey the area.

“What is it?” You’re close enough to talk into his ear, voice barely audible in the air around you.

“This is a high traffic area,” His voice is so low, the thickness of it making it hard to hear. You strain, faces touching, “Their camp must be close.” They, you weren’t sure who, that’s the whole point of this. “Mark these coordinates. We have to move soon.”

 You reach into his coat pocket, slowly, pulling out the sat nav Tony had designed for the team, marking your coordinates, entering a note of high traffic, before returning it to his pocket.

Bucky must feel sure of himself, because he turns his head to you now, lips almost touching as he says, “Remember your training, what do you see?”

You want to kiss him, a few stray strands of hair fall over his forehead, the fur lining of his coat hood makes him look so much younger, normal, as if you weren’t on a recon mission in the snow. A young couple going on a camping trip, a winter hike in the woods to get away from your busy lives.

But then you look into his eyes, dark, cold, a trained soldier focused on the task at hand, and you know he would kill you himself if you tried to distract him.

So you turn your head, looking at the trees in front of you. He watches you as you say, “A disadvantage.” And you swear you see the corner of his lips twitch up in a smile.

“Good girl.” Then he’s sitting up, slowly. “We’ll have to go around, find higher ground.” He extends a hand to you, you take it, and he pulls you up out of the snow. “Keep your eyes moving.” You're shocked at his change in attitude, an unfamiliar gentleness in his tone.

You don’t remember the last time he seemed so carefree on a mission like this. It must be a lighter feeling compared to what he just went through with Steve, but he has never let his guard down so much with you. He is always on edge, expecting you to fuck up somehow.

But he seems to trust you here, or maybe he’s testing you. Either way, you’re grateful for it. You don’t feel like you’re walking on eggshells, he trusts you, and that means more than he can know.

You think he senses it, his eyes lighter when you stand.

He wants you, you recognize this stance, that stare, there are memories floating behind his eyes, his seemingly innocent touch isn’t so innocent, his hand lingering, hesitating to let you go.

But you’re too exposed here, the reality of your situation setting in and ruining the moment as flurries of snow fall between you. A smile breaks across your face, pulling your hand from his to catch a snowflake.

“We need to move.” He’s back, your window of opportunity has closed, shoving your shoulder to force you backwards, you turn, walking away from the spot you had just laid in the snow, away from the moment you just shared.

He lets you lead, you aren’t sure why, his eyes watching your every move. But it doesn’t feel invasive, doesn’t feel threatening at all. It feels protective, guiding. You embrace this dynamic.

It is hard for him to let you be yourself sometimes. Aloof, just a young girl still trying to navigate the world compared to his hardened persona. A part of him knows he is ruining you, exposing you to a darkness you would have never known if you hadn’t become so close. Your life was troubled before him, but he knows he is only fueling the fire, teaching you to dance along with the flames, teaching you to embrace the pain of the burn.

But you don’t seem to notice it yet, and he couldn’t ever find it in himself to let you be. So you stay this way, wild, careless, continuously dancing on the edge. Because he is there to catch you, even if he is the reason you fall.

But most of the time, you take yourself there, filled with an anger he hasn’t helped you control yet, a recklessness that comes from a hard life, not caring what happens, needing a thrill to make it all worth it.

Like right now, a lapse in judgment, a fallen log up ahead, you jump on it, trying to balance, but it collapses under your weight, the sound of wood cracking echoes into the air around you, no doubt traveling for miles.

You freeze, knowing you fucked up, knowing that if you get out of this alive, you will be tortured for this mistake. But you don’t really have time to think about the consequences, Bucky is grabbing you by the hood of your coat, pulling you into a run.

It’s choaking you, the zipper digging into your skin, but you don’t dare complain, letting him pull you as you run, stopping when you’ve reached a good distance. He pushes you against a tree, thick enough to cover you, then presses himself in front of you, shielding you both.

His jaw is clenched, breathing erratic as he tries to calm himself, there’s an anger in his eyes that you know will come with a harsh punishment later. You wait there, minutes go by, no one comes. And as soon as he knows it’s clear, his anger is directed at you.

“How stupid can you be?” His voice is strained, trying to control his volume.

“Oh please, we’re fine!”

He clamps your mouth with his hand, “Заткнись.” Shut the fuck up. He hardly ever speaks in Russian to you, he taught you in case of emergency, but you know this is only a display of anger, “Вам повезло, что вы живы.” You are lucky to be alive.

And just like that, the good feeling is gone. The trust, the security, everything that made this feel easy, gone. You shove his hand away, trying your hardest to bite down your own anger. How silly of you to think that this would be different, that you could lighten up and enjoy his good mood.

You say nothing else, watching as he pulls out the sat nav, marking your location and making a note.

Your cheeks are hot, with mostly embarrassment, watching him struggle to control his anger.

You almost compromised the entire mission, taking it too far, searching for the wrong kind of thrills. The only excitement you are allowed here, with a man like him, is from squeezing a trigger.

His eyes burn into you as you hold your hand out, not asking, demanding to take his riffle. If there is anything he can trust in you, it is your anger, allowing your darkness to consume you and help you push through. He knows he doesn’t have to worry about anything else happening, allowing you to take it.

It feels cold, heavy, a physical translation of the burden that sits on your shoulders.

You are not just a girl anymore. You are a trained soldier, you are a weapon.

This is where you will find your purpose. This is where you will find all the thrill you will ever know. This is what he wants you to be.

Bucky leads you deeper into the woods, the trees becoming taller, thicker, the change in terrain tells you that you are closer to their base, the uphill hike turning into flat ground. Your disadvantage is lost, eyes scanning the trees for movement, for traces of life.

Before long, you hear it, voices, only a few meters ahead of you. A watch post no doubt. Bucky raises a closed fist, signaling you to stop. You freeze. Rifle raised to scope the area. You can not see them, but the fact that they are close enough to hear makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

He holds two fingers up, waving them in a circular motion, signaling you to go around. It’s a simple maneuver, one that you’ve done many times. It feels like muscle memory, you nod to him, side stepping through the snow to circle around the area. You’re light on your feet, securing the rifle to your back, footsteps silent as you follow the sound of their voices.

Three men, armed with assault rifles, military grade. They are camouflaged, it takes you a moment to spot them. And in the distance, beside a tree, you see Bucky, eyes locking. He marks your coordinates, then signals you to keep moving.

A few feet out, when their voices start to fade, you circle back, taking a moment to find cover behind a tree, making sure it is clear before you speak. “There will be more of them.”

“I know,” You can barely see his eyes from under your hood, but his voice tells you he is tense, “We need to find a vantage point to stake out.”

You take your rifle in hand, following him through the trees. The snow feels more compact here, walked on over and over, another heavy foot traffic area. You are close, too close. Your pace is slow, cautious as you search for any vantage point. A slight hill, no doubt used as a watch post, You watch as Bucky reaches down to pull a knife from his ankle, arming himself in case of an encounter.

But to your luck, no one is there to greet you when you reach the top of the hill.

You’re quick to set up a stake out post, unloading the pack you brought with you, setting up a scope on your riffle. Bucky pulls out and energy bar, opening the wrapper and handing it to you. You lay flat on your belly, taking an occasional bite, until you find a foot soldier, about a hundred yards out.

You follow him, you can feel Bucky watching as you shift to the right, he leads you right to their base, a small camp with two tents and a fire. There are two ATV’s parked to the far left of their camp, a group of foot soldiers guarding each tent.

“I’ve got them.” You scoot back, giving him room to take his spot so that he can see for himself.

You watch as he lays flat as a board, settling in to where you’ve positioned the rifle. You dig into your pack, pulling out the canteen you brought, taking a sip of water.

“Good girl.” The praise does nothing to excite you, not after earlier, you simply watch him in silence. “Let me take first watch, use the sat nav to make a map.”

You reach into his pocket, retrieving the device. Inside your pack, pen and paper, an old school style of marking your territory. But you realize you may need it on case you two are ever separated, in case you need a backup plan. You do your very best, marking your stake out post first, then a hundred yard out as you have just discovered, their base. You mark the exact coordinates of where you are, and of where you found the first watch post.

By the time you are done, your energy bar is done, the water a quarter gone. You tap his side, “What do you see?”

“There must be another watch post twenty-five yards out in the opposite direction,” He points with two fingers. “They switch out in groups of three, but it seems to be at alternating times from the other post we first saw.”

“You should go find out, I’ll stay here and keep watch.” He looks at you then, his face is expressionless, you can’t read him, but you know he’s thinking something. “I’ll be fine, we have a job to do.”

He sits up, letting you take back your post. He fills up on an energy bar and takes a few sips of water while he goes over the map you made for him. You burned a lot of energy hiking up hill, the first thing he ever taught you was to conserve your energy, always refuel as soon as you are safe.

His hand on your shoulder, crouching to look at you. “Don’t move from this spot.” That darkness in his eyes return, a promise to let the world burn if something happens to you. He rests his forehead against yours, a goodbye, a promise to return, and that if he doesn’t he died trying.

Nothing else matters in a moment like this. Every time you separate, it could easily be the last time you see each other.

And then he’s gone, footsteps silent as he leaves your post. You don’t dare leave, watching their camp with complete focus. You want to know what they are protecting, who they are protecting. Why so many guns for just two little tents in the fucking woods? You focus on the tent flaps, the soldiers that come in and out. You see nothing useful, deciding to focus on the soldiers themselves. Their commander has a com system, tech too advanced to be just an ex-military group like you originally thought. Their ATV’s are unregistered, fake plates that are no doubt a cover up, you memorize the plate numbers, logging them into the sat nav, along with identifications for their weaponry.

Every piece of information helps, the grade of uniform, the tents, anything that can be traced to something. You double check the area, no one in sight, and reach for the camera in your pack. You take as many photos as you can, their camp, the vehicles, their uniforms and weapons.

You get lost in it a bit, trying to focus on as many details as possible, when a hand clamps around your mouth, lips at your ear. “Персик.” Peach, a greeting. And then a kiss, soft, light, too quick to be savored, placed at your temple. He settles beside you, pulling the map from his coat pocket, he takes the camera from you, trading.

He has marked two other lookout posts on the map, measured twenty-five yards from each other, just like he estimated. His tracking skills are better than anyone else you have seen, you’ve only been able to pick up on some of it.

“Any activity here?” He asks, looking through the pictures you’ve taken.

“No, whoever they are protecting in that tent is to heavily guarded, I can’t see anything.”

“If we wait long enough, we will see something.” He says, “They have to rotate eventually, a fresh group will come to replace these soldiers.”

You don’t want to stay here over night. The temperature will drop to below freezing, you have nothing but insulated blankets to keep you warm. You can’t make a fire, and one of you will have to stay up to keep watch all night.

But he says nothing about packing up as the sun starts to set, nothing about how you will survive the night. He only taps your shoulder, offering to switch. He pulls his knife from his ankle, keeping it in hand as he settles behind the rifle.

“Bucky?”

“Stay next to me under the blanket, I’ll wake you up when it’s time to switch.” Is all he says.

So you do as you’re told. You scoot as close to him as you’re able, laying on your back to avoid any aches. The blanket does nothing at first, draped across both of you to shield you from the harsh air. But as time goes by, your breath filling the air trapped around you, the heat radiating from your body and his as you shiver, the cold snow beneath you doesn’t feel as cold anymore. With Bucky’s presence beside you, solid, safe, familiar, it doesn’t feel so bad as you close your eyes and let yourself relax.

He never wakes you to switch, he lets you sleep through the night, knife clenched in his hand, head continuously on a swivel. Looking down to you, checking for your breathing, back to the camp for any activity, in the directions of all marked lookout posts. He half expects something to go wrong, this is all playing out so well.

The snow stopped hour ago, the wind is soft enough to allow actual insulation under the blanket, you are sleeping peacefully, no nightmares, no movement.

But nothing happens. The crack of sunlight behind you is what wakes you up, you are resting too well, you fear something is wrong when you jump out of your sleep, a twitch more than anything else, too afraid of what is waiting for you.

But you feel Bucky still beside you, eyes on you when you poke your head out from under the blanket. He didn’t sleep at all, but nothing on his face tells you he is tired, or that his face feels frozen. It was an act of kindness, taking the full watch, and you will repay him for it later.

You sit up slowly, trying not to make too much noise as you gather the blanket, folding it up and packing it away. You crouch behind a tree, relieving yourself and burying your piss under the snow. With what little cover of darkness you have left, you quickly switch places with Bucky, watching the camp while he relieves himself, stretches his muscles after remaining still for so long.

You could never do it yourself, you know part of it is the super soldier serum in his veins, the training her has undergone in his past, to remain so disciplined, to withstand harsh conditions for so long with no effects on his body. You are thankful for it, even if it feels like nothing to him.

It is everything to you.

You let him eat, drink, have a moment of peace to figure out a plan. Until you finally see it, movement.

“Buck, the camera.”

You don’t have to say anything else, he’s quick to lay beside you, watching as another ATV arrives at the camp. You time stamp it in the sat nav, watching as the soldiers switch out, and finally, two men exit the tents. You don’t recognize them, you have no idea who you’ve just seen, but you know right away that Bucky does.

His body goes ridged, only for a second, before he returns to taking pictures.

Someone from his past? You can only wonder, you know he will never tell you, or anyone.

You wait until the shift change is finished, a fresh group of soldiers, and a new person to take position inside of the left tent. You hope this is enough, you hope these people can be identified and that this stake out wasn’t for nothing.

You know more now than you did walking in, which is the entire point. You try not to stress over it, Bucky’s voice pulling you out of your head as he tells you to pack up.

You’re done here.

He doesn’t have to explain to you what’s going on, you’ve had enough training on recon missions to know his tactics. You never pick up where you drop off. If you are ever compromised, the first thing they will do is track where you came from. Doubling back increases your chances of getting caught.

So you continue deeper into the woods, the complete opposite of the clearing you were dropped off at. The jets are quiet, cloaked, but not completely untraceable. If their tech is as advanced as it seems to be, they can find any incoming aircrafts if they know to look. If you have remained uncompromised, this will be easy.

But of course, you always have to expect the worst.

You walk for hours, so deep within the terrain that you start to worry you are lost until Bucky tells you to cut north to a clearing. Finally, he turns on the locator in the sat nav, and you do your best to hide out until the extraction team arrives.

You feel lighter, you can breathe again. The mission is finished, you aren’t out of the woods yet, literally and figuratively, but the hardest part is over.

And as you sit there, back against a tree, a bit of snow in your boots, cheeks rosy from the cold, you try to find the bright side of this. The peace and quiet, the fresh air, the time outside of HQ with the only person in the world you care about.

He watches you, a glint of something soft in his eyes, adoration, love maybe, and against his better judgement, he reaches out to grab your hand, pulling you to come closer, onto his lap.

“You stress me the fuck out.” He sighs, a gloved hand securing itself at your hip. “But you proved yourself.”

You can’t tell if he’s scolding you, or if this is a compliment. But you embrace it, whatever this is, because he would never allow it any other time. You are technically not out of danger yet, there is still a chance you can be discovered here. But it seems like he doesn’t care, his need to touch you is stronger than his instincts. Everything inside of you is telling you to take advantage of this moment of weakness, this crack in his armor.

You exploit it, leaning in to kiss him, lips cold and slightly chapped from your night spent outdoors. But you don’t care, neither does he, a deep moan vibrating through his chest as he pulls you even closer against him.

You scared him, he thought for a moment he might lose you, that you would be caught and killed in the middle of nowhere.

But you pulled through for him, understood his worry and corrected yourself. He was rewarding you, giving you the attention and the thrill you had been seeking from him before. The danger, the adrenalin.

He’s guiding you to grind against him, tongue in your mouth when you moan with pleasure, letting him encourage you, letting him set a pace for you.

It doesn’t take long, your moans becoming more desperate, he’s quick to discard of his gloves, cold hands finding their way inside your coat, under your shirt, gripping harshly at your breasts.

The contrast of warm and cold makes you gasp, pulling back to look at him, cheeks flushing when you see the look in his eyes. Primal desire, the only good thing to exist out of his darkness is his want for you, and you start to see the reality of this bond you share. This curse to be consumed by darkness, the inability to prevent it.

He’s working at your pants, admiring you, the life that comes to your face in the heat of the moment, the wildness in your eyes that is wanting and waiting for his next move.

You sit back, letting him slide your pants down to your ankles, exposing your bare ass to the cold elements. He frees himself from his own pants, pulling you to sit on him once again, moaning at how wet you are, grinding yourself against his cock, hard and twitching. He kisses you again, grabbing your hips and guiding you to grind yourself against his length, the feeling has your eyes rolling shut, cold and hot, soft and hard. Until finally, he guides himself inside of you, stretching ever so slightly, you moan, arms wrapping around his neck for support as he lowers you onto him.

He doesn’t stop until you bottom out, making you take all of him, giving you only a moment to adjust before he lifts you, slowly, his cock sliding out of you at a pace that makes you ache.

You moan, feeling him twitch inside of you. His jaw is clenched, a display of his restraint. It makes you smile, devilment twinkling in your eyes as you squeeze, clenching around him. A choked gasp escapes his throat, eyes shifting.

He pushes you back, air forced out of your lungs in a gasp as you fall against he cold ground, the snow creeping inside your coat. He follows you, slotting himself between your legs, positioning himself at your entrance before he slides in, quick, forceful, a second gasp escaping you except there is no air left. Breathless.

He grabs your hands forcing them above your head, lips finding yours as he begins to thrust in and out of you, holding nothing back as he fucks you in the snow.

It feels so wrong, the exposure, the risk of being found from how loud you’re being, desperately wrapping yourself around him, trying to force yourself even closer.

He forces his tongue into your mouth, your eyes fluttering shut as he bottoms out inside you, grinding his hips against yours. You can’t control the moan that escapes you, matched with a grunt that he can’t hold back. Your fingers squeeze his, fighting the overpowering feeling of pleasure, the way he is dominating you, the way he knows exactly how to please you.

He pulls back for air, letting you catch your breath, resuming a slow pace as he begins to pump in and out of you. “Fuck, look at what you do to me.” He talks you through it, eyes locked with yours. “Do you feel me inside of you?”

You’re breathless, unable to respond until he squeezes your hands, prompting you to say something, anything. “Fuck, yes.” You love how wrecked you sound, voice thick with lust for him, and you love how he melts at the sound of it. “I love when you fuck me like this.”

“I know you do, baby.” He lowers himself to embrace you, releasing one of your hands. He cradles your head, pulling you flush against him, letting you finally embrace him. “You always take it so well.”

You feel weightless, clinging to him as he fucks you nice and slow, his lips at your ear. “You like scaring me like that?” He asks, accompanied by a harsh thrust, “You like pissing me off so I’ll fuck you like this, don’t you?”

And there it is, the agony he promised to pay you back with, his hips snapping to meet yours as he picks up his pace, knocking the air out of you with every thrust. You’re speechless, mouth agape as you lose awareness, all you can feel is him and the intense pleasure he’s giving you.

“Answer me.” All you can do is moan, a strangled cry as you struggle with the pleasure, eyes starting to roll back. But that doesn’t satisfy him, his teeth sinking into your earlobe, pulling a cry of pleasurable pain from the back of your throat. “You love pissing me off, don’t you?”

“Yes!” You don’t care how desperate you sound, voice whiny and laced with pleasure, “Yes, daddy. I love it.”

He hums, teasing you, teeth replaced with soft kisses, but he maintains his pace, fucking into you until you feel your legs begin to shake. You can feel him smile against your skin, “There you go baby, you gonna come for me?”

You can feel an orgasm building, your body hot and your pussy pulsing with pleasure. All you can do is curl into him, mouth finding his skin, biting down as an orgasm overtakes you, he moans at the feeling, you clench around him as you come, teeth sinking into his neck. He doesn’t stop though, fucking you through it, chasing an orgasm of his own.

And as you come back to reality, your pleasure subsiding, you help him through his, just like he had done for you. “Come for me,” You whisper against his skin, clenching around him over and over, moaning at the pleasure it brings you. “Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is soft, gentle, placing soft kisses against his skin. “You’ve been so brave, so strong. Now relax for me.”

His voice is broken as he moans, “Oh god,” His grip around you tightens, he’s almost there, you can feel how desperate he is. “Keep talking.”

You’ve experienced this with him a few times, praise is so uncommon for him that his body doesn’t know how else to react except finding pleasure in it. You love making him so weak, so desperate, “You protect me so well, make me feel so safe.” A kiss to his throat, you hear him gasp softly, “But you fuck me even better.” You moan, this feels so wrong, so dirty, the way his cock is pumping inside of you, the way he is about to fall apart on top of you. “Come inside me, James.”

That does it, a harsh groan tearing from his throat as he stills on top of you, you can feel his warm cum spilling inside of you, but he continues to thrust, determined to release everything he has.

And then he’s kissing you, your eyes futtering closed as he finishes inside of you. Riding out his high, he continues to fuck you, his hands rough as they find your waste, pinning you against the ground. And for a second time, he comes inside of you, using you for his pleasure, fucking his frustration into you.

It isn’t until he’s fully spent that he finally stops, pulling out, his eyes locked on yours as he bends down to lick you clean. It turns you on again, his mouth is warm, your legs twitching to wrap around his head and trap you there. But he just kisses you instead, once, twice, lips lingering on your pussy just to torture you before he’s pulling away, a cocky smile on his face as he starts to pull your clothes back up your legs.

You’re suddenly cold now, watching as he fixes his clothes, he looks exhausted, and you want nothing more than to embrace him and lay back down in the snow.

But the jet is here, the sound of the engine getting closer and closer, you give him a teasing smile as you gather your things. The way he looks at you tells you this is far from over, he isn’t done with you, a silent promise as he takes your hand, guiding you over to the jet as it lands.

The extraction team boards you quickly, the medic examines you for frostbite and dehydration. For reasons unknown to them, you do seem dehydrated, slightly delirious. They radio HQ requesting the med bay be ready for your arrival. But for now, they give you water and a blanket, allowing you to sit and strap in for the ride home.

Bucky lays his head on your shoulder, and it isn’t long until he’s fast asleep.

Your heart aches, a longing to wrap him up and hide him away from the world overcomes you, you stretch your legs out and let him lay his head in your lap, the blanket hiding him from view.

You stroke his hair, letting him finally rest.  

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Masterlist

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#bucky barnes x reader #avengers fanfiction #reader insert #bucky x reader #bucky smut #praise k!nk #bpd relationships #winter solider x reader #bucky barnes series

[leviismybby]

Bouquet of roses

Levi buying you flowers because he noticed that you don't get anything for secret Santa.

No warnings just fluff. :)

Levi thought that Christmas presents for people he didn't know were corny. He would scoff at the majority of the scouts who seemed to love the holiday season more than anything, dealing with various gifts from unknown people for secret Santa.

Never did he understand why people were almost on the verge of tears at the slight flowers or a gingerbread man. All up until he laid his eyes on you. You never were someone who stood out from the crowd, always in the back sitting with your friends chatting about who knows what. But Levi is an observant man he notices discomfort on your face as soon as someone from your group gets a gift. You try to rub it off with a smile, happy for your friends.

You weren't special yet to him it felt like you had a much greater purpose in his life than others did.

During training, he admires your willingness to learn new things. You were an average soldier, nothing out of the ordinary but Levi still kept an eye on you in expeditions.

Which is why he finds himself in a flower shop, snowflakes falling from the sky, coloring the streets white. His favorite color. The lady at the front desk smiles nicely at him, asking what he is looking for.

And he isn't sure. He doesn't know much about you or why he is even here. It's like he listened to his heart more than his mind at least for once in his life. "A bouquet of prettiest flowers you have."

Those words make the lady smile as she heads off to find the flowers. Levi is questioning his whole purpose right now, did he really leave Hange and Erwin in the town just to buy you some flowers? Yes. Yes, he did. Even if the two of them brought him to celebrate his upcoming birthday.

The lady brings the flowers to Levi, it's a beautiful bouquet of white, red, and mystic pink roses. "They are one of our most expensive ones, your lady is lucky." He pays for the flowers ignoring the lady's remark.

On his way back he tries his best to avoid anyone he knows though it's tough with all the scouts and crowded streets. He uses the opportunity to sneak back into the headquarters.

Lucky for him you're not. He scoffs when he sees a shirt on the floor next to your bed, the urge to fold it and put it on your bed is big but Levi doesn't want you to know that he was here.

There isn't anyone on the grounds, all of them enjoying the Christmas market in the town. Levi found his way to your room, slowly checking to see if you were there.

Surpassing every desire he had to clean, he puts the bouquet of roses on your bed. Suddenly he thinks that this is all stupid, how roses for the Christmas season don't make any sense. However, if it gets you to smile, it's enough.

Levi sees a drawing framed on your desk. You as a child with your mom and dad. It almost makes him smile. Almost.

That night you return from the town, all happy because of the amazing day you had with your friends.

You're met with a bouquet of various roses on your bed. There wasn't a note nor a postcard to see from who it is and there is no clue to give away in the stranger's lovely gift either.

Taking the roses in your hands, you let yourself enjoy the fresh smell. A wide smile spreads across your lips, whoever did this must have a generous heart.

And Levi was more than glad to see you smiling the next day even if he will never tell you that he was your secret Santa that night.

#levi #levi ackerman #aot levi #captain levi #attack on titan #levi x reader #levi attack on titan #levi x you #levi ackerman x reader #snk levi #levi fluff #levi x reader fluff

[southernbluebellereader]

Routines

Part 2

COD MW2 Taskforce 141 x F! Southern Hair Dresser Reader - Not the same as the Southern Cook Reader

Captain John Price, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley, Sergeant Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x F! Southern Hair Dresser Reader (COD MW(2))

Warnings: Suggestive actions/language. Slight bullying.

Word Count: ~2,015

Summary: Y/N opened up a little salon close to the base where the Taskforce 141 are stationed and there is now a platonic relationship between them and it's always fun bringing in rookies for their first hair cut.

Master List

Tag List At The Bottom

“Alright, y’all, line up,” Y/N beckoned the men of Taskforce 141 to enter her little salon. She’d never thought that opening up a salon close to a military base would be a good way to do business. It was always fun when the new recruits came in at the beginning of basic training. When she first opened up her salon, it was a little overwhelming for her and her two coworkers, but after a while, they got a hang of it. There was an unspoken deal between some of the higher-ups of the base that they all come to her little salon for haircuts. It was also fun seeing groups of soldiers who’d just come back from a mission - especially long ones - enter her salon in an attempt to shed the very last thing from a mission.

Soap kept rubbing his head as he raised his hand, “Can I go first, Y/N?” 

Chuckling, Y/N called him over, “C’mon, Johnny, have a seat.” Soap nearly jumped into her chair and allowed her to put the cape around him, “What we doin’ today, soldier?”

“Me usual, please.” Soap nodded as Y/N pulled out her clippers and turned them on. Price and Gaz were seated in the waiting area closest to Y/N’s booth. After a few minutes, Y/N pulled out a little fluffy brush and brushed off excess hair from Soap’s shoulders, and removed the cape from his body, “Whatchu think, big man?”

He leaned forward and examined himself in the mirror, then smiled, “Looks great! Thanks, Y/N!”

“Aight, get up on out of ‘ere,” Y/N swept some of the hair on the floor and looked over at Price and Gaz, “Who’s next?” Soap left the chair and pulled out one of Y/N’s hand mirrors, looking at himself from every other angle as he walked over and sat beside Price.

Price pointed at Gaz, who was ready to go, “Hop up Mr. Garrick and tell me whatchu want?”

“Just the sides and a little on the top, yeah?”

“You betcha!” Y/N winked at Gaz through the mirror and did as she was told.

Once it was Price’s turn, he took his hat off and hung it on one of the hair dryers as he sat down. Y/N examined his hair and bear slightly as she covered him with a cape, “You gonna tell me why you tried to cut your own beard, Captain Price?”

Price chuckled and ran his hand through his beard, “Gotta do what you gotta do in the field. Tighten things up, will ya’?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Y/N did as she was told and sent him to the sink to get his hair washed. “Where’d y’all go this time? Somewhere sandy?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Price huffed slightly as he sat down and rested his head over her sink, waiting for Y/N to make sure the water wasn’t too hot.

“I do say that because I can see all the sand in your hair. Would it kill ya to do a quick rinse before y’all came here?”

“We’d put you out of a job, Y/N.”

“Yeah yeah,” Y/N finished washing and rinsing his hair - properly - then gently dried it with a towel. “Get back on up and have a seat, Cap. I got my work cut out for me.” Chuckling, Y/N began brushing through his hair with a comb, swiftly cutting and trimming his hair. Once finished, Price attempted to make his escape once she’d turned around.

“No sir! Sit your behind back down, I’m gon’ that bird’s nest on your face.” Y/N pointed at him and stared at him sternly until he sat back down, hearing him mumble under his breath as she came back with her shaving kit. “How you gonna let me fix the hair on your head and not the hair on your face?” Y/N shook her head as she prepped her shaving brush and shaving bowl.

“Oh, you know how I am with my beard.”

“That’s the thing, I do know how you are with your beard. Which is why I shave it so well. Now hush and sit still, Cap’n.”

Doing as he was told, Price held his tongue while watching her cheekily, lifting his chin to allow her to apply shaving cream on his face, then allowing her to hold her manual beard shaver next to his skin.

After carefully shaving Price’s beard to his liking, she removed his cape and allowed him to examine himself in the mirror, “How’d I do, sir?”

“Splendid.”

Price pulled out his wallet but was stopped by Y/N, “Not today Captain. Y’all just got back.”

“You can’t possibly be serious, Y/N, let me pa-”

“I said no!” Y/N shook her head and urged him to put his wallet back, “Again, y’all just got back. This is on me.”

Price shook his head and did as he was told, “Yeah you say that every time we come up here. How are you still in business?”

“I have my ways, Captain.” Y/N watched as he rounded Gaz and Soap up and thanked her as they headed out. Price remained for her usual question at the end of every haircut they came for: “Simon coming in later?”

Price’s answer would always be the same: “No doubt in my mind.” And he’d tip his hat and wink at her before heading out.

—

A few hours later, just before closing, Simon would enter Y/N’s little salon as she was sweeping, the little bell above her door signifying his presence. Y/N would always be the one to open and the one to close her shop, to take him in and allow for privacy. The blinds would be half closed so she could still see the outside, but would cover enough so that Simon’s face would still remain a mystery. Simon Riley. It was hard getting him into the salon. Unless he done messed up his hair, real bad. Or he needed new razors to shave. It wasn’t until he came in with a pack of rookies who needed buzz cuts, scratching his face through his mask that she demand he comes back before closing so she could properly cut his hair.

“Simon! ‘Bout time you showed up,” Y/N put her broom up and watched as he took his mask off, revealing disheveled hat - or mask - hair and a scruffy jaw, “We doin’ full-service today?”

Giving her a small nod, he allowed her to usher him to the sink and gave him a towel to wrap around his shoulders as he sat down in the chair in front of the sink, leaning his head and neck down to the sink.

“I’m going to turn the water on Simon, you aight with me washing your hair?” Y/N knew to speak softly around him when he came alone. She’d never imagined that she’d be the go-to hairdresser for the military, but she was glad she could give something to look forward to in order to renew themselves from what they’d seen. With Simon, it was different though. She’d heard all sorts of stories about him - she couldn’t keep track of them all - but he was different from the rest.

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes as he heard the water turn on. Y/N felt the water and waited until it was lukewarm before she gently began to wash his hair. Sand and dirt left his hair as she rinsed his hair. Washing his hair was one of the few things that would indicate where he’d been on a mission. This time it was most likely somewhere warm and sandy.

“I’m going to shampoo your hair, Simon, you ok?” Y/N smiled slightly as he stirred, giving her a slight nod. Asleep, are we now? She pumped some shampoo into her hands and gently scrubbed his head, earning a soft groan. Must’ve been a rough mission for him to be this tired.

Once finished, she ushered him to her chair and began the silent haircut. Y/N learned quickly that Simon wasn’t much of a talker, but she was fine with that. Until she put on her radio and he’d ask her to change the channel or change the song. Or if the tv was on, he’d ask her to change the channel or put on a particular channel.

“You want a shave, today?”

“Please?” Y/N worked swiftly. He liked that. But he enjoyed the time he was there. It allowed him to almost forget himself for a moment. It made him almost forget his job. It made him almost forget the life he’s had and that he currently has. He could care less about the haircut and the shave, the simple act of having someone else wash his hair was comforting.

“All done, Lieutenant.” Y/N tapped his shoulder and removed the cape from his body and dusted the remaining hair from his shoulders. Unlike the rest of her clients, Simon would watch her instead of examining his hair. She found it awkward at first and did her best to ignore it. She eventually got used to it. For Simon to trust her to cut his hair was an honor. She doesn’t know what sort of life Simon had growing up, or even what he does as soon as he left her salon, but she felt honored still.

She took a step back and allowed the large man to stand up. “How much d’I owe you?”

“On the house, Simon.” Y/N threw the cape and the towels in a bin to be washed and dried overnight. 

“Nah.” Simon gave her a half smile and pulled out a wad of cash wrapped with a rubber band. The amount, plus tip, would cover his haircut, and the rest of his team’s haircut. He placed it on the counter by her register as he walked out. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“You bringing me them rookies up in here?”

Simon waved his hand as he walked out, ignoring her question. Y/N smiled as she finished looking up, “These men kill me.”

—

“Youse a rookie, you ain’t got a choice,” Y/N switched the end pieces of her electric razor as the next rookie looked at her cocky, demanding a particular haircut. Y/N chuckles as she turned the electric razor on, earning a gulp from the rookie in her chair.

Y/N and her two co-workers firmly enjoyed it when a fresh batch of rookies would arrive at her salon at eight in the morning - sharp.

Soap and Kyle would take turns bringing in a batch of rookies while Simon stood watch, keeping things in check. Occasionally he’d walk between Y/N and coworkers, jokingly reminding them that they missed a spot to get a rise out of the rookie in the chair.

Every so often he’d call out: “Don’t make me remind you to say your thanks once these ladies finish their job.” This caused constant repetitions of:

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Thank you, ma’am!.”

If a rookie felt bold enough to make conversation with one of the hairdressers, especially Y/N, trying to chat their way into a more stylish haircut, Simon would stand next to him, uncomfortably close to them, arms crossed, and simply tower over him.

Honestly, it scared Y/N in the beginning, until he started talking. “You sure you want that, rooks?”

Then he’d lean down and his masked face would be just about three inches away from the young soldier, rendering him still, speechless, and filled with fear.

Chuckling, Y/N began her work on the young soldier’s head, “I done told you not to say anything, sweetheart.”

Part of her felt bad, especially in the beginning. Until the same soldiers came back from basic training for a trim, coming back as changed men. And as they continued with their service, she’d gotten to know them and every hair cut would serve as a reminder of home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TAG LIST:

@ateliefloresdaprimavera @galagcica @sweetybuzz25 @wisedinosaurpolice @itsasecrets-things @ronbon @lieutenantlashfaz @piper570 @shuttlelauncher81

#cod #call of duty #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty mw #call of duty mwii #call of duty mw2 #captain John price #John price #Simon ghost Riley #Simon Riley #Johnny soap mactavish #soap #Johnny mactavish #John mactavish #soap mactavish #Kyle gaz garrick #Kyle garrick #gaz garrick #gaz

[gimmethatagustd]

the flower knight (2) | kth + myg

A disciple of the Mugunghwa Temple, Yoongi has lived a pious life free of the vices of the outside world. That is until the temple must become a safehouse for wounded soldiers when war breaks out, and Yoongi catches the eye of a certain military commander.

○ Pairing: Soldier!Taehyung x Healer!Yoongi

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Historical fantasy, magic, pistilverse, strangers to lovers, forbidden love, angst, eventual smut, eventual fluff

○ Word Count: 3,579

○ Warnings: Brief but perhaps a little unsettling depiction of injuries. Reference to minor character death (due to injury, but no actual violence occurs in this chapter).

○ Notes: Hi pls enjoy Chapter 2! I apologize for the angst 😶

○ Post Date: January 8, 2024

○ Masterlist | Send me ur thots

○ What was Jai listening to? The series playlist

Yoongi is one of the finest healers of all the temple pistils, though he would never admit this fact himself. Humble to a fault, Yoongi tends to his duties at the infirmary with humility and sound devotion – as every pistil healer should. The role suits him best. He lacks the creativity required to care for the children as Namjoon does, and he isn’t particularly social enough for duties around the temple grounds that require much human interaction, such as cooking in the dining hall or teaching religion. He can stay quiet and focused in the infirmary, with only the other healers around. Luckily, the other healers are just as soft-spoken and pleasant as Yoongi, so he rarely has any troubles with them. 

Except for today.

Bad things always come in threes, and the Second Bad Thing rolls through the temple grounds like the thunderstorm approaching from the east, a wall of dark gray clouds barreling toward them like enemies at the front lines. As much as he tries to be optimistic, Yoongi felt something eerie ache in his bones as he hurried to the infirmary this morning, his woven basket carrying Mugunghwa petals and stems clutched to his chest.

Nature is sacred to the Mugunghwa monks, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t terrifying. Nature is the gods’ way of speaking, and sometimes, Yoongi would prefer not to know what they have to say.  

“I hope it doesn’t rain,” Areum says absentmindedly as she uses a mortar and pestle to grind up Mugunghwa petals. 

Yoongi sits on the floor on a small cushion with his legs crossed, his own mortar and pestle on a small table in front of him. He grinds the seeds, and Seungwoo, who sits beside him, grinds the stems. The three healers work efficiently, each with their own tasks to quicken the process. Making medicine isn’t difficult, but it can be time-consuming. Magic is a finicky thing, Yoongi has learned during his healer training. The Mugunghwa are sensitive; any wrong step in the process and the entire batch of medicine must be thrown out. 

“I’m afraid it may,” Seungwoo says with a long sigh, “Which means the children will be stuck inside and restless. And annoying.” 

“You’re so cranky, Seungwoo. Don’t you remember being a child?” Areum teases him. 

Seungwoo points his pestle at Areum, who sits opposite them at the table. “I remember you being annoying as a child!” 

The two pistils bicker as they have since they were children. Yoongi finds it distracting, but he can’t deny that it’s also rather endearing. Since Junseo’s banishment and the start of purity sweeps, the temple grounds haven’t felt the same. Yoongi wakes to less laughter coming from the courtyards, and fewer friends hang out in common areas like the dining hall and prayer rooms, instead choosing to socialize almost exclusively in the dormitories. 

Yoongi can’t blame them. He, too, is still shaken from that fateful day and the subsequent purity sweeps – though they haven’t been frequent, they are still uncomfortable. Yoongi no longer worries that he will be mistakenly accused of being marked, but the sweeps make him sweat anyway. 

“I heard Misuk-ssi talking about the war this morning,” Areum says lowly. 

She quickly takes a peek at the door. It’s still shut, and the walls in the temple are thick, so it is unlikely that anyone will hear the three healers speaking. Areum is accustomed to sneaking around, though. 

Yoongi hasn’t forgotten that she is the one Namjoon heard speaking with Misuk-ssi about Junseo. 

“Oh?” Seungwoo asks with a raise of his eyebrows, though he doesn’t look up from his work grinding the Mugunghwa stems. 

“Don’t you want to know what she said?” 

Seungwoo rolls his eyes. “You will tell me regardless, will you not?” 

“What about you?” Areum turns to Yoongi, clearly unsatisfied with Seungwoo’s response. 

Yoongi isn’t fond of gossip, but he is curious about news of the war. He knows very little about it, preferring to live in bliss. Politics and religion are strictly separated in their kingdom. The only engagement monks have with politicians and soldiers is distributing medicine, and Yoongi is perfectly content with that. 

“I’m a bit curious…” Yoongi says quietly, only meeting Areum’s gaze for a moment before he quickly looks back at his word. The seeds are a fine powder now. 

“Ugh, fine,” Areum huffs. Yoongi doesn’t understand why; she’s getting what she wants, isn’t she? A captive audience? 

“Misuk-ssi received a letter from someone, I don’t know who, about a battle near the temple! Only a three-day trip,” Areum talks excitedly, a gleam in her eyes. Some people thrive off of gossip, Yoongi thinks. He hopes he never becomes one of those people. 

“That… is a very bad thing…” Seungwoo stares at her with his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Well, yes,” Areum visibly deflates with sagged shoulders and a pouted mouth, “But how interesting, right? So many things are happening. Nothing ever happens here.” 

“I would rather nothing happen than war,” Seungwoo mutters as he gets up. He holds his hand out for Yoongi to pass him the mortar of ground seeds. “Imagine the other kingdom learns of our golden water and sends their soldiers after us. What would become of us, then?” 

The conversation ends there as Seungwoo and Areum work together to light the fire needed to heat the water they’ll use for the medicine, but Seungwoo’s question lingers in Yoongi’s mind for the rest of the morning.

What would become of them? 

He has heard of horrible things happening to pistils who cross paths with the stamen soldiers from enemy kingdoms, things he would never repeat to anyone, things he can hardly visualize. 

Yoongi wonders when Misuk received that letter and where it came from. Letters often take days to reach the temple due to its remote location. For all they know, the enemy soldiers could now be on their way to the temple. 

Or, worse, already here and biding time until the opportune moment to attack. 

Sufficiently disturbed, Yoongi finishes his duties at the infirmary in time for lunch with a heart more thunderous than the weather. He should have never given in to Areum’s need for gossip.

Yoongi and Namjoon are clearing their table in the dining hall when the gongs sound. They stare at each other for a split second before jumping into action, leaving their things behind as they rush to the exit. Namjoon sprints off toward the center of the temple grounds, where the children’s classrooms are, while Yoongi rushes toward the entrance where the infirmary is located. 

In his twenty-one years at the temple, Yoongi has never heard the gongs, though he has been trained on what to do if he does hear them. Every monk is told to get to their home base – whichever part of the temple grounds they have a duty to. Namjoon cares for the children, so he is responsible for watching over them in an emergency, whereas Yoongi must care for the sick and injured, if there are any. 

It is easier to know what to do when you are told by your elders in the off-chance that something might happen. It is more difficult when something is happening. 

The monks push each other out of the way in the halls. Yoongi is nearly knocked over more than once by a panicking peer; not everyone is cut out for handling emergencies. Yoongi isn’t even sure if he is, but his body operates on its own, propelling him through the building’s front doors. 

Outside, everything is gray. Sheets of water rain down hard enough to knock a few children over as they scramble through the courtyard to seek shelter. Mud cakes their white hanboks and slides down their limbs. Yoongi can’t tell who they are; the rain obscures everything, turning the world into a blurry mess he can’t blink away. 

The gods have something to say, and Yoongi doesn’t think it’s anything good. 

Panic finally sets into Yoongi’s chest when the cold water hits him in the face as he sprints across the courtyard. He can hardly breathe with the rain getting in his nose and mouth. Twice he slips and falls on his butt in puddles of mud. A sharp pain shoots through his pelvis, and he thinks he may have landed on a rock. He can’t tell if the back of his thigh is bleeding because the wetness he feels could be rain, mud, blood, or a mixture of all three. 

A battle near the temple!

Areum’s voice chants to the beat of Yoongi’s sandals slapping against the soggy ground and the continuous ringing of the gong. 

Only a three-day trip.

Yoongi doesn’t stop running until the infirmary is in view. Its green walls and intricate patterning stand out amongst the gray, as does the large group of men clad in military uniforms and body armor – blurry splotches of red in Yoongi’s vision, the color of their kingdom.

The scene before him shakes him to his core. He finds himself rooted to his spot as other healer pistils run back and forth between the infirmary and the group of stamens outside. There are dozens of them, more than there are beds in the infirmary, Yoongi is positive. They’re soaked through their uniforms, thick red fabrics, leather, and armor drenched. Yoongi can’t imagine how heavy it must be, especially considering how malnourished most of the men look. Very few of them stand on their own, most having to be propped up against the infirmary walls or leaned against each other for support. 

As Yoongi walks through the group, he meets the eyes of men who look at him but don’t see him. They stare into the wall of rain unblinking; others don’t even open their eyes. Some of them cry – the ones Yoongi thinks are younger. Some of them scream. 

Nearly every stamen Yoongi walks past is injured. The closer he gets, the more blood he sees. It flows in rivers from large gashes in the men’s arms and abdomens, mixing with rainwater and mud. There are men missing eyes and ears, fingers, and even an entire hand. One man has an arrow sticking out of his chest. It’s splinted at the end like someone tried ripping it out and broke it in half. Yoongi worries the man may not be with them because of how still his chest is. 

“Yoongi-ya!” 

Through the rain, Yoongi sees one of the lead healers, Hoseok, waving at him. He hurries to the pistil’s side with his hands above his eyes to shield himself from the rain. 

“Come with me,” Hoseok shouts over his shoulder, already rushing into the infirmary. 

Yoongi nearly slips on the wet floor when he steps inside but manages to keep up with Hoseok’s quick pace. The infirmary isn’t immune to chaos, either. Monks rush past each other, passing medicinal salves, bandages, and medical instruments. He peeks inside the rooms as he follows Hoseok down the hall. Tables are blanketed with sheets and pillows as makeshift beds, and even the tubs used to wash patients are being used as beds. 

“This one,” Hoseok holds open the door to one of the patient rooms near the back of the infirmary, where it’s not as loud, away from the chaos at the front entrance.

Yoongi is surprised to find a crowd inside the room. Multiple men hover around a singular cot on the floor. They kneel shoulder to shoulder as though guarding the man lying on the cot, and Hoseok has to shout at them multiple times before they clear a path for him. 

“He’s struggling to breathe,” one of the men calls out once the room has quieted. He kneels near the injured man’s head, one of his hands gripping the man’s shoulder possessively. 

Hoseok beckons Yoongi closer before sinking to his knees beside the cot. “We need to remove his armor.” 

After a few seconds, Hoseok stares up at Yoongi, his mouth set in a thin line.

“Yoongi, I need you to help me remove his armor and the rest of his uniform so we can see where he is injured.” 

“I– Me?” 

“Yoongi, now!” 

Immediately falling to his knees, Yoongi scrambles to find the clasps and buckles that hold the man’s uniform together. He tries to ignore how hard his hands shake and worries he will ruin his reputation for being an excellent healer if he appears too nervous in front of Hoseok. 

The thing is, Yoongi has never met a stamen before, let alone touched one. 

He doesn’t think the stamen orphans who live at the temple until their awakening count since they immediately leave once awoken. Those stamens are just kids, not grown men. It’s different. 

But it can’t be different, not right now when this man is dying. 

It only takes a few minutes for Hoseok and Yoongi to remove the stamen’s armor and cut open his shirt, but minutes are a matter of life and death in a situation like this. 

The severity of the situation is confirmed when Hoseok removes the final piece of fabric. 

Someone in the room gasps. Yoongi worries it may have been himself, but he barely holds onto his mental state to know. All he can do is stare at the open wounds that litter the man’s torso. Gashes and holes reveal flayed flesh, most cut deep enough to expose bones. Yoongi wonders how the man’s internal organs have managed to stay inside him. 

Yoongi looks up at the man at the head of the cot with confusion. “How did his armor not protect him?” 

“Their swords were, were–” the man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “It was magic I have never seen before. Swords that cut through metal armor like a knife through sundubu.”  

Hoseok grabs Yoongi’s shoulders and squeezes him so tightly that Yoongi lets out a pained whimper. 

“Yoongi, I need you to go to the well and bring back as much water as you can carry as fast as you can. Do you understand me?” He shakes Yoongi’s shoulders, fire and fear in his eyes. “Gukseon Kim’s life depends on it.”

The gods must favor Yoongi because it stops raining once he reaches the well. He doesn’t have time but must rest for a few moments to catch his breath, leaning up against the old stone as he gasps. His calves burn, and blisters have formed from the slide of his feet in his wet sandals. His entire body feels pruned; he’s sure he looks like a wet cat. 

Why had Hoseok chosen him for this task? Yoongi is young, and although he has a good reputation, he is merely a student. He has much more to accomplish before he can call himself a true healer, yet Hoseok chose him to aid in caring for a soldier. 

Not just any soldier, Yoongi thinks as he draws the golden water from the well in as large of a bucket as he can safely carry. The patient dying on that cot is the leader of the military unit seeking shelter at the temple, one of the highest commanding soldiers in their entire kingdom. 

And if he dies, it will be Yoongi’s fault. 

Yoongi safely returns the bucket to the infirmary full of the sacred gold water that feeds the magic of the Mugunghwa. Ingesting the magic from the source is far more powerful than the medicine the monks make, but it’s a remedy that is saved for only the most terrible of injuries. This poor stamen fits the criteria. 

“Give him the water using this,” Hoseok thrusts a small cup into Yoongi’s hands. “If he doesn’t swallow, just give him small droplets so he at least has something in his system.” 

Taking the cup and a smaller bucket Hoseok has used to portion off some of the water, Yoongi kneels beside the man’s head. Hoseok uses the rest of the water to cleanse the stamen’s wounds and sew him back together. It’s a grisly affair that Yoongi can’t help but watch, even as sick as it makes him to see a human’s innards up close. 

It’s just Yoongi, Hoseok, and one other soldier in the room now. Seokjin, Yoongi has learned, is the second-in-command. He sits across from Yoongi, never once taking his eyes off Hoseok as he works to put his leader back together. Yoongi doesn’t blame Seokjin for being cautious; he can’t imagine the horrors they’ve all gone through. 

“Will he live?” Seokjin asks quietly. He intertwines their fingers as he looks down at the injured man. 

“I hope so,” Hoseok replies with bloody arms and a thin mouth. 

The soldier’s lips are chapped and caked with blood, but they’re parted just enough for Yoongi to slip the lip of the cup between them. Carefully, he lets a few droplets of water trickle into his mouth. Yoongi can see the stamen’s features better now that he is up close. His long, dark hair that was once tied up now cascades around his shoulders, made messy by Yoongi and Hoseok removing his upper garments. His tan skin looks pale from the loss of blood, but a regal air about him is undeniable – it’s in the sharpness of his nose and prominent cheekbones. His long eyelashes and the heart-shaped bow of his upper lip make him look almost content as he lies there completely still. 

He’s pretty, Yoongi thinks as he gives the stamen more water. Even covered in mud and blood, this man is pretty.   

“What is his name?” Yoongi looks to Seokjin because Hoseok has already told him “Kim,” but Yoongi wants to know more than that. 

“Taehyung,” Seokjin whispers, his gaze falling on the dying man instead of Yoongi. “His name is Taehyung, and he is my dearest friend.” 

As if stirred by the sound of his name, Taehyung’s face twitches. The movement is subtle, but Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch it. He quickly lifts the cup to Taehyung’s lips again and watches with joy as the man swallows the small sips Yoongi gives him. He isn’t conscious, but he’s alive. As long as Yoongi can keep him drinking, he’ll survive. 

Yoongi knows it. 

Some of the soldiers die. 

Since he is only a student, Yoongi isn’t required to assist the lead healers with the burials. His help is most valuable in the infirmary because there are more soldiers in critical care than there are lining up to return to the Earth. As important as the afterlife is, Yoongi cares far more about the living. He rushes between patients’ rooms carrying medicine and water, bringing clean rags, washing old ones, and repairing broken medical equipment. He hardly sees Namjoon in the days following the soldiers’ arrival, but there’s far too much on Yoongi’s plate to think about socialization. 

On the fourth day, Yoongi finds that his responsibilities will increase exponentially when he runs into Hoseok in the courtyard. Yoongi carries a small bucket of gold water to the infirmary, as requested by Seungwoo, who is in charge of the students while the lead healers are busy. 

“Hobi hyung,” Yoongi greets with a bow of his head. Very few older monks allow students to speak to them more casually, but Hoseok has always taken a liking to Yoongi, even when he’s tough on him. 

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Hoseok admits. His voice is hoarse from shouting orders, and dark bags circle his eyes. “I need you to care for Gukseon Kim, and before you say no–” Hoseok holds up his hand when Yoongi begins to protest, “I need you to understand that there is no other student at this temple who I trust more than you to care for this man.” 

Yoongi bites the inside of his cheek and stares at the bucket he carries. His reflection sparkles up at him in the gold water, masking how tired he feels. 

Is he skilled enough to care for the leader of a ferocious military group? What will happen to him if their gukseon dies under his care? How could Yoongi forgive himself, even if nothing happened to him? 

“Okay,” Yoongi says quietly, returning Hoseok’s gaze. 

“You’ll do well,” Hoseok claps Yoongi on the shoulder, firm and proud, “And if you need anything, you come to me.” 

Yoongi nods, not needing to be told twice. He would have gone to Hoseok anyway. 

“We will relocate him to the dormitories, the room adjacent to yours, for easier access. We will need the extra space in the infirmary anyway.” 

Junseo’s room was the room adjacent to Yoongi’s. 

“Do you need help moving him?” Yoongi asks, but Hoseok shakes his head. 

“Seungwoo and some others are handling that. Gukseon Kim will be ready for you by this afternoon.” 

Yoongi watches Hoseok cut through the courtyard toward the grand temple, likely for his midday prayer. Yoongi has spent all his prayers on the pretty gukseon in the past four days, though he’ll never admit it. He doesn’t necessarily feel shame, but it feels strange to think so much about another person – especially a stamen. Stamens are hardened, built for violence, yet the gukseon was soft. 

With a sigh, Yoongi reminds himself that it’s likely Taehyung was only soft because he was unconscious and returns to the chaos of the infirmary. At least in a few hours, he’ll have a more peaceful location to care for Taehyung.

Series Masterlist

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

(Borrowed from here and revised to fit my fic)

Pistilverse AU - A South Korean fanfic trope wherein almost all humans experience an “awakening” during puberty that assigns them into one of two botanically-inspired groups: Pistils and Stamens. These groups are denoted by marks on the person’s body, similar to tattoos.

Pistil and Stamens - Pistils develop a mark of a barren tree that appears along their spine after their awakening, while stamens develop a flower somewhere on their body after their awakening.

Awakening - The moment a flower or tree appears on a person’s body, signifying their status as a pistil or stamen. You could look at it as a coming-of-age moment in a person’s life. These are typically painful for pistils. A pistil might experience more than one awakening if their tree becomes too full of flowers.

Marks/Marking - When a pistil sleeps with a stamen, the stamen’s flower blooms on the pistil’s tree branches. The number of flowers a pistil has is proportional to that of the stamens they had sex with. In this fic, pistils with many flowers are considered promiscuous and experience slut shaming based on religion.

Marked - The term used to describe a pistil who has received a stamen’s flower on their body.

Mugunghwa - The national flower of South Korea.

Gukseon - A Chief officer of a Hwarang group. The Hwarang were an elite warrior group in Silla, an ancient kingdom of the Korean Peninsula until the 10th century.

Seonsaengnim - A respectful honorific for a teacher.

/

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories. 

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd​ - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd & daddytaehyungie). Request an AO3 account here.

#taegi #taehyung x yoongi #bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #taehyung angst #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #yoongi fanfic #yoongi angst #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff #tfk

[imkittyjustkitty]

① all that's dead and gone and passed

🔱 — i'd meet the sea ༄ ⠀finnick odair x tribute!reader series ⚔️ 🔖) CHAPTER ONE [two] [three] [four] [five] [six] [seven] [eight]

chapter summary; Your backstory. Growing up in District 10, training for the games, being reaped... And coming home. warnings; unhealthy family dynamics/childhood, knives/weapons, blood & mild wounds, mentions of animal death & reader killing them, missing persons, mentions of reader killing several people, like one swear word A/N; this chapter is just to establish reader's backstory and set up the timing for everything. it's pretty heavy but i don't describe anything too graphically so even if you're a bit squeamish this should be fine!!

The Hunger Games are an entertainment show in all the ways that matter, if anyone plans on surviving them that's how they need to view it. Yes, they serve the purpose they're stated to — they keep the districts at bay, they keep the people's ambitions down and their behaviour in-line — but that's only for the districts.

For the Capitol? When it comes down to it, It's the entertainment event of the year - and a tribute intent on survival needs to treat it like one.

Growing up your mother would teach you how to wield knives and other weapons on the weekends. The memory of losing her brother to the games when she was only 14 and he was only 13 stayed fresh in her mind every time when you were growing up that you'd watch the reaping each year with her, lectures reaching your ears about how one day that would be you, one day you'll be sent off and she'll be damned if you don't make it back.

She'd grip tightly onto your hand every time, almost drawing blood as her nails duck into your soft skin and her hold on you strong.

She would whisper to you in those moments everything about combat she had taught you, mere minutes before each year's reaping she was no longer your mother but rather someone who had known loss and refused to meet it's merciless face yet again. You were not a warrior, you were a soldier who would hang intently onto her every word and order as you would stand with your mother, understanding that in only a few years you would be stood with the other kids your age, waiting to see if you would finally be thrown into the war your mother had been preparing you for.

She treated it like an unavoidable reality, you had been anticipating being reaped your whole life.

Your father on the other hand, saw the games for what they were, entertainment. He'd heard tales passed down generations of family's, friends, brief acquaintances who whispered of the Covey — of the singing girl — how the people of the Capitol latched their claws into her innocent flesh and ate away at her like she was some sort of idol to be held in the limelight and shown off to the world.

Your father understood that what the Capitol wanted was a good show, keep the eyes of their people on the drama and the 'plot'-twists as they punished the descendants of rebels generations after the damage had already been long-since done.

After you'd come home from your mother's training sessions, slight smears of blood grazing along your fingertips and creeping across your warm cheeks, your father would pull you aside as you both would tend to the livestock. He would recall previous tributes, the Covery girl's story always on the tip of his tongue during the lessons, and other young girls who played the part of innocent daughters who were just so excited to be in the Capitol to experience it all - and thus grabbing for the hearts of the Capitol and holding them gently in their grasps. He spoke of the sisters and brothers who simply 'wanted to get back home to their family, please', and who would tear up during their interviews as they recalled all the loving details of their upbringings.

Your father would mention all the facades that tributes tried their desperate hands at, going into detail into every single one and encouraging you to mimic the attributes these children would put on to find any angle that would endear the audiences to themselves.

As you grew, your preparation for The Hunger Games became a second nature. Wake up, feed the cattle, train with your mother, have dinner, practise your act. You were okay with most of the weapons your mother would drop into your hands, you were cool and calculated and never once let it get to you - you hadn't been phased by the fact that this was training for a life-or-death battle since before you'd started middle school.

You and your father had agreed on an act you both had labelled 'The Capitol's Misplaced Jewel', he described it to you like a needle in a haystack. A young farm-raised child that embodied everything that the Capitol citizens would imagine a District 10 citizen to be like, thick accent, crooked smile, but a twinkle in their eyes, all the attributes of a kid who'd grown up in a place where they'd early-on had to learn how to snap a chicken's neck — but without those details, no-one would root for you if they thought you were anything but the digestible image they'd created in their uneducated little heads. You would play the part of a young child who yearned for the glitz and glamour of a world that felt just so tragically out of reach.

And then you turned 12.

Your first proper reaping felt like the end of worlds, you stood among your peers perfectly still. You waited, for your name to be called, to be sent off to the Capitol to do what you'd been taught to do, at twelve years old you closed your eyes for a moment and waited for the rapture, knowing deep down that this was your moment.

And then it all went back to normal, exactly one day went by where it was like you were a five year old just helping out on your family's farm again — and then it was back to the training and acting practice.

Your father was relieved — but even then at only twelve, you could see the confliction in your mother's eyes. She'd given you all of her time and energy to train you to survive something she was so sure you'd get reaped into as soon as you were of age... And yet?

This repeated the next year. It was like the world had ignored your call, forgetting what you were meant for and just dropping you on the side-lines without a care.

Your mother left the next year when you yet again failed to be reaped. She left in the night with almost sign of her departure, not even a note, just a brand new knife stabbed into your bedside table and an air of injustice sweeping through your home that was now only shared between you and your father.

Year after year you were denied your passage to the Capitol.

You stopped waiting for it, you stopped staying up late at night wishing for your name to be plucked out of the signature glass bowl. You moved on.

18 years old and still you lived in the same old farm-house with your same old life that seemed to never change with the tides.

You remember the day vividly - something you're not used to being able to do anymore — you remember the scratch of the over-all's you'd worn to every reaping since you were sixteen, the collared shirt you'd borrowed from your father sticking to your rough skin in the dry summer air as you slowly moved with the flow of other District 10 citizens to the town hall.

You hadn't been listening, well aware of the safety net you'd been granted that seemed to decide you would be free of the games forever.

And then several of your classmates were pushing you away, towards the makeshift stage in front of the town hall. Your eyelids were heavy and confused as the peacekeepers had grabbed you by both your arms and practically dragged you up to the podium.

A man was talking to you, his skin was pale and paper-thin, makeup caked on his slim body and an air of superiority that made you view him as a seventy year old who'd just taken his first dose of morphling and had yet to experience the actual effects — the paper-bag of a man looked like he felt he was above it all, and you bet he felt like such a charitable person for lifting you up to there with him.

The other tribute was fourteen years old and rather good at pretending they weren't scared shitless — you were pretty sure you'd never seen them before in your life.

Your goodbyes consisted of your father reminding you of your 'ditzy farm-raised persona' and how you should act as them. You didn't know how to feel about that at that point, the act you and your father had curated fit a small chubby-cheeked wide-eyed twelve year old, not the hardened closed-off eighteen year old you'd grown into.

One other person came to say goodbye, an old woman who you were pretty sure had been an enemy of your mother's after she had taken too long to find the right amount of hay one winter's day.

She simply reached out to you and held your hand, nodding to herself more than to you. The moment was silent, until you'd grown suffocated by her presence and pushed the frail woman away. She smelt like your mother, she probably thought like her too, probably only came to wish you luck because of some guilt she had felt in the past.

You didn't help her back up after she'd tripped over the carpet and hit the ground harshly, but you didn't kick her while she was down.

You found yourself wishing that your mother would join you for one last time, and perhaps even sneak a knife into your pocket for good measure.

She never did of course, she was long gone and you knew it.

Stepping out of the town hall towards the train that would be your ticket to the Capitol was easy for you, you felt a déjà vu that told you you were doing what you had meant to be doing in all those years prior.

Everything from there was crystal clear, from the chariots to your interview to every single moment spent in the arena. You remember every single kill, everything you said, every gasp you elicited from disgusted Capitol members during your three minute interview with Caesar Flickerman. You had dropped the idea of the farm-girl act, you were eighteen and looked even older — not a single person would believe you to be a bright-eyed bushy-tailed girl who just dreamed to indulge in the glitz and glamour of the Capitol.

No, you had the rough blistered hands of someone who could be gossiped to be a cold-blooded murderer back home and people would believe it, the sunken eyes that should belong on the face of a worn-out single mother who refuses to let go of her dwindling hope. You were a ghost of who you were meant to be, so you took a different angle in curating a Hunger Games Persona.

You told Caesar the detailed story of the first time you'd had to kill an animal, staring right into a camera lens or right into his bright eyes. You fabricated a story of countless friends you had lost due to your violent inclinations, of your yearning for blood. The Capitol hated you, they were your villain, the one everyone wanted gone.

But you were the one who refused to 'just die already!', who in turn took up a considerable amount of screen-time just for the shock-value of it all.

You'd struck up an alliance with your district partner — Aleks — they turned out to be somewhat capable with tracking setting traps. You immediately 'befriended' them, noticing the merit in having a sort of ally by your side would up your chances of survival.

You spent 2 days in the arena with them, they grew to trust you, you were almost like an older sibling figure to them. You didn't make that mistake, of forming an attachment to someone who was only one of the pieces in the puzzle that would get you to winning the games. Their back had been turned to you as they walked carefully in front of you, their assumption being that the two of you were searching for food. You drove a dagger right through their chest and could practically hear the cries of indignation flying from Capitol citizens' mouths.

Winning the 68th Annual Hunger Games, to you, was inevitable — it had to happen — it was what you were always meant to do.

You had heard wind at one point of some Capitol citizens protesting against your victor's tour, but when you stood in front of the crowd of all the colourful people, they cheered. You were their ugly duckling, someone who's name would be mentioned followed by a statement of 'I can fix them'. You'd even heard of the odd citizen who found you morbidly attractive in a sense, dedicated fan clubs flocking to your bloodied feet with giddy squeals.

You were spared the 'opportunity' of staying in the Capitol, no matter how crazed your 'fans' were, they were few and a bit of a guilty pleasure that Capitol citizens mostly hid, the larger population lightheaded with fear at the mere possibility of you walking their streets.

You returned home to find your father dead and your childhood home shattered, years of life lost to ruin.

And so, with your past all but burnt to the ground and your purpose fulfilled, you supposed the victor's village became a sort of tomb.

But it seems even the dead don't get to rest, not with the third annual quarter quell stalking right around the corner.

series taglist: @universal-s1ut @stitch-lele @starrgirl4444 let me know if you want to be added or removed!

#finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine #finnick x y/n #finnick x you #finnick odair #hunger games x reader #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games x you #the hunger games x y/n #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair x you #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #hunger games finnick #hunger games fic #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games fandom #i'll be a leading lady if i get my shot — my writing

[karume-everything-else]

Flufftober 2023

Day 11: "Don't say that!" [Reader x Frieza] {Dragon Ball Z/ Super}

You were breathing heavily, the effort of summoning your ki was a little too much considering you'd never done so before. It was something you were only interested in because the artificial gravity on the ship was not your best friend. There were spots where you had to hold the wall or else walk on it and risk falling through doors, there were times when the ship moved too fast and you couldn't keep up, there were even times you were trying to follow Frieza or Deidara or just some random soldier around... and you were being absolutely left in the dust.

But Frieza was patient, far more patient with you than with anyone else he trained. And he was certain you'd get the hang of this eventually... considering the alternative was getting you a pod like his and he wasn't ready for that level of commitment just yet. Only a few months ago he had the nerve to say 'I love you' out loud... to jump straight to matching pods felt like rushing.

Sure, he only admitted that to you... and had made absolutely certain that no one else was around to hear him. But he still said it and meant it. Even if he was terrified of what might happen if others found out you two were dating to begin with...

"That was a good start, but you need to try again." Frieza floated just close enough so you'd have to jump to reach him, "You almost cleared the floor. This time it looked like you were able to better support your weight, so come now. Try again [Name]."

The fact that you were shaking had Frieza a little on edge, "I... I need to catch my breath first. That... I dunno how but, holding my breath helps at the moment."

"That's... concerning." Frieza lowered himself to the floor, "You shouldn't be doing that. Maybe it helps you focus a little, but its a habit that needs to be broken. Now come on, try again."

You didn't really know what else to do, just gather your ki and force yourself up without jumping. It sounded easy, but you just weren't getting the hang of it. Even as you rose upward, you could feel yourself threatening to topple over. It was similar to the times you'd gone skating... if only it were that easy.

While your toes were just barely starting to leave the ground, you lurched forward. Right into Frieza's chest as he caught you, trying to hold you steady. You were clinging to him like a life preserver, it was taking all your energy to just hover a couple centimeters off the floor...

And just when you were about to let go of Frieza, your ki gave out again. You fell to the floor, twisting your ankle on the way down.

"[Name]! Are you alright?"

"No, I think I sprained my ankle or something."

You gasped a little as Frieza helped you to your feet, "That was a good attempt... but maybe you're just low on energy. After you get fixed up, you should try to eat something and try again."

"I don't think this is going to work." You held onto his pod as you hobbled around, "I can barely muster the energy to float off the ground and every time I think I'm getting better I get hurt."

"Don't say that!" Frieza practically yelled at you, "You're doing an amazing job so far. Much better than someone who's never harnessed their ki before should be doing at this time. I won't hear another word of your self-doubt [Name]. Don't go talking about my lover like that."

You couldn't help but chuckle a little. Then you realized you were pressing something on the pod's dashboard. Frieza peered over your shoulder as you leaned in... then his whole body seemed to flush paler than ever.

The button you'd hit was the command button... now the whole ship knew you two were dating... He should have checked where your hands were before saying anything...

#x reader #dbz fandom #dbz frieza #dbz super #dbz x reader #frieza x reader #frieza #dragon ball z #dragon ball z x reader #flufftober 2023

[salstray]

Keegan P. Russ x fem!Reader - Guardian Angel - part 3 3rd person pov warnings: blood, guns, knife wounds 1.8k words

--

~The Meet Cute~

Part 1 = Part 2

--

No one was invincible. 

Keegan was always careful to remember that. It didn’t matter how much training you had, how many years you’d been at it, and sometimes it didn’t even matter how careful you were. Sometimes it was just sheer luck that got you where you were. 

In this case, it was bad luck.

It wasn’t life threatening. A knife wound on his thigh, a few inches off from his artery, but leaking blood like it didn’t matter. Like it wanted to kill him or, at the very least, leave a crystal clear trail of crimson in the snow. A perfect path for every Fed soldier combing the mountain side to use like birds following breadcrumbs.

It wasn’t life threatening. Not in the traditional sense at least, but he was alone out here. Alone, unlucky, and outnumbered. 

He needed to move. To push himself away from the tree against his shoulder and head deeper into the frozen underbrush. Hide himself somewhere low and quiet where he could deal with his leg and wait for the all clear from Merrick, but it wouldn’t matter where he hid, how well he covered his boot tracks, if the blood was still dripping from his heel with every step. 

The not so distant sounds of Spanish reached his ears and he resisted the urge to swear into the open. They were too close. Too damn close for him to do anything. 

Keegan crouched low, wincing silently at the pull of flesh at the edges of his wound. The warm gush of his blood squeezing out of his veins made an unpleasant shudder roll up his spine, but he took a deep breath and raised his gun instead of dwelling on it. Getting hurt was never fun, yet it was still part of the job. 

He put his scope up to his eye, slowly scanning it back and forth, spotting the shifting of his enemies and their snow-colored camo through the trunks of the surrounding pines. Keegan counted six men and pressed his lips together under his mask. They way they were spread out? He’d get two… maybe three before the others clocked his position and pinned him behind his meager cover. Even so, just because he counted six didn’t mean there weren’t more. Fuck knows there had been more in the convoy he’d been following-

Keegan almost jumped right out of his skin at the feeling of warm, soft fingertips barely brushing against the nape of his neck. The only sliver of flesh he showed besides the painted space around his eyes and the newly exposed tear in his own white and gray patterned cargo pants. 

He whipped around, gun barrel at the ready, sweeping it from side to side into the empty air behind him, panting at the sudden rush of adrenaline and the surge of fear that pulsed through him. 

Suddenly, something snapped. Loud and echoing, on the other side of the enemy, the opposite side of the forest from where he was hiding. Distant. Distracting. Sending them off shouting, weapons ready, crashing through the dormant shrubs and low hanging branches like hunting hounds after a fox. Keegan turned back to watch them, noting in his mind as his heart steadied again that he now counted eleven men tromping their way through the snow. 

He was touched again, feather-light, warm against his frigid skin, and Keegan flinched. 

“Easy,” that voice called, making him freeze all at once. “Let me help.” 

The hand at his scruff gently slid to his shoulder, but before it could settle there, before the other hand could slide past him to rest on his thigh and heal the wound that was still dripping onto the snow, Keegan stood and turned. 

His gun was up, the hot end pointed directly into a pair of shimmering eyes. Wide and worried, but not at all afraid and not even slightly surprised. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Keegan growled, low and quiet, well aware of the fact that he was still in enemy territory. Still close to a lot of people that wanted him dead. 

“Your leg-” 

“Answer me or I will shoot you.” 

It was a woman. Shorter than him, softer than him. Not even dressed for the weather… no vest, no radio, no flag to show her loyalty to one side or the other. Just… clothes. She wasn’t even shivering and the mountain was nearly below freezing at this time of year. His brow pinched ever so slightly and his eyes narrowed harshly as he took her in. Watched her stand there, her hands slightly raised in surrender, her flickering eyes dancing between his own and the place he’d been stabbed. 

When she spoke to him again, it was a name. Her name. Then a small smile curled at her lips and Keegan’s heart did something… funny at the sight of it. Something he didn’t exactly like that it was doing. 

“What are you doing out here?” He hissed, keeping his gun level with the tip of her nose. “Where did you come from?” Keegan’s eyes barely moved. Barely glanced at the fresh, unbothered snow behind her. It was pushed up around her shoes, bunched up at her ankles and near her calves, but there was no trail behind her that suggested she’d walked up to him. It looked more like she’d just… appeared where she stood.

“I want to help you.” 

“How?”

Her eyes, still bright with emotion, fell back to his thigh. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not the first time,” he grunted.

She huffed, her smile twitching up on one side. “Not the last either, I’m sure, but I’ll be there for you then too. Like I was up in that sniper nest… remember? The house on the hill?” Keegan’s jaw shifted under his mask, the rough, aged fabric rubbing uncomfortably against the stubble that grew there. 

It had been four months since that day. Since he’d been shot, nearly killed, yet got up and walked off like it had never happened. He dreamed about that night. Constantly. Vividly. A picture perfect reenactment his unconscious mind gave him to analyze over and over and over again. A situation that he’d still not come to terms with. Something he still couldn’t rationalize in any way that made sense.

“You…,” he muttered, voice barely more than a rough, ragged whisper. “...that was you.” 

She beamed at him, her smile full and bright and… beautiful.

“Yeah. That was me.” She clasped her hands behind her back. Again, her gaze fell to his leg. “Will you let me do it again?”

“M’ not dying this time.” 

“Don’t need to be dying for me to help,” she stated. “Just need to be hurt.” Then she looked right down the barrel of his rifle and Keegan, for some fucking reason, felt himself flush under all the paint. Slowly, he let it fall back down towards the ground, the butt of it sliding loose from the nest of his shoulder. 

“Right.” Maybe it was stupid, maybe she was some Fed assassin that had come down from the trees or something, but he took his eyes off of her. Turned to look the way his known enemies had gone, making sure they were still running off after their red herring, then turned to face her again, nodding once. 

He was tense when she took a trudging step forward. Had his fingers tight against the icy metal of his gun, all his muscles wound up and at the ready, should he need them. 

She didn’t attack him, however. Didn’t pull out a knife and gut him where he stood. Just reached forward with one hand, splaying her fingers across the now ruby red fabric, her palm pressing into the gore with a silent squelch that made him press his lips together under the mask. His eyes flickered down to the contact, then back to her face and he decided all at once that he didn’t like the way blood looked on her skin, but he did like the look of concentration that twisted her features. It was… cute.

Keegan almost had to shake his head to dislodge the thought from his mind. Now was not the time.

He’d already felt the warmth of her hand through his layers. She wasn’t even touching him skin to skin, but he could feel it through everything. Feel the way it poured into his bones, into the twitching skin as it slowly sewed itself back together. The chill of drying blood vanished too and Keegan’s eyes widened a touch as it faded from his white camo. First a bright sort of vermilion, then a rapidly vanishing pink, then back to the broken pattern of gray, white, and black that hid him in the mountains and the forest. 

When his eyes met hers she was smiling again and he felt the absolutely traitorous pull of a matching gesture at the right side of his lips.

He’d never been more thankful for the mask. 

“There. All better.” 

“What are you?” he breathed, blinking a few times as his thoughts caught up to him. As the reality of what had just happened was finally carved permanently into the wrinkles of his brain. 

“Just someone that wants to keep you safe,” she answered simply. She took a step back, her feet planted back into her original prints and bent to the side to look past his arm, out towards the trees. “You shouldn’t stay here. The Federation is still too close.” 

As if on queue, the low growl of Merrick’s voice filtered through the static of his radio and Keegan jolted as it sounded in his ear.

“Keegan! Time’s up, Hesh’ll be waitin’ for ya by the river mouth. Haul ass, Feds aren’t happy and they know we’re here!”

The motion he made to reach up and respond was second nature at this point. “Copy,” he rasped, eyes still locked on the strange, pretty thing in front of him. When his glove settled back on his weapon, he spoke again. To her. “When am I gonna see you again?” 

She shrugged. “Depends on when you get hurt again.” 

What if I wanna see you outside of that? He had so many questions he wanted to ask. So many things he didn’t understand about her and why she was even here. To help him, sure. She’d said that point blank, but why him? Why not any of the other Ghosts? Why not any other soldier out there, fighting to take back their home? 

Keegan didn’t voice any of them, though. He simply grunted, adjusted his hold on his rifle, and glanced over his shoulder, back out over the snow. 

And when he turned to give her some sort of goodbye, he found only fluttering snow and frosty wind in front of him. Along with two deep pits where she once stood. The only evidence that he hadn’t, in fact, lost his mind up on that hill, in that house. 

So, instead of speaking, he sighed. Heavily. 

Then turned and bent at the knee, gun barrel raised and eyes sharp.

--

#Call of Duty #Call of Duty: Ghosts #CoD Ghosts #Keegan P Russ #Keegan P Russ x Reader #Keegan CoD #Keegan x Reader #Fem!Reader #Keegan x Fem!Reader #Keegan P Russ x Fem!Reader #oh my god its part 3! #oh my god reader is finally SPOTTED

[taizi]

find another guiding light

rise of the tmnt pairing: don & leo, don & raph, don & mikey word count: 4k title borrowed from dear reader by t swift pre&post-movie

read on ao3

x

“What the hell are we gonna do about Leon?” Donnie says one day when both his older brother and his twin are gone from the lair on a two-man training run that is almost certainly going to end in disaster.

He doesn’t know why he says it. He certainly isn’t expecting any answer that isn’t just an annoyed groaning sound, because what other answer even is there?

But Mikey replies, “You mean how self-destructive he’s been lately?” and it puts Donnie fully on the back foot.

“What?” Donnie says blankly.

“Is that not what we’re talking about?”

“I mean—I guess—I wouldn’t have called it that,” Donnie says, but now that he’s saying it he’s not sure.

Mikey snorts. The sound is humorless. “What else would you call it? Running around throwing himself face-first at every bad guy we find without waiting for back-up, refusing to hang back and come up with a plan even though it used to be his favorite part of a mission, not listening to anybody about anything—it’s like he forgot what self-preservation even is.”

Donnie is thinking really hard and really fast, looking at the last few months through this new lens.

Leo’s their self-proclaimed face-man, but he’s also the idea guy. Donnie is an outright genius when it comes to science and engineering and everything in between, but his twin isn’t stupid. Leo is as clever and Machiavellian as any storybook trickster, and tactics come as easily to him as breathing.

He’s always been the one to suggest a plan, to guide his brothers back on track, to keep them from getting in over their heads. The only times he and Raph ever used to butt heads was when Leo had an idea more stealth than smash.

Donnie would never admit it out loud but Leo’s had those qualities since they were kids. He’s charismatic and charming, a theater kid at heart with the modified genetics of a super soldier and a mind every bit as bright as Donatello’s, even as it twists and turns down other avenues. It made sense that he’d be shoehorned into a leadership role as he got a little older. Leo is the type of person who would be thrilled to captain the crew.

So then why did Leo do a complete 180?

And Mikey made another point, too, whether or not he knows it. If Leo was just being a huge jerk outright, Dr. Delicate Touch would have made an appearance by now and shut that shit down hard. But the fact is, Dr. Feelings has taken point on this one—and if there’s one thing Donnie’s learned the hard way, it’s that Mikey in feelings mode is usually the right one to listen to.

Mikey is watching his pastries rise in the oven. Donnie can see his expression reflected in the glass door. It’s flattened out into plain worry.

“He never tells us any of the important stuff,” the youngest Hamato says, tone uncharacteristically bitter. “He just goes on and on about things that don’t matter until we’re distracted, and it works every stupid time.”

“Leo’s always been that way,” Donnie interjects half-heartedly. “You can’t come at him head-on about stuff or he clams up. You gotta go in a series of annoying, convoluted circles to get to the heart of the thing. He’s literally the creature in the middle of the labyrinth.”

Mikey points at Donnie, as if to say ‘you got me there.’ “And that’s exactly why I don’t think Raphie’s method is helping.”

It’s obviously something he doesn’t want to admit. Mikey is his brothers’ number one fan and cheerleader first, person second. He bites the inside of his lip and starts twisting his fingers in a manner that promises to be painful. Donnie digs into the pocket of his hoodie and shoves one of his own mesh and marble fidget toys across the table at him. It’s an obnoxious lime green color and it makes Mikey smile involuntarily. He twists the toy instead and Donnie falls back into his train of thought running at roughly mach ten.

Raph’s method of confronting anything is head-on. That’s just the type of guy he is—steady and solid and unflinching. And they all depend on him the way most other people probably depend on the sun to rise every morning. Donnie literally does not know how they would make it a single day without Raphael, and prefers not to think about it.

But that also means that Raph and Leo can be like oil and water. And suddenly, the ‘A Team’’s constant bickering and late-night shouting matches and cold shoulders makes more sense.

“I don’t know what to do,” Mikey admits, this empathetic powerhouse with more emotional intelligence in one finger than Donnie has in his whole body. It’s incredibly disheartening to hear. “So for now I just want Leo to know that someone’s on his team.”

Whatever else he might have said is cut off by the familiar electric snap of a portal opening near the turnstiles, and then a second later Raph and Leo materialize in the lair, mid-roof-raising-argument.

Raph is carrying Leo carefully through the living room. There’s blood on his hands, enough to make Mikey suck in a breath from his station in front of the oven. Right away, the facts come together in Donnie’s brain: Leo got hurt.

What looks like all the bandages from the medkit on his waist are wrapped around his arm. Whatever happened, it was bad enough to push out those stress lines around Raph’s eyes and mouth, bad enough that he still hasn’t set Leo on his own two feet, like he might be able to undo all the pain if he just keeps holding him. But Leo is doing what Leo always does, hiding whatever he’s actually feeling behind a smarmy grin and a smart-ass attitude, and Raph’s fear and worry and love have coalesced into something huge and ferocious that sounds a lot like anger.

Now Donnie knows what to look for.

“—what happens when you don’t listen!” Raph snaps furiously. “God, Leo, it’s like you don’t even care!”

“Why should I? Look where it’s gotten you!”

Something darts through Mikey’s eyes that makes Don want to snap at something.

“Leo,” he says, his flat tone cutting through the fight like a souped-up soldering iron through the cheap components of a certain rat’s ancient CRT TV (not that he would know), “you’re still bleeding.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Raph and Leo both look down at the slider’s arm. Red is blooming across the crisp white gauze. Mikey makes a wounded noise. Right away, Leo clambers out of Raph’s arms with a joke to make their youngest feel better—“It’s okay, Miguel, you should see the other guy!”—and Raph’s getting heated again at the apparent flippancy, and god, it never fucking ends, does it?

Leo is retreating further and further into this new character that doesn’t care about himself or anybody else, and it’s happening right before Donnie’s eyes. He’s already slinking away, out of the warmth and light of the kitchen, away from his family

Donnie realizes abruptly that there is a non-zero chance he might lose his twin brother. That one day he might wake up and not know Leo anymore.

He stands up, chair screeching behind him.

“Lesser twin, with me.”

Leo opens his mouth to try to get out of it, but that’s not going to happen. Donnie’s not having it. With the way their bodies work—ninpo and genetic modifications and yokai-isms, oh my—if it’s still bleeding, it needs stitches. And Leo, self-made team medic, ought to know that.

He gives Leo a look that says Remember when Taylor Swift’s Folklore album came out and you performed the entire thing in my lab and I swore I didn’t record you? I one-thousand-percent recorded you.

Leo’s look back succinctly says You motherfucker.

But he falls in next to Donnie without another word, a move that probably bewilders their brothers into next year. He definitely isn’t happy about it. He’s still prickly and defensive. It seems like he’s waiting to get ganged up on.

Raph starts to follow them and Donnie says, “I got it.” He shoves Leo a step ahead of him, putting his own body between him and Raph like a wall. It doesn’t feel good to do it. He chooses cowardice and doesn’t look back at whatever Raph’s expression looks like as a result.

Behind them, ever-reliable Mikey jumps in immediately with a bright, “You can help me with the cupcakes, Raph! We’re doing cream-filled red velvet!”

In the infirmary, Donnie points Leo toward a cot. Leo rolls his eyes and hops up to sit on the edge of it. He starts unwinding the gauze from around his arm agreeably enough, wincing a bit when the final layer sticks and comes away with a painful pull.

Don’s stomach swoops unpleasantly at the sight of the torn skin. It’s definitely not the worst he’s seen—they’ve taken worse damage flubbing skateboarding moves on the half-pipe—but it’s still not nice to look at. He takes a moment to swallow hard, then asks, “What happened?”

“Typical oozesquito shenanigans,” Leo says off-handedly. “Alley cat? Adorable. Mutated yokai alley cat? Not as much.”

Donnie grimaces sympathetically. “Claws or teeth?”

“Teeth. Hey, do you think we can get rabies?”

“I can’t wait to find out.” Putting rabies vaccinations at the top of his mental to-do list, Donnie gestures with a sweep of his arm at the infirmary. “This is your domain, Nerdo. Where’s the stuff I need?”

“You know I don’t actually need an assist. Like you said, my domain.”

“Wow that’s a super interesting non-answer to my question.”

With a dramatic, put-upon sigh, Donnie’s little brother points him in the right direction and says, “Steri-strips are in the top left cabinet.”

Immensely grateful he wasn’t directed towards the suture needles or the skin stapler, because as willing as he is to help it really doesn’t take much for Vomitello to make a guest appearance, the softshell rummages through Leo’s meticulously organized industrial-tool-chest-turned-medical-supply-cabinet, triumphantly coming up with a pack of adhesive bandages and some antiseptic wipes after a moment.

He pushes the wheeled stool over with his foot and it bounces gently off Leo’s knee, shuddering to a stop just in front of him. Leo tries to kick it as Donnie sits down and nearly succeeds, giggling like a menace when Donnie staggers and almost eats it face-first on the floor.

“Okay,” Don says loudly, not actually as annoyed as he’s trying to sound. “Arm.”

“Donald, seriously, I got it.”

“Leonard, seriously, I will upload that T Swift footage today.”

Leo mimics him with all the maturity of a three-year-old but ultimately surrenders his arm. He looks tense and uncomfortable the whole time, like he’s forgotten how to let someone this close.

And Donnie thinks about what Mikey said in the kitchen, about wanting Leo to know he had someone on his team. He thinks about how things were a year ago, when that would have gone without saying.

It doesn’t take long to wipe down Leo’s arm and press the steri-strips over the wound. Then Donnie sits next to him on the cot. Neither of them speak up right away. They can both tell this is going to be a Moment, and Donnie, for one, is bracing himself. He gets the feeling that he really, truly, can’t fuck this one up.

“I know something’s percolating in that abstruse brain of yours,” he finally says. “So talk. But do me a favor and skip over all the posturing and trying to convince me nothing’s going on and lying right to my face, okay? I don’t know how much time we have before Mikey kicks the door in and drags us to a TED talk.”

It’s as much of a threat as it needs to be. Grudgingly, like he’s prying each word up out of the mud, Leo mutters, “I want dad to take it back.”

Donnie wants more than anything to shake Leo until all of his secrets fall out of his mouth and Donnie can sweep them away to a safer place. Like an encrypted folder on his computer. But he can’t do that, so he has to settle for—ughh, patience.

It pays off. Leo admits, in the safe, familiar space of his infirmary, that he doesn’t want to be team leader. He doesn’t want things to change. His crooked, cooked-up scheme is to just—fuck up over and over again until papa decides Leo can’t be trusted with that mantle that rightfully belongs to Raph.

Donnie understands him. Of course he does. He hates change, too. It makes him feel itchy and restless. He likes knowing what to expect. He likes when everything is in the same place he left it.

If Leo wanted to be the leader, he’d be good at it. As long as he doesn’t want to, he won’t be. So it’s a scheme—Donnie can get behind that. He knows whose side he’s on. It’s the side he’s always been on, since the day he read the definition of “twin” out of a water-logged dictionary. It’s his job to be here. Leo’s kind of an idiot for expecting him to be anywhere else.  

“Not a bad hypothesis,” Donnie says, pressing their shoulders together. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Leo’s face split in an honest smile. “It’d probably work a lot better for you if you’d let Raph in on it, you know.”

“Please, are you kidding?” Leo scoffs. “As if he’d ever play along. Half the time I think he must hate me. I stole his job and now I’m not even doing it right.”

Are we talking about the same person? Donnie wants to demand. Raphael, the guy who carried you home not even twenty minutes ago? The guy who’s always carried you?

He doesn’t say that. Instead, he says, “Let me handle Raph.”

Back in the kitchen, the cupcakes are filled and in the process of being frosted. Mikey’s going all out, piping bag in hand, an assortment of edible decorations spread across the counter. Raph is gamely assisting to the best of his ability, even though his big fingers make it more of a task than it rightly should be. They both glance up when Donnie and Leo come in.

“Hey, your timing is as suspiciously convenient as always,” Mikey says cheerfully. “I need to take some pics for my Insta but after that you better come eat some of these.”

“Everything good?” Raph asks gruffly.

“Todo esta bien, hermano,” Leo says, breezing inside like he hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes unloading his fear of failure and inadequacy, as well as his certainty that the big brother he admires so much doesn’t like him anymore. “It smells like magic in here! Michael, we gotta get you a sponsor or something. The world needs to experience this.”

Mikey laughs and passes Leo a piping bag. “Raphie’s working on a rainbow sprinkle unicorn cupcake over there, and you’ll never guess who that one’s for.”

The surprise that darts across Leo’s face hurts to look at. His eyes drop down to the lopsided multi-colored creation taking shape under Raph’s clumsy hands. He looks more vulnerable in that moment than he has since the day dad unceremoniously turned everything they knew upside down.

“Raph, I need to talk to you,” Donnie says loudly because he’s about to get mad and do something he’ll probably regret, like put his fist through the projector in the TV room. “Chop-chop. The sprinkles can wait.”

“The sprinkles cannot,” Mikey and Leo chorus at the same time in exactly the same tone like the freaks of nature they are. Raph makes the right choice and escapes their company, following Don down the tunnel toward his corner of the lair.

“Okay, focus up,” Donnie says the second the reinforced door is closed behind them.  “We’re getting your old job back.”

He understands why the infirmary gave Leo the courage to talk. His lab does the same for him. It’s like Mikey’s kitchen, Raph’s dojo—they each have a place that makes them feel their best.

“Wait, what?” Raph looks bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“The leader schtick, Raphala, keep up please. Leo’s going to keep sabotaging himself at full-speed until papa sees the light and demotes him. I’d like to see that happen before he breaks all of the bones in his body.”

Raph’s brow furrows beneath his mask. “Hang on, is that what he’s doing? I thought he just—didn’t care.”

Donnie gives that remark the deeply unimpressed look it deserves. “Right. Leonardo Hamato, the guy who started teaching himself field medicine when he was eight years old after you sprained your ankle and he cried for two hours because he didn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t care.”

He kind of feels bad for dumping this on Raph the way he has, but honestly. They’ve been stuck in place for months now, and Mikey’s been on edge constantly with all the fighting, and Leo’s going to get himself killed trying to prove something no one else believes, and Donnie can feel something toothed and tender coming alive inside his chest, trying to bite and claw and fight its way out.

Leo’s afraid you hate him, he doesn’t say, but he wants to. Leo’s scared all the time now. Of course he’s been acting like an asshole, when’s the last time he actually told somebody he was scared?

Donnie’s the fixer. He wants to fix this. If Raph would just get on board, maybe he’ll be able to.

“If Leo wanted to be the leader, we would have heard about it one million times every single day since he was four, ” Donnie says plainly. “The fact is, we haven’t. Draw your own conclusion.”

“But he’d be good at it,” Raph says, his tone blank with surprise and a total lack of comprehension. “That’s why dad gave him that role in the first place. I was always supposed to be the placeholder while Leo grew up. And now if he’d just put in the effort—if he’d try—he’d be amazing.”

“Okay, and I’d be good at domestic terrorism, but somehow I think you’d frown upon me reaching my full potential there.”

“Donnie!” Raph looks scandalized, like the NSA might be listening in. Puh-lease.

“Look,” Donnie says. He has no idea why he’s the one fielding these feelings talks, but he gives it his best shot. It’s probably not fair to shovel it onto Mikey’s shoulders all the time anyway. “You’re not a placeholder anything. Don’t say that. You’re our leader. We’ve always followed you. If we didn’t want to, we wouldn’t. Especially Leo. He’s a nightmare person. He’s never done a single thing he didn’t want to do. He was happy being your right-hand man.”

The snapper stares at him. His eyes are all dewy, and Donatello prays to any imaginary higher power that might be listening that he won’t cry, because Donnie becomes absolutely useless in all directions the second his siblings cry.

Miraculously, Raph smiles instead.

“Okay,” he says. “Raph’s listening. Loop me in.”

Actually talking about stuff changes everything—who knew?

It’s like they’ve been stuck in a boarded up room for weeks and someone finally wrestled a window open and let in a fresh breeze. All the stagnant air got swept out and they could finally breathe again.

They’re all playing along now. There are multiple levels to this deception happening all at the same time. Raph and Leo still bicker where papa can hear it, but they’re as thick as thieves at all other times. Raph is the one who makes the final call on a mission, but he makes it a point to hash things out with Leo first, so it’s really their final call. Donnie watches as Leo learns the ropes without realizing he’s learning the ropes. As Raph teaches the way he probably would have liked for someone to teach him. They meet in the middle, on each other’s team, where they belong.

If Raph is the foundation they build their lives on, Leo is the sky they reach for. Gravity was all out of whack with the two of them at odds. Donnie never wants them to fall out of orbit ever again.

They still lost the key, but it wasn’t anybody’s fault in particular. They were all playing keep-away with it to tick off Hypno and what’s-his-name, and Mikey shouted, “Go long!” and Donnie flubbed the catch. Raph called out, “I got it, I got it!” and Leo took that as a challenge because of course he did and neither of them got it. They were all laughing about it. They had no idea what that stupid key was, how were they supposed to know it was going to end the world?

Casey Jones still came back from a broken future, and Raph still got captured by the Krang, and Leo still stepped up in a big way, accepting the responsibility he never wanted and leading his family forward into certain danger because he had nowhere else to lead them.

And Leo, who knew how to stack the deck in his favor, who had never done a single thing in his life that he didn’t want to do, looked death right in the eye and told it, “I missed on purpose.”

It’s a good thing Mikey came up with that Hail Mary pass in the form of a sunlight-golden portal, because Donnie’s mind went cold. Donnie’s mind went straight back to the plans for a particle accelerator that he’d abandoned when he was thirteen years old. Donnie was fully ready to rip this goddamn universe apart to get his twin brother back.

In the infirmary Leo is happy to see everyone crammed into the room and camped around his bed, and distressingly honest, though that part is largely thanks to the morphine. Donnie puts a firm kibosh on personal questions, as tempting as it is to grill him when he’s all loopy and his constant guard is non-existent.

“I love this song,” Leo mumbles out of nowhere at two o’clock in the morning, two days after the almost-end of the world.

Mikey’s dead to the world and sprawled on Leo’s plastron, because they’ve discovered through trial and error that the immediate weight and warmth of a sibling nearby keeps the panic at bay when Leo wakes up in the dark and doesn’t know where he is right away. Casey is asleep on the other side of the bed, his head pillowed on his arms. Raph and April are in a pile on the other bed, dozing fitfully.

Donnie’s tablet is in his lap but the screen went dark with inactivity an hour ago. He’s been watching his twin sleep, deep in thought. After dinner, he’d asked S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. to play one of Leo’s favorite albums through the speakers, low enough not to wake anyone in the infirmary on its own.

Now, he says, “Yeah, I know, Nardo. I’m going to end up on the DJ blacklist right next to you with all the Taylor Swift music I’ve been forcing everyone else to endure for your benefit.”

Leo smiles. With the deep bruising on his face and neck, it looks more daring than it should, here in his little corner of the world. “Admit it, Tello. You’re a Swiftie.”

“No one will ever believe you,” Donnie says, some weight in his heart beginning to lift the longer Leo looks back at him and sounds like his old self. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell,” Leo replies frankly. “Physical therapy is gonna be a B-word.”

“Thank you for unnecessarily censoring a word we’ve both heard a million times, I appreciate that.” Donnie leans forward, placing his tablet out of the way on a nearby overbed table, and says, “I have a question for you, now that you’re no longer lost in the sauce.”

“I bet it’s gonna suck,” Leo mutters.

“Do you still not want to lead us?” Donnie asks bluntly. “You saved the world, you know. I think it’s fair to say you’ve earned your stripes.”

Leo doesn’t answer right away. He’s drawing idle patterns on Mikey’s carapace with his good hand, staring up at the ceiling with hooded eyes.

“I learned my lesson,” he finally says. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

Whatever he has to. Donnie relives the moment that portal closed, the moment Leo took his own life in his hands to protect his family, the moment everything that Donnie knew was ripped apart in front of his eyes, and thinks, That’s a dangerous precedent.

“Not what I asked,” Don tells him.

“It’s not about me,” Leo replies tiredly. He’s Donnie’s little brother and he sounds ancient, like he’s lived too much life already.

“I don’t know what the hell that means, but fine,” Donnie snaps. “Then it’s about me. It’s about Raph and Mikey and April and Papa. Junior, even. Everyone who loves you more than life itself. It’s about us.” He stares Leo down, daring him to break eye contact, to make light or make a joke. Donnie will climb into that bed and strangle him and no jury on earth would convict him for it. “And you’re one of us. You’re our family. So it’s about you.”

For once in his life, Leonardo is speechless. He swallows a few times, tightens his grip around Mikey, and darts a guilty look toward Raph.

“I don’t want to do it alone,” Leo admits quietly. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re my other half, dumb-dumb,” Donnie tells him in no uncertain terms. “You could do any crazy, stupid, impossible thing you put your mind to. But,” he adds, because this is important, and it’s something all of his siblings could stand to hear at least a dozen more times until it’s successfully been drilled into their stubborn brains, “you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. You’re a kid, Leo. We all are. This never should have been our problem to solve.”

Then, because he can’t bear the way his younger twin’s eyes get full and wet, he adds, “Next time a warmongering alien race tries to take over the world, I’ll just do it first.”

Leo laughs out loud, like it was surprised out of him. Raph is stirred awake by the sound, and when he sees Leo’s up, he tries to lunge out of bed so fast that April ends up on the floor. Within minutes, everyone in the room is wide awake and talking over each other and the music is drowned out by all the noise. Not even a full forty-eight hours ago, Leo was trapped in a cold, dark place, where a monster held him down and hurt him—but now he’s here and he’s safe and he can still laugh. It’s a hoarse, wheezy sound, and it’s the best thing Donnie’s heard in days.

He’s got a good feeling about tomorrow.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #hamato donatello #hamato leonardo #disaster twins #b team #smash and smarts #my writing #tmnt fic

[nikkisheep]

Wanna Be Yours

Bucky Barnes x female reader

Warnings: ANGST, arguing, light swearing, situationship (kinda), mentions of the Winter Soldier, Bucky still has the words in his mind, this might suck (first time writing marvel)

Summary: Bucky has feelings for you but the thing is, you have them too. However, you can't handle it if he becomes the Winter Soldier again. But what happens when things come out after spending a week alone together in the compound.

Day 1

It was just you and Bucky in the compound since the rest were hidding from a threat. You and Buck were the only ones who were able to stay at the compound because the two of you ended up getting locked in the basement which you weren't allowed out until Tony told Friday to open the door for the two of you out. Tony called you to inform you to keep it down and it was safer if the two of you were to stay hidden in the lab, just don't touch anything.

You did not quite understand why the team didn't want the two of you to join them but you didn't question Tony and Steve's order. You were making food when Bucky strutted in the kitchen.

"I thought we weren't allowed out here," He chuckled.

"Well, Tony isn't going to know." You laugh before getting a pot from the cabinet.

Bucky walked up behind you, hugging your waist and dipping his head into the crook of your neck.

"Buck, I need to get the water."

"But let's just go hang out in the lab again," He offers.

"So you don't wanna eat my best dish of Mac n Cheese?"

"I do but I want to cuddle."

"I don't wanna cuddle. I'm hungry," You spin in his arms, coming face to face.

You look into his eyes, trying to keep your breathing under control. His warm breath fans across your face, you could smell his scent of the body wash he used after his shower. His metal hand rubbed circles on the small of your back.

"Buck-"

"FIne, I just wanted to cuddle." He pouts before pulling away. You immediately missed his warmth.

-----

Day 4

The two of you were laying together, watching a movie. It was a romantic movie and Bucky was making fun of you the entire time. He would laugh at every sigh, laugh, giggle, blush, and every time you cried over something they said. He felt like he was on top of the world with you in his arms.

He could smell the strawberry shampoo that you used this morning in your bath. He could feel how warm and soft your body was from under the blanket. He loved the way your body just fit right with his. He wanted to stay like this forever but when the timer went off for the cookies that you had made, you ran to the kitchen which left Bucky missing you immediately.

He sat there in the bed with a stupid love struck grin on his face.

"What's with the smile Bucko?" You laugh.

"I just like spending time with you."

"Right," you laugh, "You just want the first cookie."

"Do you think I am stupid? I already know that you ate one on the trip back here." He chuckled.

"How dare you accuse me of this?" You toss your hands into the air.

"Baby, I know you too well."

-----

Day 7

Training was difficult because you normally trained with Natasha since the two of you were both in the Red Room together. The two of you had similar fighting styles.

Bucky went to swing at you which you blocked very easily. But he ended up moving you closer and closer to the wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist before spinning to knock him down. Your chest was pressed against his. His hands were on your waist, yours at the sides of his head. You were straddling him, your breaths mixing together.

He looked at you with a passion and hunger at the same time. His pupils dilated to nearly pure black with the amount of lust. Your faces got closer but you pulled away from him. You got up and he looked at you with a confused expression.

"I need some space," You tell him, stepping away.

"Space? Have I done something wrong?"

"It's not you, it's me."

"Oh no you don't get to use that on me," He yelled.

"I literally can not do this right now," You say.

"Do what?"

"We are just friends Buck, I don't have to tell you everything."

"We both know what we are feeling right now is not what "just friends" feel," He says to your turned back.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"I know that I have feelings for you. I want to be with you. I wanna be able to say that you are with me. I know you want it too," Bucky states, passionately.

"Yes, I want that too."

"Then what is the problem?"

"Hydra is still out there Buck. What happens if they get to you? I know you still haven't been able to get those words out of your mind. I don't wanna get into a relationship and then they get to you a-and they take you away from me," You cry.

"I promise you that I am not going to be that person again."

"And what if you do? What if they turn you back into the Winter Soldier? What if I lose you to those assholes?''

"I will come back to you no matter what."

"You can't promise that, Bucky. You can't promise me that you will come back. You just can't." You sob in his arms. You couldn't hold back the fear of losing him when you get him.

"Look at me," you look, "I don't know what will happen but I do know that I want to be with you. I wanna be yours and if you let me, I will fight to have you. I will prove every day that I will be coming back to you because you are my home," He confesses.

"But-"

He cuts you off with a kiss that you don't reject. You have been craving his touch for so long and you couldn't believe that you had been denying yourself for so long.

"Guys, seriously? In the training room?" Tony hollered.

"Friday, have someone wipe this room clean." Steve groaned.

You just looked at Bucky and giggled. You knew that whatever happened, you both could figure it out when it happens. You just had to deal with the present, not the future. You pulled Bucky for another kiss and then you ran to the room together so you could watch another movie.

"Not another chick flick," He begged.

"Oh shush, you love them."

"No, I love you." He said before the door shut.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes x female reader #marvel x reader #marvel #bucky barnes #james barnes #winter soldier

[storeecbrcod]

Traces of Turmoil (Pt 2)

Ghost x Reader fic

You were staring way too often. At first, it was occasional, as if you were getting lost in your head. But quickly, Price started to notice you looking at Ghost more and more. Always glancing at him, an abnormal amount. Gaz had noticed, too, even Soap.

Price could tell you were searching Ghost; he didn’t know what you were trying to see, but he didn’t really question it for a while. It was simply an observation how your eyes would flick to Ghost’s face, being met with his mask every time.

It was natural, Price assumed, to want to know more about the most emotionally elusive soldier in the team. You were genuinely so friendly to everyone. You thrived off of your ability to read people, to be what others needed in that moment as if you could read their minds.

But Ghost? He was a hard one. Not only did the mask block any sense of facial expression, but he was so guarded all of the time. Even Price didn’t know Ghost’s depth, and he accepted that as something that only Ghost himself would ever truly grasp.

Over time, however, the glances became more and more persistent. You wouldn’t just stare for a few moments, you’d get this confused or frustrated look where your brow would furrow and your eyes narrowed, chewing on your lips as you assessed him. You had always thought you were being secretive, but your face gave it away every damn time. It was almost comical.

Eventually, the furrowed brow and hard mouth morphed into calm eyes, occasionally shining with a calculating look. Price had half a mind to ask you about it, but when he finally found an opportunity, he noticed Ghost respond; he looked back. And it wasn’t a cold glare, his eyes were… different. Softer, almost. It took Price aback, to be honest.

Price watched you both more and more closely as months went on. It went from simple eye contact, to the twitch of a hand or leg, but eventually he was blatantly telling you with a nod or even words. Price couldn’t help but admire you for your perseverance; Ghost was a hard one to crack, if he ever cracked at all. It was a wonder to see a newer member get to him so thoroughly.

Despite your developments with Ghost, none of the team ever suspected anything other than a partnership. You never touched, never talked about anything outside of work. You just sat together, often in silence. It became routine to see you in Ghost’s office, working beside him or simply just being company for each other.

It was normal to see the two of you hanging around in gaps in the day. When Ghost wasn’t with Soap, or training, or with Price, he was with you. When you weren’t doing paperwork, or at the gun range, or hanging out with the rest of the team, you were with him. It was a happy arrangement.

The biggest slap in the face for Price, however, was one night in the mess hall. You were up one end of the table, entertaining everyone, just being upbeat and cracking jokes with Soap and Gaz. Price had been enjoying himself too, and had turned on a whim to look at Ghost. And when he did, he nearly jumped in surprise.

Ghost was looking at you, but it didn’t seem like him. It wasn’t Ghost in his eyes… it was something else. Someone else. Someone who had once been soft, and smooth like cold dark chocolate or black coffee.

As soon as Ghost noticed Price’s gaze, however, the iciness froze into his eyes once again. It made Price force a small smile as if he didn’t just see a whole other part of him.

Price had only ever seen that side of Ghost once, the flicker of past humanity lighting up, and that conversation haunted even him.

“My family, sir. They were killed. Slaughtered. I had to return the favour.”

Price knew, then and there, that you were dear to him.

And it was true. You were dear to him. He told you whenever he could, ever since the day that you first saw that look in his eyes in his office. His eyes always found yours and melted. Whenever he could, he’d brush past you in a seemingly accidental or casual way, but you and him both knew it was more. It surely wasn’t much, but the little breaths of affection he’d offer to you made you feel all the more connected to him.

It was funny to you, the fact that you are so content with his gentleness and his subtlety; with everyone else you were close with, you were incredibly physical and loud. You were very much like Soap in a way, but unique in the way you went about it; you weren’t overwhelming, you just oozed presence and weren’t afraid to hug others or do little things like grab things for them, or trace lines on their hands.

With Ghost, however, touch was incredibly fleeting, only ever happening if it was soft and quick. Speaking was also minimised, silence often being what the two of you fell into. Although, it never felt weird, and you never felt unsettled in your drastic change.

You had never realised how simply looking at someone, being in the same room as them, not speaking or touching or anything, could feel so intimate. This was a whole new level of connection that you had never realised you needed. It was a different you.

And you could tell Ghost was different, too. He lost the tension in his shoulders, he let the muscles in his face fall from taught and mean to mild and peaceful.

Peaceful.

He seemed to appreciate your effect on him, always looking for a reason to be alone with you, to sit and converse through simple looks as he busied his hands with something, most often paperwork. It was incredibly homely, it made you feel warm, and you could tell he had the same entranced feeling.

One day, you managed to speak up.

“I’m glad we do this,” you said simply as you read your book in a chair in his office. He turned to look at you, pausing his work.

“You do?” he asked. It wasn’t accusatory or judgemental, just a simple response as the both of you basked in the gentleness clinging to the walls. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment.

Soft, smooth like cold dark chocolate or black coffee.

“Yeah, Ghost, I really do,” you replied with a smile. You turned back to your book, thinking the exchange was finished. A minute passed before he stopped looking at you and returned to his work.

“Simon.”

You looked up at him, brow yet again furrowed like you used to do. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the cool tension rolling off of him. You didn’t look away, and he finally met your gaze.

It made you choke up, his look. You thought you had seen a new layer to him before, but now? It was like his eyes were sliced open, layers and layers being brought to the surface just for you, like sutures in a wound being cut to show the plunging nature of skin, fat, muscle, bone, and marrow.

This wasn’t Ghost. This wasn’t the war-hardened lieutenant that had spent years of his life training to be one of the best soldiers there are. This wasn’t the stoney, abrasive man that so many were so afraid of, his infamy showering him in constant admiration and scowling hatred.

No, this wasn’t Ghost. This man was warm, caring. Intense in his feelings, and so kind and loving despite his past. The person welling up through the trenches of his beautiful dark eyes was gentle, heartfelt. He felt love, and he needed love. He held so much of it without an outlet. This man? This person, this human?

This was Simon.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

#call of duty #cod x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw ghost #ghost x reader #reader x ghost #Traces of Turmoil

[eviesaurusrex]

the kiss of a ray of sunshine || B. Barnes

Bucky Barnes x Barton!Reader

summary: A ray of sunshine as a friend would be enough - wouldn't it?

word count: 1.4k

warnings: pure fluff, Clint being an older brother

author's note: This is a tiny little piece for the Daily/30 Days Writing Challenge by @creativepromptfills The prompt for day one is: Write about a first kiss. I had so much fun writing this and I hope y'all enjoy my first tiny piece for my beloved Bucky <3

Since the day of his first arrival at the compound, Bucky Barnes was utterly enthralled by [Y/N] Barton. Not only was she a tough peanut who could keep up with him during training, but she was also the sweetest and most tender person the former Winter Soldier ever came across. She was a pure ray of sunshine, unlike her brother Clint Barton who wore the brooding face almost more often than the Barnes did.

He enjoyed her company deeply, even though Bucky tried hard to mask his excitement every time she entered the room he occupied at that moment. But he couldn’t fool his best friend or the pain in his ass called Sam Wilson, not to mention the other Avengers – except for Clint Barton. He was painfully unaware of Bucky’s stares in the direction of his sister because, in his world view, [Y/N] would never date a man – or be slightly interested in one - because she was his baby sister.

But today would be the day on which Clint Barton would be painfully made aware of the fact that his baby sister wasn’t a baby anymore and that she indeed cared for men. Well, one man in particular.

Almost each and every member of the team was hanging around in the living area because Vision and Wanda decided to cook for the lot to prevent another evening filled with delivery food. Tony groaned at the announcement while Sam eagerly asked if the pair needed some assistance in the kitchen, and Natasha strode over to the bar to grab some alcohol.

Bucky sat on the couch next to Steve, Tony, and Rhodey opposite of them and tried to get the hang of the tablet in his hands. The blonde Super Soldier next to him attempted to explain the device, but because he was never good at explaining stuff he still tried to grasp himself, it was a forlorn mission. The Stark on the other couch had stopped trying to compose his laughter minutes ago, and the Barnes became more frustrated with every passing second – until a voice finally echoed through the area.

“Heyo, people!” [Y/N] greeted with a wide-spreading grin on her pretty face while skipping the two stairs down into the living room. She hugged the Russian redhead close to her before giving her brother a high five, who stood next to her favorite spy. Brooding, of course.

Bucky instantly felt at ease; the tension in his shoulders vanished almost entirely, and his hold on the tablet loosened a bit. Steve saw it. Tony saw it. Even Sam could see it from the other side of the room. A rare smile tucked at Bucky’s lips, and he turned his head to the ray of sunshine gracing them all with her precious presence.

At that moment, she walked over to the couch and stopped behind the one occupied by two Super Soldiers. “Stevie.” She ruffled through his blonde hair and grinned even wider at his small chuckle. “Bucky,” she greeted him more softly before bending down and pressing a quick kiss on his cheek full of stubbles.

A blush started to creep upon his face, and Steve’s chuckle seemed to taunt him. But it was quite the opposite – his brain plagued by insecurities just switched every single aspect he actually knew. But with [Y/N]'s presence in his close proximity after four long days, he could fight against it.

“Hey, doll,” the Barnes greeted the woman who just jumped over the back of the couch to squeeze herself between the pair of inhumanly broad shoulders and backs. “How did the mission go?” From the other side, Tony interrupted him with his question, even though he clearly could’ve seen his attempt to say something. An annoyed look was thrown over the coffee table to the not less annoying Stark.

[Y/N] softly shrugged and wiggled herself closer to Bucky. It was an instinctive move she had developed after their first sleepless night together, where both had found themselves in the company of each other in this very living room while the sun climbed over the horizon. Ever since that night, [Y/N] sought his company and overall presence to… feel at ease.

“I extracted the data and only got a few scratches, so I see it as a success in every aspect?”

Her answer sounded more like a question, but Bucky couldn’t care less. As soon as he heard the word scratches, his mind went into overdrive. Almost frantically, he shoved the tablet somewhere out of his reach, turned around, and grabbed both her wrists in a soft hold to raise her arms and take a better look at her. Frantic crystal blue eyes moved over, by the short sleeves of a t-shirt exposed, skin, and [Y/N] was confused as hell.

“Are you hurt? Did you see a doctor? Is everything alright?”

He knew he should have gone with her. He knew he should have fought harder to get the all-clear from Steve to finally be able to do the job he was supposed to do after all. He should have been there to protect her and to take the hits instead of her, and…-

His panicking thoughts were silenced as soft hands cupped his face and a thumb tenderly brushed over his cheekbone. “Hey,” [Y/N] whispered, ignoring how the other soldier stood from the couch and left for the kitchen. Bucky focused his entire being on her, on the incredible feeling of her warm, soft skin on his, on her bright but concerned-looking eyes. “You’re with me again, Buck?” Again, her voice was only a whisper, and he nodded, eyes still trained on the face that was too beautiful to be humanly possible. “I’m alright. Jus’ some scratches from my own clumsiness. I ran into a wall.” A chuckle wanted to escape his throat, but he couldn’t. “I should have been there, you know,” Bucky mumbled, eyes cast down in shame.

If his mind had been faster in working things through, he could’ve been there to help and protect [Y/N]. But it wasn’t, and he hated every single minute of it.

“Buck. Hey, Bucky.” He just couldn’t look her in the eyes. “James.” Blinking, Bucky finally looked up, too astound how his name dropped from her lips like the sweetest honey. Beautiful, sweet, and soft, like a prayer. “S’alright.” His heart pounded in his chest, and attempted to break free from its confinements as soon as [Y/N] leaned forward to press a featherlike kiss on his in shock parted lips.

A kiss.

She kissed him.

She. Him.

His mind couldn’t comprehend this moment, while every single one of the people in this room stopped whatever they did and stared at the pair on the couch. But Bucky’s mind had to keep up because Clint wasn’t having any of that.

“What the… stop touching my sister?!” Natasha held him back as good as she could, and [Y/N] jumped up to do the same. “Stop being such a child, Clint! I’m a grown woman and can kiss whoever the fuck I want. He didn’t do anything! So, stop it, Barton. Do you hear me?” Incredulous looks were thrown her way – starting by her brother and ending by Bucky himself, who still couldn’t believe that this was not a mishap, a mismanouvering of both her faces.

She wanted this?

Bucky stood now in her back, too fearful of touching her again, but [Y/N]’s hand touched around searchingly until she finally found his right one. She laced their fingers together before dragging the soldier behind her on her way out of the room.

“I’m leaving now to kiss this man again, this time in peace and without your horrendous stares. If… if… I mean… If you want that.” With wide eyes, she stared up at him, stopping in her tracks because she seemingly realized that she had just assumed something she didn’t even know about. But Bucky, grateful for his finally working brain, let go of her hand to swoop the smaller woman into his arms and smiled softly at her. “Stop overthinking, doll,” he could only whisper because the weight of her arms around his neck was something he never thought he would enjoy this much.

And with that, he carried her away from the nerve-racking stares and just couldn’t wait until they arrived at her room to kiss her again.

Meanwhile, Clint stood in the living room, a glass full of whiskey in hand, and a disbelieving expression paled his face. “My sister is old enough to…” Natasha patted his shoulder in a not-so-comforting manner. “You are a blind moron, Clint.”

Comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated! Lots of love and thanks for reading! If you want to join the taglist, please reach out and let me know!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fanfic #writing challenge #bucky fluff #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #marvel fanfic

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

Hear me out, S/O is Spiderman and had hidden it fairly well, until they slip up and dash into the kitchen to grab something to eat while still in the suit, skelle happens to see them, chaos ensues! For your main boys!

Undertale Sans - It's not like he didn't already knew. You think he didn't notice how you suddenly disappear every time something weird is happening and then Spiderman just show up in a close place. You think he's stupid or something? He's actually quite hurt he had to catch you like this for you to finally confess to him, he's waiting for quite a while already.

Undertale Papyrus - He loses his jaw. Papyrus is a Spiderman fan, and one of the most active ones, working on a blog with evidence on who is Spiderman. And this just blew his mind. How couldn't he notice??? This is so obvious. Is this why you were trying desesperatly to make him give up his searches? Was he close? Oh come on, you have to tell him how close he was from discovering you now! He has like two millions questions to ask.

Underswap Sans - Blue is not a big fan of Spider Man. He's a cop, and he thinks Spiderman is endangering everyone by acting without any concern of the law. When he sees you in the suit, he thinks it's a bad joke, really, and that you're just going to a party or something. And you managed to make him believe that. But the more he thinks about it and the more he has doubts. Not a week later, he asks you to be honest with him and confess that you're Spiderman. He knows it's you, but he still has a little shock when you confirm it. Blue feels betrayed, as you know by now how hard he is trying to protect the city from Spiderman. This will probably end with a break up if you're keep playing superheroes style.

Underswap Papyrus - You hear a mug crash on the floor. Honey is looking at you in bewilderment, completely in shock. Once he snaps out of it, he's quite excited about this though. He wants to know more. It's only when he realizes it means you already almost die several times that he becomes a lot less happy about this. The town can live without Spiderman but he can't live without you so please be careful. He's so anxious every time he learns you did something incredibly dangerous again.

Underfell Sans - Well. That's... He doesn't have words. He just stare at you, not knowing what to think of this. He doesn't really mind, it's not his business, but what you do is dangerous, and if you couldn't tell already, Red already has a lot of enemies out there. He's not sure he can take more, something will go wrong one of these days. He will try to dissuade you, but if you don't and someone gets hurt, it's over with him. He's done with hanging out with dangerous people who don't care what people can do to their family. Learn to deal with the damn consequences of your actions before talking to him again.

Underfell Papyrus - He's not too happy about this either. Sure, you are helping people, but what if someday you get kill and he doesn't even know where you are? Or what if someone breaks in your house to hurt you or him and he's not strong enough to help? You're fighting things even he wouldn't fight because he knows his limits. You don't know your limits, and he thinks this is scary. Soldiers who think are unvulnerable always known an horrible death. He knows it, he trained soldiers. He won't stop you, but he will definitely not stay silent if you ever come home hurt.

Horrortale Sans - You feel guilty as he is very mad in the moment, but just forget a few hours later. Maybe it's for the best, he doesn't need to know. Oak can't help but feel like he's missing something when he looks at you and it's stressing him out.

Horrortale Papyrus - He is quite unsure what to think about it. You're helping people, and it should be nice, he loves how you care about people. But a small egoist part of him hates that you're putting yourself in danger for people you don't even know and who probably don't care about you either. It just feels like you're taking risks for nothing and he doesn't like it. He won't stop you though, he can tell you like what you do. He won't encourage you to do it though.

Swapfell Sans - He already knows, and he is actually making sure no one is hurting you when you're not looking because you're making him anxious. He never saw someone took so much useless risks to save people. If you're in shock when you see him, he just shrugs and tells you to put something warm up before going out because it's cold outside.

Swapfell Papyrus - OMG. STICK HIM TO THE CEILING. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE. Rus is way too much excited and you're quite overwhelmed. He wants to fly with you between the buildings and see you in action. He's a big fan, he can barely contain himself right now omg.

Fellswap Gold Sans - He knows, and that's quite embarrassing because several of the vilains you're fighting... are his employees. This is quite awkward actually when you realise he knows, because you know what he does too, actually. You decide to act like nothing ever happened and forget what you know. Both.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - Uh... You have you full suit on. And Coffee is very shy around stranger. He whispers-asks Spiderman where his S/O is, and you just say they went outside. He thanks Spiderman and goes back to his room. You are not too sure about this.

#undertale #underswap #underfell #horrortale #swapfell #fellswap gold #sans #papyrus #undertale ask blog #undertale asks #undertale imagines #undertale headcanons

[mechanicalinertia]

STMPD Reviews Black Lagoon Fanfiction: BigCountry75's Redneck of Roanapur

This one was recommended to me by a dude on the Black Lagoon subreddit, and I clicked on it somewhat reluctantly. It started well enough, I flipped through a few later chapters and it was pretty cool, but it's 288K words, folks. Moby fucking Dick is 209K words. And while it's true that many, many fics are longer than Moby Dick, or indeed most officially published works, there was just something about it. I was reluctant to read an OC-centric Black Lagoon fic, though, because new-guy-comes-into-town-and-fucks-shit-up rarely works in BGC fanfic, so why should it work in this case?

I needn't have worried. Redneck of Roanapur is well-written, fairly competently characterized, and like Bullets, my previous review, relentlessly fun. Reading it over the past two weeks on-and-off has been a fairly good experience, and, too, an exercise in how (in my eyes) to make a fic defined by one Cool Original Character really work.

In that light, if I want to talk about RoR, I have to talk about its main character, a dude from the boonies of Michigan known as Country. No, really, that's the name he gets, nothing else. And, well... okay, the one thing that might sink this fic for you is that when it's told from his first-person perspective, his, uh, accent is written down in the prose. This can be annoying at times, but in all honesty it isn't as annoying as you'd think it would be, because as far as quasi-authorial inserts go, he still describes things clearly enough to make everything work. His spelling's intentionally off, but his grammar isn't. Ergo, I can read it without being annoyed.

So: Country is an ex far-right militiaman who ditched his former comrades in True Patriotism, and in his effort to leave the country stole a goddamn WW2 B-24 and hightailed it blindly to Roanapur. Yeah. That's it. That's his backstory. He gets his hands on another WW2-era fighter plane later, too.

Okay, so compare that to other various OC-centric Lagoon fics which will not be named, ones starring ex-CIA operatives and elite soldiers with more conventionally troubled pasts and their skills mostly centering around the shooting of guns. They're cool in the loosest sense, but I find most of them incredibly boring, and the fic has to work harder to get around that more often than not. (Success is possible, but I've only seen like one guy pull it off.) Country is more interesting to me because a) his backstory is more out-there but still plausible, it's a backstory you don't see every day, and b) he has a unique set of skills that other characters in Lagoon don't have to the same extent.

I mean, think about it. Those two elements are what make an interesting Black Lagoon character in the actual franchise. Roberta with her FARC training and maid getup; Balalaika's Soviet paratrooper glory days and how far she's fallen; Ginji the yakuza who can literally deflect bullets. There's something that makes all these characters more than just ex-spooks or mercs with training. Some eccentricity. Some wackiness. Some small amount of historical grounding. Country has that, even if his backstory isn't super important. Country has his WW2-era planes, which are fun as hell to watch him and Lagoon Company use. So, he fits right in.

Anyway, Country lands in Roanapur, gets hooked up to the Lagoon Company to use the B-24 as a courier aircraft, and pretty quickly things get weird. See, not only does Country piss off the head of a non-canon crime syndicate pretty quickly in a bar fight, but said syndicate head is tied to a nameless Doctor and his equally nameless Benefactor, who are searching for guinea pigs to do immortality / resurrection experiments on. The Doctor resurrects Hansel and Gretel successfully, they escape, they wind up at the airfield Lagoon Company now occupies. So they're hanging out, raised by the team to not be total murderous monsters, and eventually they attract the attention of the Doctor and his Benefactor, who turns out to be a powerful American politician with ties to Extra Order, the Not-Executive-Outcomes PMC from the first arc of Lagoon. Pretty soon, Lagoon Company and their patrons are duking it out with that one non-canon syndicate and EO in short order, culminating in an epic battle for the fate of the city, all of which is just incredibly fun to read in its sheer paramilitaristic ultraviolence.

Anyway the fic swings between that violence and a lot of surprisingly cutesy shipping. Country falls in love with Sawyer, for one, and that doesn't feel weird, doesn't feel self-insert-y, it makes sense for how the characters are being written in that context... Rock and Revy finally get together... Shenhua and Lotton get together, which I'm kinda iffy on but what the heck... Chang and Balalaika hook up in secret... Even Eda and Dutch pair up as secret agents! So everything is very slice-of-life-y when military planning and blowing things up isn't the order of the day. Oh, and Leigharch comes back towards the end, which is great because I always liked him. In fact, I think that's the main flaw in the fic: the ending feels way too cute and tidy for something like Black Lagoon, a franchise where endings, I feel, need to be ambiguous at best and depressing as hell at worst. It undermines the fun one has reading Country and the Lagoon Company operate a bomber to blow the everloving shit out of a PMC submarine base, or drug fields, or mansions, or whatever. It's an ending that feels at once natural for the fic, but not as earned as it could be.

But beyond that, Redneck of Roanapur is a simple, long, but super-fun thrill ride. If you're looking for something silly to read over the long summer months, flip through this and enjoy yourself.

#stmpd reviews black lagoon fanfiction #black lagoon #fanfiction #fanfic rec