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fluentmoviequoter · 3 months

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A Room Away

Requested Here!

Edit: Part 2 Here

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: Tired of Tim's bad moods, Angela gets him a new roommate: you. As Tim gets to know you and learns about your past, you slowly become more than his roommate.

Warnings: mentions of past domestic abuse (reader and Tim), reader has chronic migraines from past head trauma, nightmares, reader has a panic attack, angst, fluff, Nyla and Angela. (roommates to lovers)

Word Count: 4.2k+ words

A/N: Parts of this are so self-indulgent. The migraine depictions are based on my migraines, but I think they're some of the most common symptoms. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think! (I'm still trying to get Tim's character down, so apologies if he's OOC.)🤍

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Picture from Pinterest

Tim sits in the back of the room for roll call, his arms crossed tightly across his chest as unimpressed sighs escape him. Angela is getting tired of his seemingly perpetual bad mood. Clearly, he’s lonely, but he will never admit it. And that loneliness makes him mopey and broody (Angela’s official motto for Tim Bradford) until he has enough and snaps at someone.

Sitting at her desk, Angela watches Tim yell at a boot. He’s always harsh with them, trying to prepare them for anything, but now he’s using them as punching bags for his forbidden feelings.

“What’s his problem? He’s grumpier than usual,” Nyla says as she joins Angela.

“He’s lonely,�� Angela answers. “Won’t admit it or do anything about it.”

“That man needs a girlfriend,” Nyla muses.

Angela sits up straighter and smiles. “You’re a genius, Harper.”

“I know.”

Angela opens a website on her computer, and Nyla pulls up a seat to watch her intervention into Tim’s personal life.

“You’re going to rent out his spare room without telling him? This’ll be fun to watch,” Nyla says, laughing.

“He has way too much room for just one guy. Getting him a roommate and a girlfriend will surely help with.. that,” she finishes, gesturing toward Tim.

“A roommate and a girlfriend, or a roommate who becomes a girlfriend?”

“Either should work.”

“That’s your number.”

Angela nods, putting her contact information on the listing. “Tim would shut it down after the first call, so I’ll interview them, run background checks, whatever, and find the perfect one.”

“Well, Mrs. Right is always found on Craigslist,” Nyla jokes.

“This isn’t Craigslist.”

“Semantics.”

Angela posts the listing, and she and Nyla hope getting Tim a roommate will help nudge him out of his bad mood. He needs someone to talk to and bond with, but he’ll never come to that conclusion on his own. Which is why Angela considers herself to be such a good friend.

✯✯✯✯✯

Los Angeles is a big city, which is part of why you chose it without another thought. Full of opportunities and a chance of fading into the background, it’s the complete opposite of your home, which overflows with memories. The patched drywall you were pushed into, the stained tile where you thought everything was going to end, and the china cabinet with the shattered glass are left behind and traded in for a minimum wage job, a used car, and a lot of panic that you won’t be able to find somewhere to live.

You’ll need a roommate until you can save enough money for your own place. However, finding a decent place with a decent roommate is nearly impossible in your price range. Browsing online listings, you see one that could be promising. The information at the bottom says there is an interview process, which catches your attention. Sending a text to Angela Lopez, you cross your fingers for good luck before walking into work.

By the end of your shift, Angela has replied and asked you to meet somewhere nearby. You want to go home, a dull headache building at the base of your skull impairing your mood. But you also really want a better place to call home than the pay-by-the-month motel you’re currently living in.

Angela gives you a firm handshake as she introduces herself as an LAPD detective. She asks questions about your life, job, hobbies, and finally, why you moved to Los Angeles.

“I just needed a change of pace; was ready to leave my old life behind, find something bigger and better,” you answer, a simplified version of the truth.

Trying not to show it, Angela immediately takes a liking to you. Each of your answers solidifies her gut instinct that you’re a good fit for Tim. You ask why her name was on this listing if it’s not her house, and she follows your lead and gives you the truth, but not all of it.

“Tim, the owner of the house, is a coworker and friend, and I’m just trying to help him out while he’s busy with work,” she explains.

As you leave the meeting, Angela gives you her personal number, as well as someone named Nyla Harper’s number, “just in case you need anything.”

She texts you a time and address, telling you to meet her at your new place the following afternoon. You thank her repeatedly before driving to the trashy motel one last time.

✯✯✯✯✯

Parking outside the house, you fall in love with the neighborhood and the cute architecture of the home. Angela meets you in the driveway, seeming more nervous than excited. You realize she may not have been totally honest with you as you follow her to the door.

An incredibly handsome man opens the door, sighing when he sees Angela. He lets both of you in, seeming to trust Angela completely.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim knows he will regret opening the door, but the woman with Angela is beautiful, and deep down, a small part of him wants to know who she is and why she’s on his doorstep.

“This is your new roommate,” Angela announces, giving Tim your name.

“You didn’t,” Tim responds. “Please tell me you didn’t rent out my spare room without asking me, Lopez.”

“I won’t tell you that, then.”

Standing quietly to the side, you anxiously watch their argument.

“Um, sorry,” you begin, interrupting them. “But I can go, and find a new place, since this is clearly not what you signed up for.”

You move toward the door before stopping when Angela demands, “Don’t go anywhere.”

She gives Tim a stern look before cocking her head to the side. He sighs like he has accepted his fate, a tragedy based on his reaction. Gesturing for you to follow him, he gives you a quick tour before showing you to your new room and bathroom.

“I’m not home a ton, but when I am, I’m usually watching a game or just hanging out, so,” he tells you before trailing off.

You nod before promising, “You won’t even know I’m here.”

Tim wants to believe you, but he also thinks you’re pretty and kind enough that he wouldn’t mind seeing you occasionally.

✯✯✯✯✯

You cross paths with Tim a few times in the first two days of living with him. He’s struck by your beauty each time but recognizes that you don’t open up willingly, so he never presses you to talk. Content to be ships passing in the night, Tim gives you a nod before continuing out the door.

It’s your third night in the house that Tim learns your reserved qualities may not be as simple as a personality trait. Waking when he hears a strange noise, Tim listens in the darkness before deciding it’s your footsteps he hears. Based on the sound, you're pacing, so Tim gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen. He walks right past you, and you give him an apologetic smile before slowing down. Tim makes you a mug of calming tea, sliding it across the kitchen island before sitting beside you as you drink it. Suspecting you had a nightmare or some similarly disturbing experience, Tim reminds you where you are and that everything is okay in his own way.

Over the next week, you wake him up a few more times, thrashing in your bed or exiting your room once you wake. He nudges each time, offering to let you talk about it, but you never do. You always apologize for waking him, thank him for keeping you company and making you tea before you disappear back into yourself and into your room.

✯✯✯✯✯

You’ve lost count of the days and nights spent in Tim’s house, your sense of time thrown off by the continued plague of nightmares and the monotony of your days. As you wake up after a surprisingly dreamless sleep, you immediately turn your face back into the pillow. Your heartbeat pounds in your head, and everything seems brighter and louder. The migraines have been nearly as consistent as the nightmares since before you left for Los Angeles.

Tim knocks on your door, and you groan as the sound echoes in your brain. He cracks the door, concerned that you aren’t up yet.

“Are you okay?” he asks, seeing your current state.

“Migraine,” you answer. “I called in sick.”

He closes the door to block the light from outside and lowers his voice to ask, “Do you need anything before I leave?”

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

“Well, call me if you do, or if anything changes, okay?”

“I will. Thank you, Tim. Have a good day.”

Tim nods, even though you can’t see him, before backing out of your room and exiting the house as quietly as possible. He keeps his ringer on, looking at his phone every few minutes as his concern for you remains at the forefront of his mind.

Angela and Nyla notice his usual grumpy disposition seems to have been replaced with concern for something, or someone. After he checks his phone for the fifth consecutive time, Angela decides to pry.

“How’s the beautiful roomie? Still just a roommate?” she asks.

“She’s not feeling well,” Tim answers.

Angela waits for an elaboration, but Tim doesn’t offer one. She looks at Nyla, who gives a knowing look. It’s obvious that Tim is softening toward you, but you haven’t made enough of an impact that he’s less grumpy or snappy. As the day continues, his usual personality returns, convinced that you must be okay, or you would have called.

The next day, after learning that you are, in fact, feeling better, Tim is back to his pre-roommate levels of anger and high strung-ness. To worsen his mood, you wake him up with a nightmare but refuse to let him in, not even acknowledging his kind questioning as to how you are. He’s worried about you because you welcomed his presence before, but he is also angry that you changed so quickly, and now you don’t trust him. Everything is piling on, and Tim isn’t sure how much more he can carry.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Just tell me something,” Angela presses.

“Stay out of it, Lopez!” Tim yells, his emotions reaching a boiling point. “I didn’t even want a puppy- a roommate! If you like her so much, why don’t you take her in?”

Angela waits for his shoulders to drop slightly before asking, “Timothy… is this because you don’t like her, or because you do?”

Tim’s jaw clenches, and his nostrils flare as he turns away, offering to go on patrol while Nolan and Celina go to the shooting range. Everyone seems to think they know Tim better than they do; Angela is pushing him toward you while you’re distancing yourself, and the push and pull is tiring.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim waits in his truck in the driveway for a few minutes before walking in. When he walks in, you’re standing in the kitchen. He hasn’t actually seen you since the day of your last migraine when you stopped trusting him, and your sudden willingness to be in the same area confuses him. Anger and confusion rarely mix well; with Tim, it’s a fatal combination.

You notice his tension and knitted brows, chewing your bottom lip before asking, “Are you okay?”

Stumbling to his tipping point for the second time in the day, Tim takes all his anger and confusion over his feelings out on you.

“What do you think? You can’t decide if I’m worth trusting with something as small as a nightmare, and Angela thinks that I’m practically neglecting you,” he begins.

You swallow harshly as his voice rises, stumbling backward when he starts moving his arms.

“Especially considering I didn’t even want you here!”

Flinching, you snap your eyes closed and catch yourself on the corner of the wall. Tim freezes as he watches you. Everything begins snapping into place in his mind: your nightmares and the distance added to your reaction to him yelling and moving his hand are all signs he should have noticed sooner.

Your chest is heaving as you take short breaths, and when you finally open your eyes, you look terrified. Tim steps back, keeping his hands where you can see them. You focus on him as you slide down the wall, cradling your head in your hands as you fight off bad memories and a growing headache.

Tim watches you before sitting on the floor, keeping his distance. He waits for you to calm down, willing to let you decide whether or not you want to talk to him. You finally look back up at him, but he doesn’t move.

“I- I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Can I come closer?” Tim asks.

You nod, and Tim slides across the floor, not wanting to stand up and look any more imposing than necessary. His knee presses gently against your thigh, and when you don’t move, he gives you a small smile – the first you’ve ever seen.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” you say, fiddling with your fingers.

“Please don’t,” Tim replies, shaking his head. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t mad at you, just angry with a long day. But that’s no reason to yell at you or act like that. You confused me, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. That’s on me.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat.

“Don’t. When I was younger, my dad took his anger out on me sometimes. I’m sure I deserved it once or twice, but I also know better than to treat people like an emotional outlet. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

You nod before saying, “My ex.”

Tim feels a protective surge at the idea of anyone hurting you, let alone doing it enough times that yelling pushes you to the point of a panic attack.

After comforting you with proximity and kind words, Tim offers to walk you to bed. Your hand brushes his as he opens your door, and you smile as you thank him for everything. It’s a minor change in your relationship but an important one.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim leaves before you wake up the following morning, determined to find out as much as he can about you and your past. He’s not necessarily being nosy, but he wants to know if there’s anything specific that could help or hurt you.

“What do you know?” he demands as he storms up to Angela’s desk.

“About what?” she replies, raising her brows.

“What do you mean ‘about what’? Her!”

Nyla leans back in her chair, glad to watch the unfolding drama.

“Tim, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Angela explains.

“Why’d she move to LA?”

“Are you seriously trying to find something wrong with her? That’s low.”

Tim moves around her desk, dropping his voice to answer, “I’m trying to figure out who thought it was okay to put their hands on her. Because she won’t let me in.”

Angela begins connecting the dots you left untouched. You ran from the person controlling your life, not your actual life. She knew that you were omitting something during your initial meeting, but she didn’t expect it to be so big.

“Have you been open with her?” Angela asks finally. “Because that’s a two-way street. I’ll talk to her if you want me to, but she trusts you, Tim.”

“How do you know that?”

Nyla’s eyes bounce back and forth like she’s watching a tennis game. She sighs before deciding to interject. “She told her! Sent her a text one night!” she calls out, smiling and waving when Angela and Tim look at her.

Tim nods, giving Angela the closest she’ll get to an apologetic look before leaving.

✯✯✯✯✯

Returning home, Tim is surprised to find you on the couch, in your work clothes, with your face pressed into a pillow. You wave your fingers without moving to acknowledge him, and he remains silent as he walks to the kitchen.

“You don’t have to be silent, it’s your house,” you mumble. “I’ll figure out a way to get to the bedroom.”

“You’re fine here,” Tim answers, setting a glass of water beside you. “Another migraine?”

“Skull fractured from getting my head pushed through a window a few months ago,” you explain with a sigh. “The migraines have gotten worse since then.”

Tim lays a hand on your shoulder, giving you plenty of time to tell him not to touch you. You don’t, relaxing under his touch instead. Tim takes a seat beside you, hoping to comfort you once more.

“Your ex?” Tim asks.

You hum a yes, and Tim’s jaw tightens, even as he comforts you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking into the police station, Tim’s wallet is tucked safely in your bag. Approaching the front desk, you say your name and are wordlessly handed a visitor’s badge before someone gives you directions. You don’t have time to argue, shrugging as you attempt to remember where to turn. Angela sees you before you see her, rushing to your side and looping her arm with yours.

“What are you doing here?” she asks happily.

“Uh, Tim forgot his wallet. I was just going to drop it off, but they sent me back here,” you answer.

Tim says your name, coming around a corner, and Angela pushes you toward him, joining Nyla as they watch your interaction.

“You know she was trying to get you a girlfriend and not just a roommate, right?”

Tim nods a thanks as he accepts his wallet, glancing over at your audience. “I’m half-tempted to make them think I kicked you out.”

You smile brightly, and Tim licks his lips to keep his smile from mirroring yours. His eyes tell you more than enough, and you’re happy to see him, too.

“Do it,” you whisper. “Just let me know when so I can play my part. Angela told me to call her if you were ever mean to me.”

“Have you?”

You don’t answer, opting to wink at him before stepping back. Waving at Angela and Nyla, you leave the station as they rush to Tim’s side. As they ask overlapping questions and talk about how cute you and Tim look standing together, Tim ignores them before walking away.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim is pulled from his sleep by your panicked yell. He leaves his bed and barges into your room with no thought. His heart rate slows when he sees your teary face and tangled sheets.

“Sorry,” you mutter as you wipe your tears. “I just don’t know how to make them stop.”

Tim sits beside you, opening an arm toward you. It’s a bold move, especially for him, but you take his offer and curl into his side.

“Are- did you mean it when you said I could talk about it?” you ask.

Tim nods, and you tell him more, but not everything. You remind yourself that he’s your roommate and maybe, just maybe, he's your friend, but he’s not here to listen to all of your baggage.

“The last thing he said before I left was, ‘there is nowhere you can go that my love won’t lead me to find you.’”

“You know that wasn’t love,” Tim replies, waiting for your nod before continuing. “And I’ve got your back, Angela and Nyla are right here, and we won’t let anything happen to you. No matter what.”

Drifting back to sleep in his warm, safe embrace, you finally learn what it’s like not to be scared.

When you wake alone, neither you nor Tim acknowledge what happened. You’re okay with slow changes, as long as there are changes.

“Tim,” you say, interrupting him on his way out. “Thank you. For last night.”

“I’m only ever a call away,” he reminds you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your head starts aching around noon, quickly worsening into a full-blown migraine. When you’re ready to go home, it’s bad enough that you can’t drive. Sitting in your car and resting your head against the steering wheel, you want to call Tim but can’t find the strength to move.

Tim, meanwhile, returns home and begins wondering where you are. He calls, and you don’t answer, so he lets his worry control him as he gets back in his truck and drives your usual route. Tim hopes to pass you or find you waiting as someone changes your tire. When he gets to the parking lot of your job and sees you slumped in your car, he has to fight not to panic.

Rushing to the door, he’s both grateful and concerned that it’s unlocked. He kneels beside you, saying your name before bending to see you. Your eyes are tightly closed, but tears are still leaking out.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he says.

You whimper as he picks you up, clinging to him until he lays you down in the backseat of his truck, buckling you in as well as possible.

“Hospital can’t help,” you mumble.

Tim wants to argue, but remembers what you said about the skull fracture. You’ve already been to the doctor, so maybe getting you home and comfortable will be enough.

After a nap partially influenced by unbearable pain, you wake to see Tim sitting by your bed.

“Why are you so nice to me? You didn’t even want a roommate,” you mutter sleepily.

Tim smiles, making you think you’re hallucinating. “Yet I got something better.”

✯✯✯✯✯

You don’t quite make it to work the next day. Walking into the station, you’re surprised when Nyla greets you first.

“I’m assuming it’s a joke,” she says.

You furrow your brows in confusion before you see Tim leaning on a desk with his arms crossed while Angela yells at him.

“Unless he really kicked you out,” Nyla adds.

You nod, walking towards Angela and Tim.

“No, you don’t get to blame me! I got you a roommate, a friend, a beautiful woman who could have been more than a friend, and you’re mad at me?” Angela exclaims.

Tim locks eyes with you, not changing his expression as he gauges whether or not her yelling is upsetting you.

“Can I talk to you?” you ask Tim.

Angela steps back, hoping to hear Tim apologize, but he stands up and gestures for you to follow him without speaking. Worried that you’re sick again, Tim waits silently.

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I just wanted to see you.”

Not believing something so simple, Tim shakes his head. “Tell me what happened.”

“I saw a guy who looked like him while I was driving to work. He was yelling at a girl outside of a diner, and it made me nervous.” You keep your eyes on the floor, but Tim gently raises your head.

“You’re not alone, and I know that things still seem uncertain, and probably will for a long time, but you don’t have to be afraid of anything while I’m here.”

“Then why’d you kick me out?” you tease with a pout.

Tim shakes his head, telling you to go before following you out. You wipe an imaginary tear before waving at Angela.

“No, you’re not leaving,” she says, grabbing your shoulders and steering you toward her desk.

Nyla smiles at Tim, and he sighs before following.

“Tell me exactly what happened between you two,” Angela commands.

You look past her before tensing, and Tim immediately catches on. He follows your line of vision and sees Nolan and Celina booking someone. You shrink in on yourself, and Tim moves to block your view.

“Get her out of here,” he tells Angela.

Angela doesn’t wait before obeying, ushering you into the bullpen and out of sight.

“What’s the charge?” Tim asks Celina.

“Assault. Beat up a woman outside a diner,” she answers.

Tim’s jaw tightens at the knowledge that this man made you nervous this morning, reminding you of your ex. He hates abuse in every situation, but when you’re involved, his protectiveness and anger differ. Tim leaves before saying or doing something he’ll regret.

When he finds you in the bullpen, he takes one look at you before hugging you. It’s quick, but Angela and Nyla look at each other in shock.

“So, you’re good?” Nyla asks.

“We were never bad,” you reply. “Just wanted to get back at Angela for trying to set us up.”

“It worked?” Angela inquires excitedly.

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Tim repeats, looking over at you. He shrugs as he concedes, “Okay.”

✯✯✯✯✯

When Tim gets home, he drops his stuff by the door, raising his arms in question as he looks at you. “Not yet? What is that supposed to mean?”

“You haven’t made a move. How do I know you’re not just protective and caring under that handsome, gruff exterior?” you ask with a shrug.

Tim shakes his head, cupping the back of your head gently as he kisses you. You raise your hands over his chest to hold his jaw, pushing yourself closer as you reciprocate his every move.

“Because I don’t protect just anyone like this,” he says against your lips.

You kiss him again before asking, “Does this mean you can reduce my rent?”

Tim rolls his eyes, tucking you against his side where you’re safe from everything and everyone.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #the rookie #requests

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chooseruin · 11 months

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The thing making me Feral about Judith Deuteros today is like. Her absolutely unfortunate attempt to declare martial law at Canaan House was the only thing she had to contribute. She is the ranking Cohort officer in this situation (she thinks) and like that's IT. In practical terms she's the weakest player there and she knows this; never mind the illest anime ill girl in the whole Seventh House and the three simultaneous greatest necromancers of their generation and Abigail Pent (at whom she is in any case strenuously not looking), Isaac could punt her through a wall. Silas is good enough at his terrible job that an actual Lyctor had to punch him out and then orchestrate that situation with the keys just to make ABSOLUTELY certain no one would ever listen to him. Judith is a competent melee support necromancer when in an actual melee. Judith can hold her own against Camilla Hect at ceiling chess even with a high fever, but Camilla and Palamedes and Ianthe are also there. Judith's cavalier is the glory of the Second House and their ability to work together is like... it's fine. It's professional. It's good. This is what peak performance looks like. It's fine. They're fine. Everything's fine. The hardware on her uniform is the only thing that's supposed to matter that she has and no one else does, that's ALL she has that she can imagine leveraging to get them out of here, and the way that works when your dad is the Fleet Admiral is that they give you everything you ask for and then you spend the rest of your life scrambling to earn it and she's not even very good at that. She has the charisma of drywall (affectionate/despairing) and all she can do to assert authority is fall back on the Cohort playbook and holy fuckballs did no one else in this bar actually care about that even BEFORE people started dying and all she does is completely discredit the actually pretty reasonable option of pulling together and trying to get out of this. And then Camilla Hect happens in front of everyone. And then the situation is REALLY losing cabin pressure and it's glorious last stand o'clock and her glorious last stand turns ugly and squalid and doesn't even help and she doesn't even get to die for it. She's the perfect product of ten thousand years of God needing cultural infrastructure for his genocide run against the rest of the universe, and she doesn't even get to Charge of the Light Brigade her way out. She doesn't get to die senselessly and prove to everyone that the rules don't matter anymore, because no one else ever really believed they did. She's so goddamn doomed by the narrative that it won't even let her die. Corona won't let her die. Blood of Eden won't let her die. MERCYMORN THE FIRST takes time out of a very packed schedule specifically to not let her die, not even long enough to come back wrong, how much more wrong could she get. She's the last kid left in Hamelin and she's opposite day Jackie Yellowjackets and she's a minor war poet and a virgin who can't drive and a wholeass Indelicates song and the most exhausted twenty-two-year-old in the universe and THAT'S ALL BEFORE NT9. Who is being happened to like her.

#the locked tomb #tltposting #judith deuteros #embodiment of “of course god doesn't hate you. he doesn't care enough about you for that.”#scrungliest dirt-jar kitten. bad-time girl. sad wwi military homoerotic girlflop.

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miffysrambles · 7 months

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Hello! I love your headcannons! What are your headcannons for when S/O is gravely injured? Like, the S/O is fighting against some demons along with MK, Wukong and Macaque and they get very seriously injured, to the point of passing out. What would their reactions be?

Wukong, Macaque, and MK With a Gravely Injured S/O

(This one took a bit, sorry about that!)

Wukong:

Oh, he is livid.

He shouts at MK to take you somewhere safe, as far away from his location as the boy could go.

“Get them out of here kid, get them help! I’ll handle this!”

He needs to beat some sense into this bastard, right here and right now.

Uses almost every single one of his powers to strike the demon, soon enough scaring them off into never hurting you or even going near you again.

Grabs them by the collar as they fall to the ground, bearing his fangs as speaks through his teeth.

“If I see you even stand close to that mortal ever again, I will not hesitate to kill you next time…”

Eventually travels back to you and MK on his cloud, finding the both of you in your apartment as the noodle boy patches you up.

He sends MK home, ensuring you’ll be ok.

“Don’t worry bud, they’ll be fine. Get some rest, ya earned it.”

He sits down next to you on the couch as he lays your head in his lap.

His fingers intertwine with your hair, his other hand caressing your face as you rest from the intensity of your wounds.

He stays like this for quite some time, maybe even hours as he does not dare to move a muscle.

His heart skips a beat as you shift awake, smiling up at him as you regain consciousness.

He smiles back at you, it might have been the fact you were still a bit tired but you swear you could see small tears in his eyes.

“Peaches, oh thank Gods! It’s ok! You’re ok, you’re safe…”

He wants nothing more than to scoop you up in his arms and cover your gorgeous face in kisses but does not want to move you when you’re in pain.

Soon enough when you’re ready to move he does just that, laying you on his chest as he presses soft kisses all over your face.

He holds you close as if you were about to disappear any second, you’re guessing he really was scared today -which is super rare.-

“I love you, oh I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re ok.”

Macaque:

His first instinct is to get you the hell out of there.

As soon as his six ears hear your breath falter, he pulls you through into the shadows and gets you both out of the fight.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit! You're going to be okay sweet cheeks, don’t close your eyes on me. Keep those gorgeous eyes open.”

He falls into his living room with you in his arms, frantically kissing your forehead as he sets you down on the couch.

He’s scrambling through his dojo to find stuff to patch up your wounds, he doesn’t have much because, well, he’s immortal.

After patching you up, –which is sloppily done by his shaking fingers–, he leaves you alone to rest.

“Gods damnit!” He punches a hole through the wall of the dojo, taking his rage out on the crumbling drywall.

He needs to direct his anger towards something else before the entire building falls.

And luckily for him, he has just the target.

Oh, the demon didn’t win like they thought they did, not even close.

As soon as Macaque sees they let their guard down, he emerges from the shadows to summon his smoke monster.

It grabs the demon within its giant grasp as it forces them into the gravel below, crushing them with its sheer force.

“So! Do you really think you got away with hurting that mortal? Big mistake on your part…”

After beating the demon to a pulp, he travels back to you through the shadows.

You open your eyes to see him land on the living room floor, his ears perking up from the sound of your breath hitching as he rushes to your side.

You smile up at him through your pain, your bandages wrapped a little too tight.

“Macaque? I love you and appreciate it so much but you tied these a little too tight…”

He blinks in surprise as he reapplies the white strips on your wounds, smiling as he kisses your nose.

“Heh, sorry about that starshine. Glad you’re ok…”

MK:

You don’t think you’ve ever seen your bright bubbly boyfriend so angry.

In fact, he is beyond furious.

To the point, he turns into his monkey form and beats the demon into a pulp.

Pigsy and Sandy were helping you stand as you stared at the sight in front of you, MK glowing a bright gold color as the two flew through the sky so fast you couldn’t keep your eyes up with them.

At one point, the demon tried to teleport away but MK was two steps ahead as he reached his arm out and grabbed them by the collar.

“Hey! Who– Said– I– Was– Done with you yet!”

He was throwing the demon around the mountains in between his words, finally, the demon was defeated as Mk ran up to you.

“(Name)! Oh, please be ok!” He wraps his arms around you, earning a gasp of pain from you.

“Careful kid, they’re hurt bad…” Pigsy put his hands up to warn your worried boyfriend.

“Right, right. Come on, let’s get them home.”

MK scooped you up in his arms as he carried you to your apartment, using the key that you gave him to set you down on the couch.

“Stay here, I’ll get you some bandages.”

He kissed your forehead as he left the room, coming back with white gauze and a waterproof marker.

You raised your eyebrow at the marker, earning a small smile from him as he slightly laughed.

“I was gonna draw on your bandages, add a little happy touch to the sadness!”

You laughed softly, nodding at the idea.

“Sounds fun, let's do it.”

He beamed as he applied the white strips, drawing various doodles on your bandages such as a doodle of the two of you kissing, one of the Monkey King (of course), and little hearts and stars everywhere.

You smiled as he held up his phone camera to you so you could see, giving him a kiss on the cheek, “Thank you babes, I look so colorful!’

His cheeks flushed red as he kissed your cheeks several times in return, “Of course, I think you look goood! I’m so glad you’re feeling better sweetie”

#ask #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk x reader #lego monkie kid x reader #lmk sun wukong #lmk macaque #lmk mk #sun wukong x reader #macaque x reader #mk x reader #lmk sun wukong x reader #lmk macaque x reader #lmk mk x reader #lego monkie kid sun wukong x reader #lego monkie kid macaque x reader #lego monkie kid mk x reader

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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 6 months

Text

I have more funny thoughts about zombie!ghost based off this post

Zombie!ghost tripping down the stairs, hurtling face first into every single step until he reaches the bottom where he lays there motionless and poor Price rushing to his assistance.

“You broken?”

“Hurrrrr…”

Walls are Zombie!ghost’s worst enemy. And corners, especially on tables. He’s running into them every chance he gets because his fine motor controls are a little wonky at the moment

Zombie!ghost gets impaled but instead of being incapacitated he just walks around with a price of rebar inside of him until Soap and Gaz find him

Soap is 99% sure he’s been telling jokes but since all he can do is groan they fall flat. He still laughs at them to make him feel better

Has run into Gaz multiple times and knocked him over because he’s still built like a truck

“Get off, mate!”

“Hurr…”

Still likes tea, burns himself with it and it just ends up falling out of his mouth because he’s jaw is broken

Stands in the background menacingly but there’s not a thought in that rotten brain of his. He’s just happy to be along for the right

Punched multiple hole through drywall on accident

#more funny zombie!ghost #zombie!ghost #simon ghost riley #mw2 ghost #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2

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genshingorlsrevengeance · 2 months

Note

Can I please request Rosaria, Kuki, and Eula with a robotic S/O who doesn't know how to show love properly so they just bring them "interesting objects"(anything from shiny rocks to a ruin guard)?

Thank you for writing ^-^

(Genshin Impact) Rosaria, Shinobu, and Eula with a robotic-like S/O

Very related image:

Good Burtabos, Rosaria thought she was bad at showing affection.

S/O had all the expressive capabilities of a rock. And that was insulting the rock.

They didn't really understand how love worked, not that she was any better, yet they were together.

Rosaria's love language was her actions. S/O's seemed to be gifting her the most random object in the most deadpan voice.

(Rosaria) "...S/O, why do you just have an entire crate with you?"

(S/O) "It is full of Dandelion Wine. I am aware you like to drink it."

(Rosaria) "Sure, but where did you grab it?"

(S/O) "It was lying on the floor unattended. I believe it does not belong to anyone."

Rosaria didn't know whether to laugh or facepalm.

They stole it, pretty much.

(Rosaria) "Thanks but, did you at least ask?"

(S/O) "...I did not. But, it is 'Finder's keepers', as they say."

(Rosaria) "...Eh, what the hell. Care to share a glass?"

Well, at least Shinobu didn't have to worry about S/O doing anything stupid on purpose, unlike the Arataki Gang.

Instead, S/O showed their affection by bringing her some objects that reminded them of her.

It was sweet honestly, but given their nature, it was bound to get...weird.

(Shinobu) "S/O, there you are. What do you have in your-"

(S/O) "These are masks belonging to fallen Samurai. Please, accept."

The only visible expression change on Shinobu was her eyes blinking, which S/O blankly dropped the mask at her hand like a dog.

(Shinobu) "Thanks...I think."

(S/O) "You are welcome. In case if your mask ever gets damaged, we can use these for repairs."

Shinobu just chuckles underneath her mask, eyes softening as she looked at S/O.

(Shinobu) "Remind me to get something for you too, S/O."

(S/O) "Shinobu, you are to-"

(Shinobu) "-Later, I mean."

It's a good thing Itto didn't reach S/O first, otherwise he'd definitely tell S/O the complete wrong ways to show affection.

They'd probably have them do something stupid, like punch through drywall or something.

Eula and S/O were complete opposites on the way they spoke to people.

Eula was usually mocking, prideful, or just saying something she didn't actually mean.

Meanwhile, S/O was deadpan, direct, and extremely literal.

How they ended up in a relationship, even Eula didn't really know or see coming.

Especially the ways S/O displayed their love.

(Eula) "...S/O, what the heck are you doing?!"

S/O was carrying a boar encased in ice inside a wagon, with S/O looking completely emotionless as they responded.

(S/O) "You said that a dish was best served cold. So I have procured us dinner in the coldest state possible."

(Eula) "Wha...But I-...How, why did...?!-"

Eula sighed before deciding there wasn't really any point questioning anymore.

(Eula) "I'll get ready to cook the boar. Mind getting that ice cube near a fire?"

(S/O) "But you said-"

(Eula) "It's a figure of speech, S/O! But...thank you, you didn't have to do that."

(S/O) "I comprehend."

(Eula) Do they...?!

#genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #rosaria x reader #kuki shinobu x reader #eula x reader #rosaria genshin impact #kuki shinobu #eula lawrence

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xenosagaepisodeone · 3 months

Text

I think for feminism to have any chance of having some kind of mainstream presence again there needs to be a greater emphasis on extractive labor. standpoint epistemology and the death of context seem to be a consistent blockade in discussions about the extent or the depth of systematized oppression; allowing misogyny to be reframed as purely a mental health issue, or individualized as a mere lack of men having good role models illustrates how little regard people have for women's rights as also being a labor issue. the positionality of women as a class (and the further peripheralization that occurs because of racism, homophobia and transphobia), the expectations placed upon them by virtue of gender as well as the unpersoning and violence that is implicitly justified by virtue of this positionality is a lot harder to deflect or derail in conversation than the discussions we currently have about vague feelings of gender roles and guilt. It's harder for people to stretch the generally agreeable "patriarchy harms men too" sentiment into "men and women are equally harmed by patriarchy" when confronted with the material gains that men have acquired historically as a result of the control and subjugation of women. It also serves as stronger basis when confronting right wing women when they advocate for the banning of abortion or the expansion of "parental rights". If I hear someone insist that women are unilaterally chivalrously protected by society and are assumed to be pure maidens who can do no wrong I'm going to scare the mice in my home by punching drywall. It won't even cause a dent in the wall but the mice will be startled. Do you want to be responsible for that.

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shorelinessightlines · 26 days

Text

He ended up doing it on a Sunday. Race weekend. Daniel put his fist through the drywall after his first DNF of the season, and Max broke up with him on the spot.

It had felt very 2018, their argument. Max's head fills the blank spots in his memory with old footage from their pre-Renault days. Daniel, for better or for worse, has not changed so much—it makes it easier to substitute the finer details.

Details have always been difficult for Max, which makes him feel shitty. People think he can't remember because he doesn't care, but he does, he swears he does. There's a lingering, near-permanent part of Max that aches for the smell of Daniel's burnt eggs and charred toast late at night, one that hurts more when he wakes up in the morning to the sound of birds and not the smoke alarm going off.

Caring makes no difference. He's unsure if they were still in their racesuits, or if they'd changed out of them in the few hours it had taken for media duties, debriefs, and post-race apologies slash unfollowing-sprees to wrap up.

The particular characteristics of their argument fade away to this: Daniel had said, "Fuck you, Max," innocuous and unsurprising, but it had brought him back to days at the karting track, the other kids flitting around and shouting swears they only just learned how to say.

Max had run them into a barrier, they complained to their parents, but he would already be sprinting over to Jos, holding up his helmet like, Did you see that? I was brave. I didn't back out. I did exactly what you told me to do.

"That is unfair," he had responded, feeling not very much like himself, and Daniel had looked at him like he had two heads.

"You're dumping me."

Daniel, likely, had never been dumped in his life. Why would anyone dump Daniel? Daniel was fucking perfect and this—this was just another thing Max had managed to fuck up.

"I am not dumping you, Daniel, always you use such ugly words, it is—"

"Max, oh my god, shut up. You're dumping me, and I get you're having a rough time right now, but this is—god, this is just crazy."

Max sniffed then, maybe, sad and angry and violent-feeling. Boiling inside. Hating Daniel in the moment and knowing he would miss him in the morning.

"You—Daniel, you know. Fuck you, this is not fair."

Max told Daniel about the karting tracks. Max told Daniel everything, like his crush on Mark Webber growing up and when his dad died. His hands had been shaking from the weight of his phone in the middle of their Monaco apartment and all Max could think to do was tell Daniel, because he told Daniel everything and Daniel would surely know what to do.

"You wanna talk about unfair? I just had one of the shittiest races of my goddamn life and—" Daniel swiped a cheap lamp to the floor. The bulb shattered. "—my boyfriend is breaking up with me at the racetrack not four hours later. Fuck, isn't that unfair, Max?"

Max's voice tembled when he talked. "You punched the wall. You are so violent, Daniel." It comes out wrong, but it's true. Daniel is violent like Max's father. So is Max, most days.

"I am not Jos," Daniel spit; he knew what Max meant, he knew Max better than anyone and it was still so angry. Daniel hated Jos, and god, Max never used to think like this before but it's so easy, these days, to be reminded of his late father. Last names, misplaced shadows, bruises that had purpled unevenly on Daniel's knuckles—familiar and disgusting and angry. This is not fair.

It was a regular spat—Daniel yelled and cussed Max out and punched a wall and broke a lamp and it was all normal. But fuck, all Max could do was be reminded of the karting tracks, of his dad, and that made Max feel even worse because everything reminded him of his dad and racing reminded him of his dad and Daniel reminded him of his dad and the hole in the drywall reminded him of his dad and—

Max remembers (details, details, details—) the distant way he had said, "I will not do this with you anymore."

It's only been a few days since Max and Daniel broke up. He thinks he is already starting to regret it.

---

Max has taken to imagining a life where he is, perhaps, a fish.

It would fit the empty, white nature of his apartment—if it were in reality a fishbowl, and he just swam in circles endlessly. If Daniel were his fish-friend and they lived their fishy lives together. Nothing could be so bad, of course, if there was Daniel.

But, this is not possible. Jimmy and Sassy would simply eat him.

"Nah, mate," Not-Daniel materializes on the couch. Max doesn't question it; Not-Daniel has been showing up on his couch a lot as of late, to fill the vacancy Real-Daniel left behind. "Nah, Sassy wouldn't eat you. Jimmy, now... that's another story."

"You underestimate Sassy."

"Oh no, far from it," Daniel's voice is strange and round because he's gaping his mouth open and shut to imitate a fish. He looks silly. "Sassy's too cunning. She's waiting for Jimmy to eat you so she can tell me what happened and I'll throw Jimmy out the window. Then she'll have the apartment all to herself. It's quite the plan, actually."

Max laughs at that and blows imaginary bubbles to Daniel, which he catches and throws back at him like a baseball. Then Max throws a pillow, and Daniel laughs too.

"I wish we were really fish," says Max. "I don't care if Jimmy would eat me." In the perfect world of his daydream, Daniel responds:

"Yeah, we'd make the best fish couple, don't you think?"

Of course, Max broke up with Daniel two weeks ago, so he has taken to telling these things to Lando instead. Lando has much less interesting responses, like, "Are you sure you don't want to see a therapist?"

Max scowls.

"I do not want to see a therapist. Why would I need a therapist?"

Lando raises an eyebrow, then both eyebrows. A strange habit.

"Your dad died, like, a week and a half ago," Lando ticks off on one finger. "You broke up with Daniel after five years together, you drove possibly the worst race of your life last weekend, and now you think you're a fish." Lando wiggles four fingers in front of the camera. Max wishes Lando were here in real life so he could shove Lando's dumb fingers into Lando's dumb face.

Then he reminds himself that Lando is his friend, and then Max feels shitty and angry and just like his dad. (Everything these days reminds him of his dad.)

"How lovely."

"Nah, I wouldn't say as much." Lando has a strange expression on his face, the grainy quality of the phone camera merging his eyebrows together into a caterpillar. "Mate. Get help."

"I do not need help."

"That's exactly what Daniel would say." Fuck you, Lando.

Max feels a sudden, sharp pang of anger and regret at just the sound of Daniel's name—wrong on Lando's tongue, marred by a British accent and a chaotic friendship that always managed to make Max insecure. Fuck you fuck you fuck you. You don't know him better than me.

"Daniel would not say that," he says instead of screaming. His voice sounds odd and strained. Mean. Angry. "Daniel is—Daniel would not say that."

Lando says, "Maybe not when you knew him, but you two haven't been teammates for five years. That changes more than you might think.”

"Daniel—"

"—didn't tell you when he got fired, did he?" Lando raises his eyebrows again, because he knows he's right and he is a smug dickhead.

No, Daniel didn't tell Max when he got fired. Max found out through Instagram of all places, and it had felt especially strange back then because they lived together and Daniel told him everything.

It was an exchange—Daniel would spill all his insecurities and his break with Michael and the way the car felt more like a death trap than a vehicle most days, and Max would tell Daniel about how much he missed eating breakfast with Victoria on Saturdays, about the dumb photoshoots Red Bull made him do now that he was a world champion, about Jos and the moment he died and the way Max felt shitty and free and so violent.

But Daniel didn't tell Max when he got fired, and he didn't tell him about his eating problems, and he didn't—fuck, Daniel was so kind and so gentle and sometimes he punched walls so hard the plaster crumbled from the power of his fists.

Daniel was one of those things that hurt more that it healed. Soft and tender in the right places—if Max pushed too hard, he would bruise him. If Max touched his shoulder he might scratch himself on Daniel's sharp edges; might break, like the walls did, under the force of Daniel's anger.

He feels like he's breaking, now. He needs Daniel, all the time, bruises and scars and plaster and all. (He needed his dad, too, and he has come to wonder if needing vicious things has been written into code, much like racing has. If his dad taught him brutality with the braking zones, at the karting tracks all those years ago.)

"I can recommend you a therapist," Lando is saying in this coddling kind of tone, the one you would use on a baby.

Max had never been coddled. It feels odd to hear it now, at his grown age, by a friend two years younger than him who probably found out Daniel was fired exactly when Daniel did.

He says, "Fuck you," and doesn't really mean it.

Lando responds, "Can't do that if you're a fish."

---

Jos's funeral is on a Sunday. Race weekend. The Australian Grand Prix.

Max is convinced Jos wrote that specifically in his will just to screw Max over one final time. Unnecessary, really—Max still jumps at his own shadow, when he mistakes the rigidity of his own shoulders for his father's.

Max catches a glimpse of his silhouette on the grass, bulky and stiff next to the thin lines of other attendees. He grimaces.

It's too sunny out, for a funeral. Max feels overheated in his black suit. Victoria stands at his side and wipes sweat from her brow, equally uncomfortable in a black dress and heels. Jos's other children, most of which Max honestly forgets exist some days, stand ramrod straight and look appropriately sad, sweating through their Sunday-best while their perfect blue eyes and slightly chubby faces scrunch up in grief.

Max tries to imagine Jos yelling at these kids and thinks bitterly that to them, Jos was maybe a good father. A good man, husband, citizen. They must miss him so much, they must be so sad he is gone.

Max tries to find an emotion within him that is not confused or afraid, and comes up empty.

His half-sister finishes the eulogy abruptly—it's wet-sounding, something guttural and painful clogging her throat. After that, the rest of the service passes by quickly. He stays behind with Victoria while all the guests file out and his half-siblings get ushered to the car by their mother; it would probably look bad if Max were the first to leave his father's funeral.

When the last guest has disappeared into the parking lot, Max flops down beside his father's freshly-dug grave and puts his head to his knees. Victoria sits down much more gingerly, careful not to ruin her dress.

"He was a weird dad," she says, unprompted. Max supposes this is the part where they are supposed to mourn him. "I don't remember too much of him. He always took you places and left me home with Mom."

"He took me to the karting tracks."

"Yeah, I know." She sighs. "You missed a race for this. He would've hated that."

Max supposes he would have. He can't decide if that makes him sad or angry or—or vindicated, somehow. Max is sure that if Daniel were here, some more prominent emotion would have risen to the top, just to pick a fight with whatever Daniel wanted to say.

They could never seem to settle when it came to Jos Verstappen.

"Do you think Daniel would have missed the race to be here?" The words bubble up, unbidden. Max practically chokes on them. To be with me, lies unspoken between them, solid like a rock in Max's throat.

Victoria looks at him with something like pity. "He had a habit of doing anything for you," she says like it's a bad thing, "if only you would ask."

Max does not say anything to that. He's not sure there is an answer to be had.

Victoria nudges him with her shoulder. "He won today, you know."

"He did?" The fondness cuts its way out of him. Home race. Big deal. "That's good. He deserves it, of course."

"Hm. He wouldn't have, if you'd been there."

Max bristles at that. He used to like being better than Daniel, being compared to Daniel. He used to like it because Jos liked it, and he wanted Jos to like him.

"Daniel is a good driver."

"No championship, though."

"You sound like Dad."

Victoria smiles, wry. "Fuck, don't we all somedays. You know, I yelled at Luka at the karting tracks the other day to brake later. It was like something came over me, you know? It felt like—like this is what we were born to be. And that felt dumb and ugly and I fucking cried in the bathroom when we got home."

Max gets that feeling. "I broke up with Daniel because he punched a wall," he offers, and it's so stupid, the way Jos has wormed his way into the best parts of their lives and rotted there, like a dead dog in the town well.

"Ah. I was wondering why you didn't ask him to be here."

Max shrugs. He is silent for a while, trying to pick out the right thing to say, and then:

"Do you miss him?" Victoria asks. "Despite the violence?" He wonders if she means Daniel or Jos.

He says, "Is it bad, if I do?"

---

Max is not all that surprised when he wakes up on Tuesday morning and finds Daniel on his couch. It used to be their apartment, after all, and Daniel still has the key.

Daniel is awake when Max stumbles into the living room. His stubble makes him look more tired than he actually must be. He says, "Howdy," in an exhausted and sheepish tone, and Max says, "I was going to drop off your things, I promise."

Daniel blinks.

"That's not what I'm here about."

"Oh." Max blinks too. "How was Australia?" He’s pretty sure he’s already had this conversation with Daniel at least four times in the past week since the funeral. Well, there's no harm in trying again.

"It was great. I won."

"That is good, for the team. I knew you could do it, of course, I told them so."

Daniel shakes his head. "You would have won, if you had been there."

"You sound like my dad," Max blurts out. It is true. You do sound like my dad. Victoria sounded like my dad. Everyone sounds like my dad.

Daniel narrows his eyes and doesn't say anything. Please do not look at me this way. It is not my fault he is haunting me.

Max scrambles to find something else to talk about. "I will make us breakfast," he says, already shifting away from the couch. “Cereal is fine, yes?”

"Uh. Sure. Sounds nice."

Max escapes to the kitchen, which is, in reality, only a few feet away. Still, the separation of the counter and the couch enforces a sense of distance—protection.

Daniel, of course, does not obey the invisible boundaries Max has outlined in his head. He rises, takes a few steps, and now he is in Max's space; lingering like he doesn't know what to do with himself, purposeful and aimless and intrusive.

"Do you—do you need help?" Daniel is peering over his shoulder. Max looks at him, their faces close. Then, he looks back at the two bowls he had laid out on the countertop and frowns.

Max's shadow splays itself across the countertop, and the broad line of Jos’s shoulders stares at him, aloof and alone. For a second, he wonders if the silhouette is Daniel’s, and it is Max who is the ghost.

He feels his heart sink, like the other four times Not-Daniel has woken up on Max's couch since Jos's funeral. Not-Daniel is still saying: “I can help, if you want me to.”

Max feels inexplicably angry, at that—wants to scream that of course he needs help, he has always needed Daniel’s help—Daniel used to char the toast and burn the eggs and make coffee that tasted like burning rubber. Max has not yet learned how to make breakfast without Daniel fucking it up.

Jos used to fuck up the breakfast too, a traitorous voice whispers in Max's ear, and he tenses.

It is different, of course, Max knows this. Jos burned the toast because he didn't care if Max ate ashes. Daniel burned the toast because he loved Max, and he couldn't help but ruin some things.

Max remembers to reply, trance-like, “No. I am okay. Sit back down.”

He turns to look at Daniel, and finds he has magically appeared on the couch once more.

The first time this happened, Max had freaked out, had thought he was going crazy. Now, it’s more disappointing than anything.

Logically, Max knows that he dropped off Daniel’s copy of the key a while ago, along with Daniel’s hoodies and knick-knacks and journals. Daniel has not actually been in their apartment in a very long time, and Max knows this because he has not had to replace a dented pan or nicked glassware in a decent amount of time.

He asks Not-Daniel, as he preps two bowls of cereal: “Do you remember what we were wearing, when we broke up?”

Daniel has always remembered little things like that. Small, tiny, minuscule details that Max could never seem to grasp.

“Nah, mate. I forgot.”

Details. Max was never so good at them.

#raine.fic #dr3 #mv33 #maxiel #ln4 #daniel is probably not this angry irl tbh

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foreverindreamlandd · 2 years

Text

Awake My Soul • 14

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

WC: 7.9k

Summary: It’s been 5 years since zombies first began their invasion, and despite everything you’ve been through, you’ve managed to survive up until this point. Now it’s time to face your most dangerous challenge yet….the grumpy, untrusting, fiercely protective Bucky Barnes.

Chapter Warnings: A LOT of torture, needles, syringes, mentions of blood, death, nightmares, someone not eating or sleeping, electroshock therapy, a gross thing with a tooth, suicide. Listen....it's a rough one, fam.

A/N: Thank you so so so much for being so patient as I wrote this. It might take the same amount with the others, but I promise I will finish this series and I'll do my best to give it the ending it deserves <3

Series Masterlist

**There is a playlist for this fic, but linking it here messes up the tags so feel free to check it out in the series masterlist!

Meine kleine Puppe - My little doll.

Bucky slammed the Hydra agent against the wall, his feet dangling in the air, hands clinging to the vibranium arm in a measly attempt to loosen the grip he had around his neck.

“Where is she?” He growled through clenched teeth, eyes blazing with unending, unbridled rage.

The agent, though very much struggling to breathe, let out a choked laugh. “As if I’d tell you scum. Hydra would kill me.”

Bucky pulled the agent away from the wall so he could slam him back into it, creating an outline of his body in the drywall. “I’m gonna fucking kill you if you don’t so ANSWER ME!”

“Bucky!” Steve shouted, but his friend kept his gaze on the snickering man before him. “Enough.”

Bucky tensed his jaw, finding the tiniest bit of comfort in the way the agent's face was turning blue.

“At least,” he gasped, “if I die now, it will be for a cause I believe in.”

His hand tightened around the agent’s neck.

“Don’t be fooled,” Bucky said, a smile creeping up his lips, “if you don’t talk now, I’ll make sure you wish you were dead before I finally end your useless, miserable life.”

Steve grabbed him by the shoulder, jerking him away. The agent fell to the ground, sputtering for air.

Bucky shoved Steve away. “You need to back off right now before-”

“Before what? You gonna torture me, Buck? Kill me? Is that the new norm when you’re upset? What the fuck is this, man?”

Bucky shook his head. “Lecture me all you want later, Steve. I’m doing what I need to do to get Y/n back. If you have a problem with that then fucking stay out of it.”

He turned to the fallen agent, grabbing him by the collar until their faces were inches apart.

“You think you have a cause worthy to believe in? You’re just a rat doing the bidding of people who could get two shits about you. If you want to support them? Follow them? Fine. But I’ll get you to talk, even if it costs you a few fingernails and teeth.”

The agent chuckled, his tongue sliding over his teeth. “Nice try, Mr. Barnes,” he said, then pulled out one of his back molars so effortlessly that Bucky flinched, shock preventing him from reacting in time as the agent broke the tooth between his teeth, a white, milky substance bursting into his mouth. “I’ll see you and your girlfriend in Hell.”

Bucky roared, shaking the man as blood dripped out of his eyes, body convulsing before going completely limp.

He threw his corpse to the ground, then punched a whole into the wall closest to him. “God FUCKING dammit,” he yelled.

“It’ll be okay, Buck,” Steve said softly, the regular mixture of concern and pity in his voice. “We’ll look somewhere else. Maybe there’s another agent hiding in this mall that we haven’t found yet.” He tried to rest a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder but he jerked away.

“Even if there were another one of these assholes, they would have heard us and booked it already, Steve,” he spit out. “This was our only shot! The closest we’ve been to finding her! And you fucking ruined it!”

Steve swallowed, maintaining a calm demeanor. “You and I both know he wasn’t going to tell you anything.”

“We could have at least tried to get something!”

“So what? You were going to break his bones and rip out his fingernails, Bucky? Is this who you are now, a monster like them?”

Bucky looked to the ground. “If it’s what I need to do to get her back.” His voice was softer, but still firm. Resolute in that horrifying statement.

Steve scoffed. “No way. I’m sorry man, but I’m not going to allow you to lose yourself to find her. She wouldn’t allow it either if she were here-”

“BUT SHE’S NOT HERE STEVE, IS SHE?” Bucky screamed, veins popping out of his forehead. “I let her come with me to save you and put her right back into their hands. She’s gone, and it’s all my fault.” His voice broke at the end, but he forced the tears to stay behind his red-rimmed eyes.

His friend relaxed, taking a step forward to once again attempt comforting his friend. “Buck…”

Bucky sniffled, taking a step back to kneel down by the fallen Hydra agent, inspecting for any clues. Steve stayed where he was, taking his cue to be silent.

When he deemed that there was nothing useful on the body he stood up, storming past Steve.

“We should head back.”

You had been gone 57 days.

Each one of them passed with such agonizing slowness and rapidity. Bucky felt each second pass that you weren’t there with him, palm pressed in his, head on his chest. He also felt the devastation of another day gone, of you being tortured by your captors. There was a gnawing feeling in the back of his mind telling him that time was running out.

But he couldn’t fucking find you, and it was breaking him.

That moment he awoke to find you gone, that silly goodbye note you had left begging him not to go look for you, Bucky allowed himself one minute to shatter. 60 seconds to let grief totally consume and paralyze him.

When that minute passed, he stood up and got to work.

Of course he, Steve, Yelena, Kate and Clint dropped everything and booked it to the Hydra prison, only to find it completely empty. Any trace of their existence there being the bloodstains that covered the building.

They searched miles and miles past the perimeter, Bucky only stopping when forced by the others as they commanded they take a break and rest. At least for the sake of the horses.

After a few days, they went back to Shield’s camp to regroup with the others and plan their next steps.

It had been an endless hunt ever since. Small packs of them searching different areas, searching for any sign of where they might have taken you.

Nothing.

No sign of Hydra was to be found. They had gone completely radio silent.

And Bucky was falling apart at the seams.

There were times - when he was riding Alpine through the woods towards his next destination, or when he was in the gym railing on the punching bag - that he would see you in the corner of his eye. He’d stop short, whipping his head around, tears welling in his eyes as he was met with nothing. His chest would rip freshly in two, just as it did the night you first left, and he’d run off with Alpine or slam his fist even harder on the punching bag.

At night, if he was able to sleep for even a few minutes, he’d dream of you.

It was always the same dream. You running through the woods, him chasing after you, trying to stop you from leaving. Your voice echoing in his mind as he screamed out your name.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t look for me.”

“Please.”

It would just make him run faster. If he was lucky enough to have a good dream, he’d manage to catch up and grab your arm. As soon as you spun around to look at him, he’d see the start of a smile forming on your face before he woke up.

Most nights, no matter how fast he ran, how loud he screamed out to you, he couldn’t reach you in time before you drifted out of sight.

No matter the outcome of the dream, he would wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, your voice still whirling through his brain.

“Don’t look for me.”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss you or throttle you after reading that note. How the actual fuck could you possibly think that he wasn’t going to go to the ends of the earth to find the woman he loved.

God, he wished he had fucking said it. The words had always been spoken humorously, but he meant it every time.

Bucky wondered if he had found the fucking balls to say it earlier, to try to find the words to tell you how much you meant to him, that it might have been enough to make you stay. That he might be able to get you to understand how much it would actually destroy him to not have you by his side. That he would have fought Hydra tooth and nail until he breathed his last breath if it meant he could wake up with you in his arms.

Or would it not have been enough, to know how much he loved you? Was leaving him easy for you? Were your feelings for him less consuming than his were?

No. He couldn’t think that way. Refused to think that way.

He knew how you felt about him. Knew it with every hug, every kiss, every fucking look you gave him that put butterflies in his stomach and changed his center of gravity.

“Don’t look for me.”

Sorry, Sweetheart, but I’m never going to stop looking until I find you.

Bucky would find you.

He had to.

There was no other option.

Bucky beelined to the meeting room as soon as they walked through the gates into Shield. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cass, AJ, and Morgan standing in the garden, none of them waving at him upon his return. When you left, he had grown even more cold and distant than he had when he thought Steve was dead along with so many of their family on the night of the Hydra attack. Even after that devastation, he was always able to manage enough energy to smile at their ridiculous jokes, or hug them back when they wrapped their tiny bodies around his massive one.

Now, with you gone, Bucky no longer had the heart to smile or laugh. Didn’t have the energy to fake enthusiasm when Cass told him he managed to do a full pull-up or when AJ asked him to sit at their table during dinner.

They didn’t even try to win his attention anymore, because he showed no interest in it, and that knowledge broke him more and more each day.

He wanted to tell them that he loved them all so much. Loved everyone here with his whole heart (or, what was left of it). That if he could smile at the dumb fart jokes Morgan made, he would. He just….couldn’t. Every moment he existed since you left was spent drowning, and Bucky didn’t have the strength to swim up for air.

The meeting room was empty when he walked in, and he went straight to the map that had now grown significantly since the gang started going past their comfort zones in search of you.

It was covered with dots, routes, red X’s, each spot a mark of failure.

Bucky lifted up the red marker and added another X to their most recent destination, the taste of iron on his tongue as he bit too hard on the inside of his cheek.

As his eyes stared blankly at the map before him, his mind wandered elsewhere.

“Is that all you got, Beefcake?” you taunted, fists shielding your face as you prepared for another attack.

Bucky grinned, pretending to act tough as he readied his next move when all he really wanted to do was cage your adorable, sweaty face in between his hands and kiss you until you passed out.

It had been a few days after the small fiasco at CVS, when Bucky found out you were immune and the two of you realized that the feelings you felt for one another were - believe it or not - reciprocated. You were already in the gym training with Yelena when he descended the stairs for his usual workout (one that had conveniently switched around to overlap with yours), and he felt his stomach do somersaults when your eyes met his and you took the fraction of a second you had to smile and wink at him before dodging another blow from your fierce trainer.

Once Yelena was done with you he stepped forward, challenging you to show him your ‘mad skills’ (as you called them).

Yelena just rolled her eyes with a snort, grabbing her things and running away to leave the two of you alone as you sparred.

“You’re talkin’ a big game for someone who’s about to get their ass kicked, Sweetheart,” he said in a low, menacing voice.

If he was being completely honest, Bucky was unsure of who was going to win. Though he knew you were amazing and strong and sexy and everything good in this world, he had always thought of himself as a top-level fighter. But, you had been training with the one person who had consistently been able to hand his ass to him, so it did make sense that you’d be able to do the same.

He was also way too distracted by the fact that this was the steamiest fight he had ever been in. The feel of your muscles tensing around him as you moved out of his hold, the way your chest moved up and down as you panted for breath, the small gasps you let out whenever he made a move you weren’t anticipating.

Bucky was an absolute goner, and all he could do was smile when you eventually jumped up his body, wrapped your legs around his neck and brought the two of you to the ground.

“Fuck YES,” you breathed out, doing a small fist bump in the air. “That’s the first time I’ve nailed the leg thing.”

Bucky chuckled, turning onto his side, head rested on his elbow as he stared at you. “It’s an honor to be your first victim, Sweetheart.”

Your eyebrows wiggled as a sly grin crept up your face.

It was silent for a few moments then, only the sounds of your heavy breathing echoing through the room. Bucky didn’t care, though. He was just so, ridiculously, stupidly happy to be able to stare into your eyes as you stared into his, the inches separating your lips growing smaller and smaller-

“Bucky.”

Bucky turned around as Sam and Steve walked in, their expressions stern.

He ignored their looks and turned back to the maps. “I was thinking we could try going farther North next time. I can be ready in a few hours and we can head out-”

“Bucky,” Sam repeated, crossing his arms. Him and Steve exchanged glances before turning back to their friend. “You’re being benched.”

His brows furrowed. “The fuck does that mean? This a baseball game or something?”

“It means,” Steve continued, hands on his hips, “that you aren’t leaving camp anymore. For the foreseeable future.”

He scoffed. “You’re grounding me?”

“We’re trying to keep you alive, man,” Sam said, eyes filled with sadness. “You can’t go on like this. You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, and now Steve is saying that you’re getting reckless and aggressive while out in completely new territory-”

“I have everything under control,” Bucky barked out, glaring at Steve, who directed his attention to the floor in front of him. “You can’t make me stay in my room to think about what I’ve done instead of going out and finding her.”

“You don’t have it under control, Buck!” Sam yelled. “You’re making too much noise. There’s no secrecy, no tactfulness, just you blindly going into danger and compromising you and whoever you’re with.” He sighed, running a hand over his face.

Steve took over. “Bucky, look, we all want her back as much as you do - don’t roll your eyes at me - but if you’re going to continue to make it so obvious to Hydra that we’re hunting them, they’re either going to take us out or move farther and farther away until there’s no chance of finding her. Or worse, they’ll decide she’s not worth the trouble and kill her without second thought.” Bucky punched the wooden desk next to him. “You have to hear us on this, Bucky. Your caring too much is making you careless, and all of us could pay the price for it. Y/n especially.”

“And just because you’re not going out anymore doesn’t mean that we won’t either,” Sam said. “We’re going to keep searching until we get answers. We won’t give up on her.”

Bucky stared at them for a few moments, expression hard and - if he were being honest - the tiniest bit hateful.

“If she dies because I wasn’t able to find her in time, I’ll never forgive either of you.”

He walked out before they could get a word in, too ashamed by the looks of devastation on their faces.

He went straight to your room and slammed the door shut behind him, pacing and running his hands over his head.

It was all so overwhelming, the amount of emotions running through him. Pain, guilt, anger, confusion, anxiety. His brain was so overloaded that he couldn’t even feel any of them.

Eventually he laid down in your bed, face pressed against the pillow.

He started ‘resting’ (if you could even call it that) in your room after you had left. It was this strange, instinctive need to be surrounded by your scent, to breathe in the air you once inhabited. Even the faint imprints in your mattress formed by your body was something he craved.

Eventually, breathing into your pillow, his eyes fluttered closed and he dozed off.

You were running away from him in the woods.

He sprinted as fast as he could.

Until finally….he was able to reach out for your hand.

When he spun you around, blood was pouring out of your eyes, and you screamed when you saw him.

He awoke with his own scream trapped in his throat, sitting up in bed as he caught his breath. Though the dream only lasted a few seconds, the darkness outside your window indicated that hours had passed.

More time wasted when he could have been back out finding you.

Fuck this, Bucky thought, standing up and grabbing his pack. They can’t keep me locked in here.

Bucky quietly opened the door, creeping down the hallway as he snuck out of the dorms.

“Going somewhere?” a low, Russian accent asked casually from the shadows behind him.

He stopped, head hanging low in defeat.

“Stay out of this, Yelena,” he replied flatly.

He saw her feet walk past him. “Follow me, Barnes.”

With an annoyed sigh, he followed her.

Yelena led them to the gym, neither of them saying a word as their steps echoed down the stairs and into the open basement.

She walked over to the corner, grabbing two pairs of boxing gloves and handing one of them to Bucky.

He looked at the gloves, then at her, and when she raised her eyebrows in a wordless challenge, he grabbed them and put them on.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” he asked with no attempt to hide the annoyance in his tone.

“Hit me,” was all she said, arms limp by her side.

Bucky cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“Hit me.”

He let out a confused chuckle, shaking his head. “Yelena, I don’t know what your plan is, but me hitting you isn’t going to-”

Bucky let out a small oof as the small Russian’s fist socked him in the jaw, his giant body stumbling back.

He slowly turned back at her, anger bubbling in his chest. “What the fuck was-”

She punched him again, this time in the stomach.

“Come on Barnes, we don’t have all night,” she said, taunting him. “Just fucking punch me already-”

Yelena was on the floor before she could finish the last word, and Bucky’s right arm was fully extended, his chest heaving from the rush of adrenaline.

When she stood back up, there was a smile on her face.

“Good.” And then she was winding up for another strike.

It was the literal definition of a tit-for-tat, Yelena getting a blow on him, and Bucky getting the next.

At first it all felt childish, like they were just two punks trying to see who could wail on the other person the hardest.

But there was so much more to it, Bucky began to realize. All this time, he had been filled with such anger and aggression that he tried to release through the inanimate punching bag, a zombie who mistakenly crossed his path, or a Hydra agent who would just laugh in his face at the pain and rage behind his eyes.

Here, with Yelena, someone who was filled with the same agony he felt, meeting him punch for punch as tears filled their eyes, it was like there was someone here who understood the emotions ripping their way through him constantly.

Like he was finally able to fully let go.

The more they fought, the more exhausted his body became, the less he was able to hold everything in.

It was even worse because the friend before him had this look in her eye the entire time, a look that told her that it was okay. That she was there for him. That she could handle this burden for him.

Then, finally, as he raised his right fist to ready another hit, the breath he took in hitched, and was followed by a small sob.

His fists lowered to his sides, feet shuffling side to side as he tried to balance himself, emotion completely washing over him.

He was on the ground instantly, elbows on his knees, face in his gloved hands as he body shuddered from the wails choking out of him.

Yelena removed her gloves and knelt behind him, wrapping her arms around his and squeezing him as he cried.

They stayed there for what could have been minutes or hours, he truly couldn’t tell. Eventually, his sobs turned to soft sniffles, and his shoulders stopped shaking.

Yelena took that as her cue to release her hold on him, and she moved to sit by his side, staying silent as she waited for him to regain composure.

“Thank you,” he finally croaked out.

She nodded, pressing a finger under her nose to check for blood (there wasn’t, and Bucky let out a small sigh of relief).

His brows furrowed when she let out a scoff. “This actually wasn’t as bad as I was anticipating,” she said. “When Clint had me do this with him right after losing Natasha, I nearly shattered his nose.”

When Bucky laughed this time, it was genuine. “Well, I made sure not to get your face with the metal arm. Even with the gloves, I feel like that would have done some nasty shit.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, lightly punching his arm. “I’m sure Kate will, too.”

The two shared a laugh, and then the Russian’s face went a bit more somber. “I know how much it hurts, Bucky. How unbearable it is when you’ve lost someone so important. How much easier it feels to just shut down. But we have to think about what the people we love would want for us. Natasha…Natasha was the only family I had for a really long time. And I thought she was all I was going to have. All I wanted to have. And when she was gone, I didn’t want anyone else to fill in the void left behind by her. I couldn’t even look at Kate for a few weeks, because I felt guilty about seeking comfort from someone who wasn’t my sister. Like I shouldn’t be allowed to feel anything else but sadness because someone I loved so much wasn’t here anymore.”

Bucky nodded, tears continuing to stream down his face as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. He thought about Steve, the way he had been so cold towards his best friend because he didn’t feel like he deserved to be comforted.

“Eventually I realized that Natasha would have hated that, to see me so lonely and isolated because of her. Like I was doing it as a favor to her, even though it was just a waste of a life that still had a chance to live, to carry on with the love shared between my sister and I.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder. “You, Barnes, you need to keep fighting the pull toward that empty void, that urge to shut down. Not just because there are people in this camp who love you and don’t want to lose you, but because Y/n would be devastated to see that the love you two shared was locked up and hidden away forever. And not only that, but I know with every fiber of my fucking being that she is still alive, and she deserves better than to be reunited with a cold, distant version of you.”

Bucky’s gaze went to the ground, vision blurry as he continued to cry silently.

Then, without a word, he stood up, taking off his gloves.

Just as Yelena was about to stand, he extended a hand out toward her. She smiled, grabbing it as he hoisted her up, wrapping his arms around her as soon as she was vertical.

“Love you, Lena.”

“Love you too, Barnes.”

When Bucky returned to your room later that night, the moment his head hit the pillow he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He awoke the next morning to the sound of his stomach growling, and Bucky got up to grab himself breakfast.

Lately, whenever he did eat (which was rare these days), he would simply sneak into the cafeteria and grab a bowl of food left aside for him by Dum Dum and escape back to your room to eat by himself.

He was about to do the same today when something caught his ear, causing him to stop in his tracks.

“Dear Ella. Impatience is not usually my weakness. But your letters torment me.”

His chest swelled at the familiar words, and Bucky turned his attention to Morgan, AJ, and Cass sitting together at their usual table. Morgan held the book up as she acted out the words she read, the boys completely enraptured.

Unable to help himself, Bucky’s feet pivoted, and he walked over to them.

Three sets of eyes were on him in an instant; wide, hesitant, and a bit confused. The new Bucky they had come to know never seemed to want anything to do with them.

“Where’d you find that?” he asked, gesturing to the movie tie-in copy of Ella Enchanted he had gotten you months prior.

Morgan gave him a sad smile. “It was left outside my room after….after Y/n went missing.”

He nodded, hand smoothing over her head.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Three heads nodded up at him, eyes now wide with excitement.

Bucky sat down next to AJ. “I fucking love this book.”

Giggles erupted from the kids at both the admission and the curse word, and Bucky found himself laughing along with them.

“Alright Morgan, keep going.” He took a big spoonful of oatmeal and gulped it down. “Shit’s about to go down with Ella.”

More giggles followed, and then Morgan continued reading. Occasionally the boys would make gagging sounds when something overly romantic happened, but that didn’t stop them from begging for her to keep going at the end of each chapter.

Every so often, Bucky would catch someone in the corner of his eye stopping to stare at the scene before them. At one point he looked over once to see Yelena and Kate watching them from their own table, and Yelena winked at him when their eyes met.

Cass and AJ eventually made their ways onto Bucky’s lap, their heads resting on his shoulders as they listened to Morgan.

He had missed this. Missed spending time with the kids, giggling along with them, hugging them with reckless abandon. He promised himself that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t take it for granted ever again.

“And so, with laughter and love, we lived happily ever after.”

The table - and Dum Dum - erupted with applause as Morgan finished the last sentence, and she stood from her seat to give them all a grand bow.

“Next time, I want to be the one to read!” Cass exclaimed.

“No, I want to read!” AJ pouted.

Bucky chuckled, lowering them to the ground as he stood. “You can both have a chance to read, guys. We can make a book club and everything.” His heart stung for a second at the memory of you saying almost the exact same words during one of your first watch assignments, but the smile didn’t leave his face as the kids cheered loudly at the proposition.

“Is this book club exclusive, or can other people join?” Bucky turned to see Steve standing there, a small, grateful smile on his face.

Bucky nodded. “The more the merrier, Stevie.”

His best friend nodded, jaw clenching as he slapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He responded by pulling Steve in for a hug.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky grumbled into Steve’s shoulder.

He felt Steve nod again. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Love ya, punk.”

“Love you too, jerk.”

They exchanged playful hits to one another's shoulders before heading out of the cafeteria, Dum Dum giving them a small salute as they left.

“I know you’re probably busy,” Bucky started, holding the door open for Steve as they stepped outside. “But are you down to play a round of War-”

The gates creaked open in front of them, Clint, Laura, and Sarah running through.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, the two of them following behind as their friends ran by.

“Sarah, get your brother. Laur, go find the others.” was all Clint said as he stormed up the stairs to the meeting room.

“Can someone please tell us what the hell is going on?” Bucky asked, hands on his hips.

Clint ignored him, walking over to the disheveled map, his fingers tracing along some invisible route.

Then, his finger stopped, and he turned around until his eyes locked on Bucky’s.

“We found her.”

You ran through the woods, gasping for air, limbs exhausted, hands gripping to each tree for any added support you could get.

You just had to go a little farther, a few more miles.

Just to be sure.

Put some distance between you and them.

Your brain was so panicked, so tired, that you couldn’t even remember how you escaped Hydra.

It didn’t matter. You were free. You were safe.

A hand gripped your arm from behind, stopping you so immediately that you almost fell on your back from the force of it.

Instead, you found the strength to keep yourself upright, pulling away from your captor.

But then…you heard the voice.

“Sweetheart,” the soothing, baritone sound caused a wave of relief to wash through you.

You whipped around, breathing out a small whimper as you looked at his smile, his eyes.

Those perfect, adoring, cerulean irises.

“Bucky,” you gasped, jumping into his arms as he held you in a tight embrace.

“It’s okay Sweetheart, I’m here,” he whispered into your ear, and you clung to him.

“I missed you so much.”

“Why did you leave?” he asked, arms nearly crushing you.

You took a sharp inhale from the growing discomfort of his hug. “I…thought it would be for the best. I thought it would keep you safe.”

Silence.

“Bucky?”

“You’ll never keep me safe, sweetie.” The bite in his voice was unfamiliar to you.

You tried to pull away to see his face. “Bucky, what’s going on? You’re hurting me.”

A menacing, familiar chuckle rumbled in your ear. “Did you really think coming back would keep them safe? That we wouldn’t go after them as soon as we broke you?”

You cried out, finally registering this new voice.

With all of your might, you pushed away from the suffocating hold.

Brock Rumlow smiled at you.

“Time to wake up, sweetie.”

You screamed.

The scream echoed in the room as you jolted awake, limbs pinned to your body with thick leather straps.

You gasped for air, eyes wide, evaluating your surroundings.

No longer in the woods, you were in the testing room that you had frequented for weeks. The cold, stinging feeling of something around your neck, a phantom pain on your skin where it touched you.

That feeling lasted at least an hour after the onslaught of electrocution the collar emitted.

You wondered how long you had been out for this time. Was it seconds? Minutes? Hours? It was different each time, depending on how many rounds of shock torture you had gone through for the day.

“You did very well, Meine kleine Puppe,” Zola said with a level of enthusiasm that made you sick. “Your vitals have already risen to normal levels in such a short time, and you managed to last five whole minutes before going unconscious.” He walked into your line of sight, jotting down notes on his clipboard.

You glared at him. “What do I get as a reward? Six more minutes of electrocution?” you spat out.

“You know this can all end, sweetie,” Brock cooed, and you turned to the shadows in the corner of the room, making out his cross-armed silhouette. “Tell us everything we want to know about Shield and Banner and we’ll make all the pain go away.”

“So you can go take down their camp like you promised not to, even though that’s the only fucking reason I’m here? No way. I’ll gladly stay in this hell and keep you here with me, Rumlow.”

He jumped up, charging over until he hovered over your prone form, face inches from yours. “Listen here, you little bitch,” a fleck of spit hit your forehead, but you refused to flinch, matching his death glare. He squeezed your face in between his hand, jerking it to the side to expose your neck. “I know this bite is new, that Shield had to have found out about your special blood.” Brock stood up straight, attempting to tower over you as an intimidation tactic. “Ward says that mad scientist can solve anything, including developing a cure for everyone based on the shit flowing through your veins. He figured it out, and you’re going to tell us how.”

You lifted your shoulders as high as you could while tied down to the chair. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Brock,” you responded in a mocking, sickly sweet voice.

You heard the crack before feeling his fist slamming into your jaw.

Blood pooled in your mouth, and once the initial shock had worn off and you were able to turn your neck, you spit out the iron substance on the floor.

“I swear to god Y/n, we are going to hunt them down and make each and every one of them suffer twice as much as you have. Even the fucking kids. All the while telling them that it was your fault-”

“Enough, Rumlow,” Johann Schmidt’s voice echoed in the room, sending chills down your body as it always did. Even Brock’s eyes widened ever so slightly from the sharp tone of his leader.

Brock looked up. “Sir, I apologize, it’s just that we’ve been trying to break her for weeks-”

“Have you really been trying?” Schmidt countered, a hint of mocking amusement in his voice. “If you had, she would be crawling at your feet by now.”

Rumlow opened his mouth as if to argue with his superior, but closed it before saying something that might put him in a chair similar to yours.

Johann continued, walking up to Zola’s side. “Sure, we could go on over to that tiny Shield camp and burn it to the ground just like last time,” you clenched your fists, “but where’s the fun in that?” He rested a hand on the scientist’s shoulder as they shared a knowing grin. “Me? I’d rather spend our time learning how to make a seemingly strong mind shatter to pieces.” He moved to you, stroking your cheek with his pointer finger.

You spat more blood in his face. Johann closed his eyes, only appearing slightly annoyed at this sign of disrespect as he slowly wiped his face.

His lips curved upward into a wicked grin. “Looks like someone’s ready to get started. Zola?”

The scientist approached, a syringe filled with clear liquid in hand.

Your body jerked instinctively, trying to get away from yet another needle.

Still, even as your body was going into panic mode, you found the courage to stare Johann in the face right before the substance was injected.

“I don’t care how confident you are,” you said, head immediately starting to feel dizzy, eyelids heavy, “I’ll never betray the ones I love.”

Johann simply chuckled. “You’re loyal to a fault, pet. It’s clear as day to anyone who comes across you. Our goal isn’t to change that level of loyalty…” He moved to whisper into your ear, his voice slowing and slurring as your brain grew more and more foggy, fighting to process his words.

“I’m simply going to make you loyal to me.”

The drug flowing through your veins was so strong that when you finally closed your eyes, there were no comforting blue eyes to greet you as you fell into darkness.

When you finally woke up some time later, you realized in horror that you were met with the same level of blackness with your eyes open as you were when they were closed.

After so many years of traveling under the cover of night, your eyesight had developed so significantly that you could see almost as well in darkness as you could in daylight, able to use any sliver of light available to make out objects, landscapes, people, undead.

This was different.

This blackness surrounding you was man-made, and it was unforgiving. There was no light, no shadows, nothing. Just darkness.

You felt around the ground, trying to make out your surroundings, only to be met with cold concrete.

Standing up, limbs heavy from whatever drug lingered in your bloodstream, you walked around until you found the walls. Whatever room you were in was small, the only thing inside here being a toilet.

One part of the wall felt more hollow than the rest.

It was a door. A locked one, but still a way out.

You pushed harder, and nothing happened.

You slammed your fist against it. It didn’t budge.

You screamed. The movement of your vocal cords brought your attention to your neck.

Where the collar still remained.

“I see you have finally woken up, pet,” Johann’s voice echoed in the room and you jumped, eyes searching the darkness for the source, fists clenched and ready to strike.

“Now, now, no need for that,” he cooed, and you whipped around and swung, your punch meeting air. “You won’t be able to hurt me or anyone else in here, pet.”

That was when you caught the crackling in his voice, and you realized he was speaking to you through an intercom.

“What’s your grand plan, Schmidt?” you taunted, throwing your hands up in the air. “Gotta tell ya, I stopped being afraid of the dark long ago.” Not a fan of this level of darkness, though, you added in your mind.

No response.

“Oh, so now you’re afraid to reveal this new tactic? Don’t want to give anything away? Afraid of me finding out?”

Once again, your questions were met with silence.

It was so unsettling, you found yourself wishing to hear the monstrous voice of your captor.

Sixty long seconds passed.

Then, you heard a different voice than Johann’s through the intercom.

“Bucky,” the new voice said in a low, neutral tone.

And then the collar around your neck surged, pain ripping through your body, the bite on your neck burning.

You screamed, clinging to the device to try and rip it off.

The charge didn’t let up, and soon you were writhing on the floor, tears streaming down your face.

It took you five minutes to pass out.

You were back into the woods, running….

A hand wrapped around your arm, turning you around…

Bucky….

His name flowing through your subconscious caused a small tingle in your neck.

Just as he reached up to touch your face….

You woke up, greeted once again by the overwhelming darkness of your new prison cell.

How much time had passed? How long had you been in here?

The thought made your skin itch.

“How long do you plan on keeping me in here, Schmidt?” you asked as you stood up, forcing your voice to not shake. “Don’t you want to rip into my body more and see what makes me tick?”

No one answered, and all you were met with was the same, terrifying silence.

Until….

“Bucky.”

The collar went off again, the immediate onslaught of pain brought you to your knees in an instant.

You used all of your strength to try to pull the collar off, writhing and screaming in pain.

Until everything went black once more.

You were running in the woods…

Bucky grabbed you…

Your neck felt a tiny sting of pain….

He raised a hand….

You awoke, body covered in sweat.

“Whatever you’re doing isn’t going to work!” you screamed once you had finally composed yourself.

The third time you heard the person say Bucky over the intercom, a tiny part of your mind felt disdain for the name.

Each unconscious dream was the same - as it had been when they first started torturing you to the point of passing out. It had always provided a small source of comfort to help you go on.

But as each round of electrocution came, and the dream repeated itself, it began to gradually shift.

Each time you saw Bucky, when his name entered your mind, the phantom pain in your neck would grow.

When he reached his hand to touch your face, it became less comforting, and made you more uneasy.

You’d wake up, completely disoriented, body exhausted, brain in such a deep fog that you would sometimes need a handful of seconds to remember where you were. Or worse, what life had been like before the dark room.

And the more you went into the safe place in your subconscious, the less safe it felt.

The more times you met Bucky’s eyes, the more fearful you came of this person grabbing you in the middle of the woods.

Who was he again?

Bucky.

The source of your pain.

Your neck burned when you were awake and when you were unconscious, and it was because of Bucky.

You had lost count of the number of shocks you had endured, the number of times you had allowed the darkness to consume you.

At some point though, when your mind and body were totally spent, you heard the name over the intercom, and a whimper escaped your mouth before the shocks started up again.

That time, when you saw Bucky, his eyes were black, menacing, his smile malicious.

And when he reached up to touch you, he wrapped his hand around your neck and squeezed.

When you came to, the scream that left your tired body was almost inhuman.

Schmidt stood in the observation room, hovering over the Hydra agent that was conducting the experiment.

He was amazed that you had lasted three whole days, even after having to send a few medics to check on your vitals for the times you remained unconscious for hours at a time.

The whole process had taken longer than expected, but he knew he would eventually break you.

Just as he had broken the others.

He stared at the screen, a cruel grin on his face as he watched your body tremble on the ground, crying for help, begging to be saved from your once beloved Bucky.

“Bring them in,” he finally murmured, not even bothering to turn his head towards the other agent who silently stepped out of the room.

It wasn’t often that Johann Schmidt felt any semblance of excitement in his life. Usually it was all too much dulled by the stupidity and inadequacy of the human race. He had felt it a few times before; when they had first injected the serum into your veins to prevent the zombie virus from spreading through your system, or when they turned Rogers into a superhuman.

Nothing could ever top the day he and Zola managed to create a virus so catastrophic, that they broke the entire world.

This moment though, one that he had been preparing for since you first escaped, this one came close to that level of excitement he felt five years ago.

Now, it was time for the real fun to begin.

Your body was glued to the hard floor, every inch of your skin pulsing from the lingering pain that you were convinced would never go away.

You trembled with each rasping inhale of breath, praying that one of them might be your last. That you could finally be put to rest and never have to exist in this horrible, horrible world.

An unending darkness, one that didn’t scare you, but brought comfort, peace.

A bright light illuminated the entire room and your eyes squeezed shut as you hissed in pain, the sudden contrast too overwhelming.

When you slowly blinked them open, everything was a bit blurry as your sight adjusted, taking in the small, white-walled room.

In the top corner, you saw a camera pointing towards you.

Over the sounds of your heavy breathing, you heard the locked door slowly creep open.

When you saw the two people in front of you, you wondered for a moment if this was just a new dream you had created. That your mind was still being tormented and that the pain would soon return.

Or maybe you were finally dead, and they were here to comfort you as you passed on.

Regardless of whatever your current circumstance was, your heart swelled as they walked slowly toward you, tears in the woman’s eyes as she knelt down, a silver collar that matched yours around her neck.

Her pupils were so dilated they looked almost black. Still, you could see the inherent kindness that had always existed behind them.

“Sersi?” you said in wonder, then turned your gaze to the man standing behind her, a small smile on his face, same black eyes, same silver collar. “Druig?”

“Y/n,” Sersi exclaimed, pulling you into a warm hug. You clung to her.

“It’s good to see you, Birdie,” Druig said fondly. Hearing the nickname he had given you years ago had your shoulders shaking as you sobbed.

Sersi rubbed your back. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

You nodded, tightening your hold as she whispered into your ear. “Bucky won’t be able to hurt you anymore.”

Chapter 15

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #zombie apocalypse au #zombie au #awake my soul

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dustedmagazine · 2 months

Text

Butthole Surfers — Rembrandt Pussyhorse (Matador)

Photo by Jerry Milton

Given the amount of ink spilled and pixels configured concerning the music and cultural phenomena associated with the Butthole Surfers, it seems a daunting task to find anything new to say about the band — even about a record as excellent as Rembrandt Pussyhorse, first released 38 years ago (say what) on Touch and Go and presently being given the vinyl reissue treatment by Matador. But two things obviate the perceived difficulty registered just above: somehow, someway, Rembrandt Pussyhorse sounds like it could have come out yesterday on some currently über-hip, punk-adjacent underground label (say, Feel It Records from Cincinnati, or London’s La Vida Es un Mus); and for certain, it feels a very particular, vividly upsetting sort of way to listen to these demented, raging and inspired songs in March of 2024, as we struggle and lurch our way toward spring.

For example: Give “Strangers Die Everyday” a spin and try not to think about Gaza. That shouldn’t be a compelling match, of past music with present, all-too-real event. The song features a nigh-histrionic, Bela-Lugosi-as-the-Count organ, plastic fangs chewing on cheap, drywall scenery. Gibby Haynes does some of his bullhorn-mediated vocal antics, and sounds of bad plumbing bubble up into the mix. It’s the Butts in nightmare mode, which was always a vertiginous blend of ruthless ugliness and brain-rattled hilarity, and there is nothing funny about Gaza. Nothing at all. But keep listening. “Strangers Die Everyday” ends up expressing a deranged pathos. The organ is hammy, but the melody is mournful. The glurping, glooping bubbling evokes looking down a mostly stopped-up drain, which is always a bum-out experience, woven into the textures of the “Everyday” world nodded to in the song’s title. It situates the sadness and disgust in a feeling tone. But just exactly where is your everyday world? If you can tune in and make an additional metaphorical leap (to all the drains in Gaza, and in Myanmar, and in Ethiopia, and elsewhere, all of them backed up and drowned by unstanched cataracts of blood, from the bodies of all of those strangers), you will feel a particular sort of weight in your gut.

The Butts’ best stuff always worked the spaces in which earnestness, nausea and a decidedly bonkers mirthfulness overlap. Perhaps “collide” is a better word for the music’s resulting dynamic. In their early recordings, you can hear them bashing and stumbling their way toward ever-more-effective smash-ups of sharply opposing affects: the delirious one-two punch of “Suicide” and “The Revenge of Anus Presley” from Butthole Surfers (1983); the ebullient, anxious, headlong hallucination that is “Dum Dum” from …Another Man’s Sac (1984). The best performance of that sort of collision on Rembrandt Pussyhorse is “Perry,” which initially registers as a hyperbolic parody of the theme music to Perry Mason. Natch, let the laffs commence. The organ is back, but this time it’s in full Phantom-of-the-Opera mode, rollicking and tempestuous, Lon Chaney grinning horribly. Haynes delivers the laffs, howling and whooping himself breathless.

Keep listening. “Perry” takes its turn toward something more than parodic goofiness when Haynes provides a series of anaphoric itineraries: “It’s about coming of age / It’s about learning how to do it / It’s about learning how to experience things the way they ought to be experienced….” And so on. It’s a reckless thing, following Haynes into that improvisatory philosophical space: How, precisely, should things be experienced? What would a Butthole Surfer say? “It’s talking about being the slave boy / It’s talking about giving head when you’re 6 years old / It’s talking about enjoying these things….” You can just about see Raymond Burr blanch, even in black and white — and sure, it’s the Butts being the Butts, invoking a series of transgressive, taboo images, perhaps only for the charge of the transgression itself.

But there are other ways to hear the transgression. We might take the reference to Perry Mason a little more seriously. In the summer of 1986, just months after Rembrandt Pussyhorse was released, the Meese Commission on Pornography published its final report, a Puritanical screed that sought to throw the full moral weight of the Justice Department (yeah, yeah, I know) behind a juridical condemnation and potential outlawing of sex work, porn consumption and kink. The most liberal — in the hard sense of that word — readings of the Report’s recommendations would likely sanction tossing a band called the Butthole Surfers and songs like “Perry” (and “Lady Sniff,” “The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave,” “Moving to Florida,” and later just about every song on Locust Abortion Technician and Hairway to Steven…) onto the pile with all the copies of Hustler and Torso and the endless numbers of VCAvideocassettes — not to mention the models and actors themselves, and all the folks who watched them and looked at them and felt pleasure.

It's not a hard history to uncover when you listen closely. Reagan’s reinvigoration of the American Right in part drew upon Jerry Falwell’s political turn, and the idea that evangelicals could have real power if they participated in the electorate, rather than regarding it as the fallen domain of a lesser law. In 2024, the Republican Party takes that evangelical vote for granted, and its full complicity with the array of MAGA-affiliated constituencies has created a new set of political alliances, issuing in events like January 6 and the Q Shaman leading a prayer service in the evacuated Senate chamber. Not sure even Haynes could conjure that image. Return to the record. The echoes of Raymond Burr’s voice, in full closing-statement declamation, reverberate out from “Perry” to the Butts’ magisterial cover of “American Woman”: “All right, you little creep, come out of there! We know your name!” We’ve got you surrounded! Where’s Mike Pence?

No one would argue that the Butts possessed anything like socio-political prescience when they recorded Rembrandt Pussyhorse. They were too busy experiencing things the way they had to experience them, to make the music that they had to make. And some of us enjoyed it. Still do. That may be reason enough to return to the record — or to reissue it. But the band somehow tapped into some very serious energies circulating in the mid-1980s: the Reagan Administration’s bloody-minded Christian nationalism (read some of his speeches, you’ll hear it); the Israeli Labor Party’s “Iron Fist” policy of 1985 and the accompanying intensification of settler activity, all of which would soon lead to the First Intifada. And here we are: Gaza on fire and self-identified Christian Nationalists like MTG and Tommy Tuberville setting policy. Here we are, in the “Whirling Hall of Knives” Haynes and Paul Leary and the rest of the band set in motion in 1986. Even today, especially today, it cuts deep. It draws blood. Strangers die everyday.

Jonathan Shaw

#butthole surfers #rembrandt pussyhorse #matador #jonathan shaw #albumreview #dusted magazine #reissue

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mint-yooxgi · 1 year

Note

ooooo all Ateez members as werewolfs find their mate reader who happens to be their mortal enemy- a vampire

"Are you fucking kidding me!" Mingi punches the wall, a brand new hole appearing where his fist disappears behind the plaster.

"How many times have I told you," Yeosang seethes, smacking his brother upside the head, "stop punching holes in the living room!"

"Yeah, I'm tired of patching them up," Seonghwa replies, sipping casually on his drink as he rests on the couch.

"Are none of you concerned about this?" Yunho's asks, voice incredulous as he looks between all of his brothers.

"There have been events where a pack of wolves have had the same mate in the past," Hongjoong says, nonchalantly. "Look at the Stays."

"Their mate isn't a vampire, though," San grumbles, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, it's not like we can do anything about it now," Wooyoung shrugs, plopping down on the couch beside Seonghwa.

"We could always tear their heart out and hope for reincarnation." Jongho offers, a playful lightness to voice.

Growls of disproval meet his ears.

"You want us to kill our mate after finally meeting them?" Seonghwa's eyes flash that deep amber they recognize all too well from him.

"Looks like the protective instincts have already started," Yeosang sighs, shaking his head.

"Oh, don't act so coy," San rolls his eyes. "You growled, too."

None of them comment on the way Yeosang's cheeks flare with a deep red. The scowl he provides for them says it all.

"I'm sure they can sense it, too." Hongjoong hums, crossing his one leg over his knee as he sits back in his seat.

"They're probably just as happy about this as we are," Yunho observes.

"Probably trying to figure out a way to trick us and lure us into a false sense of security before destroying out entire clan." Mingi snarls, wiping hardly at the drywall dust that coats his hand before it becomes buried beneath his now healing skin.

"Let's say we actually come to an agreement," Wooyoung adds, a tone of caution to his words. "What happens then?"

A moment of silence passes over all of them.

"Well, marking might become a bit difficult," Jongho jokes, receiving a pillow to the face from Yeosang.

"He's right, you know." Hongjoong hums. "Our mating rituals would kill them."

Again, growls answer his words in response.

Yunho sighs, "it looks like whether we like it or not, the process has already begun, and we're all attached to them in some way."

"I hate this," Mingi grumbles, sitting himself rather harshly on the sofa beside Seonghwa.

However, before he can continue, there's a knock on their door.

Eight sharp inhales are heard around the room, followed immediately by muffled whines of need. They'd recognize that scent anywhere.

Slowly, Hongjoong stands to his feet. The other seven all watch on as their leader begins to make his way over to the door, anticipation clawing at even those that are the most against this right now.

After all, how could they ever deny their own mate? How could any of them deny you?

As soon as the door opens to reveal your figure standing there, a tense look of worry creasing your brows, they all have to resist the urge to run over and pull you into their arms. You need comfort, and their wolves are more than ready and will to provide it for you already.

You meet Hongjoong's gaze. "We need to talk."

#ask #drabbles #ateez drabble #ateez scenario #wolf au #polyteez au #vampire au

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magniloquent-raven · 11 months

Text

eyes closed (i still see you)

(read on ao3)

The universe loves irony. That's all Eddie can think right now. This whole situation is like some cosmic fucking prank, and it might even be funny if he wasn't almost sure he won't survive the night.

He just had to take refuge in a closet, of all places.

In this closet.

Coming to this stupid party was a bad idea. The first bad idea that spawned many other bad ideas that would end with him in the dark, crouched amid a pile of shoeboxes, his knee cramping and his heart in his mouth.

He needed a little extra spending money and the rich kids that throw these shitty ragers are usually willing to pocket a dime bag or two. He made a tidy profit tonight, so there's that. He did what he came here to do. But he just couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut long enough to get out unscathed.

So many idiots in this town. And all the beer sloshing around seems to make them testier than usual.

He's not proud of the fact that he straight up fled after one of Carver's buddies started throwing punches, but he sure as shit wasn't gonna stick around to get ganged up on by a bunch of angry hicks. Verbal sparring is more his speciality.

If he was as smart as he likes to pretend he is he would've left the building entirely and gone to his van, but no, he had to skitter upstairs and find himself cornered in a guest bedroom, listening to frantic footsteps in the hallway. And then lock himself in the fucking closet.

He hadn't even had time to catch his breath when the bedroom door slammed open, clicked shut, and he started hearing…things. Happening. Things he definitely shouldn't be listening to because they're none of his business.

Bodies moving around the room, crashing into furniture, heavy booted footsteps and shallow gasps getting closer and closer to his hiding place.

He thought at first they were fighting. Thought maybe the commotion downstairs had started a chain reaction and people all around the house were getting into fist fights. There was certainly enough grunting and running into shit to make it sound like an altercation instead of…what's actually happening.

It didn't take long for the pair to slam into the wall next to the closet door, rattling its hinges, a thud and the scrape of someone sliding against drywall echoing in his tiny hiding place.

And that's when he heard. Moaning. A tiny whine, muffled. The wet smack of lips colliding.

Worst of all,

"Fuck," a voice, low, urgent, "Fuck, hurry up."

Billy Hargrove's voice.

Billy fucking Hargrove is getting it on right outside Eddie's hiding place and if he makes a single noise this will be how he dies.

Billy is a goddamn menace and everyone knows it. He saw what Billy did to Steve Harrington's face. He's noticed how often Billy comes to school bruised up, with split knuckles. He is the last person Eddie would want to piss off, and Eddie doesn't consider many people off limits when it comes to that. Most people are fair game, as far as he's concerned. Carver and his sycophants might get rowdy once in a while but they think they're better than taking it further than that.

Whereas Hargrove makes a habit of taking things further than that.

Eddie's only dealt with him directly a few times, sold him a handful of painkillers here and there, and he kept things as civil as possible.

But the thing is…Billy is also extremely pretty.

Which makes this situation that much worse.

'Cause if it was any other meathead Eddie could just plug his ears and wait it out, but…

Nooo. Nope. He's not thinking about. Anything. Nothing.

He's concentrating on how much his knee hurts. And how sweaty his palms are. He's focusing on breathing quietly, and trying to become one with the shadowy pile of coats to his right and the panelled wall at his back.

A belt buckle clinks. Rattles. Someone's scrabbling at Billy's zipper with clumsy fingers.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, like that'll help.

An image forms, crystal clear in his mind. Blond curls tousled by desperate hands, red lips parted around a debauched groan, Billy leaning his head back against the wall he's pressed to, eyes half-lidded, eyelashes dark and heavy, pupils blown. He wets his bottom lip, watching Eddie fall to his knees—

Oh. No. This is bad.

This is very bad.

Billy makes a soft breathy noise, and Eddie feels it like a punch in the gut.

Fuck. Jesus Christ.

He stares at the ceiling. Resolutely ignoring the way his stomach tightens, heat coiling low in his abdomen. A flush spreads up his chest. His t-shirt is starting to stick to his back.

He bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth.

Then some very distinct noises start up on the other side of the door. Damp. Sucking noises. Billy's breathing goes ragged.

The low burn simmering in Eddie's gut flares up in a burst of sparks tingling through his veins.

He never thought watching people get off was his thing, but suddenly he wants to peek outside so badly it fucking hurts. Aches. Tugs at his chest. His jeans feel too tight and he has to stuff his hands into his armpits to pin them to his sides.

Jerking off right now would be weird and creepy and a terrible idea.

He's made enough stupid decisions tonight, and he didn't narrowly escape getting his ass kicked for being mouthy only to get a beatdown for something infinitely worse. Everyone in Hawkins already thinks he's a freak, he doesn't need to prove them any more right.

There's a limit to what kind of reputation he can have before people stop being willing to do business with him.

If he gets caught in here he's gonna be stuck wringing pennies out of Jonathan Byers' broke ass for the rest of his life.

And that's best-case scenario.

Worst-case scenario the rest of his life is the ten minutes it'll take for him to bleed out after Hargrove rips his dick off.

That thought is not as much of a boner-killer as it needed to be.

Who's out there with him, Eddie wonders. It could be…literally any girl at this party. Maybe Eddie will get lucky and it'll turn out Billy's getting blown by someone's girlfriend. At least then he'd have leverage. Mutually assured destruction.

Or maybe it would just guarantee he gets the shit kicked out of him. Putting someone in a coma would be a surefire way to keep them quiet.

Christ, he's so fucked.

Billy grunts again, not quite drowning out the sound of someone's gag reflex acting up. There's a muffled cough. And—

"Jesus, be more careful," Steven goddamn Harrington says, his voice hoarse but scolding.

Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth so fast he nearly loses his balance, wobbling in place and catching himself by leaning heavily against the back wall. His breath stutters against his palm, and his heartbeat is roaring in his ears.

There's nothing in his brain but static. He can't have heard that right. He's missing something here.

"Don't be such a pussy," Billy croons, his tone dripping with condescension.

There's a quiet snort. "Whatever, dude. We can't all be professional cocksuckers."

Eddie swallows the hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"Fuck you."

"Be nicer, or I'm leaving you to take care of this yourself."

They're flirting. This is them flirting. Suddenly all the stories he's heard about them getting into fights all over school take on a very different meaning. They're always at each other's throats, sweet-talking their way out of detention after they nearly killed each other on the basketball court or disrupted class with an unrelated argument.

And apparently that was all foreplay for them.

Somehow it makes perfect sense but it's also so out of left field he can't wrap his head around it.

"Aw, don't be like that, pretty boy. I'm on my best behaviour."

"Sure you are."

If Eddie didn't know any better he'd think Steve sounded fond. Which is almost more mind-boggling than the sex.

"C'mon, hurry it up, we've already been up here too long."

Steve mumbles something Eddie can't hear. Something that makes Billy snicker.

When they start up again it's so much harder to ignore.

It was one thing when it was Billy and some hypothetical girl. Half a fantasy that was miles out of reach despite only being a few inches of drywall away. As much as he was achingly curious and wetting himself over the idea of what was happening outside, he was able to keep that bit of distance that kept him quiet and seated.

But now…now he's been swept out to sea. He's lost in it. The tingling warmth in his veins, pooling in his gut, under his jaw, the base of his spine, he's floating in it, struggling to breathe. The hand he's kept pressed to his mouth trembles. Twitches. He brushes the pads of his index and middle fingers along his bottom lip.

Billy curses quietly, choked out and damn near reverent. Broken little syllables tumbling out of him with none of the bravado he usually cloaks himself in. It squeezes Eddie's whole chest, desire and something softer, something gentler but just as potent.

He wraps his lips around his fingers experimentally, eyes falling shut, a nervous sort of tension thrumming through his stiff muscles.

Liquid heat jolts through him when a tentative swipe of his tongue just so happens to coincide with a low groan on the other side of the door.

Billy's always carried himself with an alluring sort of confidence. Like interaction is a challenge. Like he knows exactly how hot he is and how much he can get away with because of it.

And Eddie's always wondered what it would take to bring those walls down. Not to see what's underneath but just to prove it can be done. There's always been a part of him that's wanted to pick up that gauntlet Billy throws down every time he walks into a room. Everything about Billy and his stupid ostentatious persona made Eddie itch. Made him want to one-up him in some way, somehow.

So there's something uniquely satisfying about hearing him whimper. Just once. A tiny, helpless little sound as he falls apart at the seams, undone by the touch of another man. There's something about it that lodges itself in Eddie's brain, burrowing into dark little corners.

One fleeting moment and he's hooked. He wants to see it happen. He wants to make it happen. He wants to be the one putting Harrington on his knees and telling him exactly how to take Billy apart, piece by piece, leave him speechless and quivering, blue eyes hazy, pupils dark, sweat glistening on his chest.

Eddie's free hand wanders downward to palm the front of his jeans. He shifts to press against it, just enough pressure to make his lungs catch and shudder.

"I'm—fuck, Steve, I—" Billy's voice is barely more than a whisper, desperate and breathless and heartwrenchingly intimate. With one final half-swallowed groan the noises stop.

Holy shit, he finished.

…Why is it so hot that it was that easy to make Billy Hargrove cum.

Has he ever drawn it out, Eddie wonders. Has he ever had the time, the space. Been with someone who wouldn't give him everything he wanted right away. Made him beg for it instead.

"I gotta go," Steve says softly. There's the muted sound of a kiss pressed to bare skin.

Billy hums. "Yeah."

Neither of them want to leave, it's obvious even without seeing their faces. But lingering could be dangerous. The vibrations from shitty music turned up too loud downstairs still rattles the walls, voices blend together into unintelligible noise. The party would've drowned them out unless someone had their ear to the door. But there's always the chance some other drunk, horny idiots would try to use the guest room. The longer they stay the more likely it is they'll get caught.

Eddie exhales slowly through his nose, tucking his hands back into his armpits.

Shame prickles at him, settling sick and heavy in his stomach. Masturbater's remorse before he even had the chance to get off.

They wanted a private moment alone. Something they likely don't get often. Eddie didn't have any right to his weird fantasies of involving himself in a relationship that isn't any of his business.

He curls in on himself, resting his forehead on his knees. And waits.

They don't speak again. Eddie listens to the rustle of clothing, a zipper being pulled, and slow, almost hesitant footsteps. Minutes pass. All the tension and heat that kept his attention has bled away, leaving him with nothing to distract from how much his legs hurt, and the ache starting to press between his shoulderblades.

Finally, the door creaks, and their footsteps fade into the background noise.

He counts out sixty seconds before daring to move, nudging the closet open just enough to peek out into the empty room.

His knees protest when he tries to stand, and he has to try a second time, slower.

How long was he even in there, goddamn.

The only hurdle left is pushing his way out the door somehow. Last time he was downstairs the crowd was too much and he had to book it up here instead.

He's planning his escape route when he steps out into the hallway, rubbing a sore spot on his shoulder, only to freeze with one foot still in the guest room.

They're not downstairs.

They're right goddamn there.

Steve and Billy and some random fucking guy are standing at the top of the stairs, chatting the night away. Billy's leaning on the banister oh-so-casually, like he wasn't just getting his dick sucked, like there isn't a pink spot under his jaw that'll probably be a bruise tomorrow, like Steve isn't standing there with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes wandering Billy's face, bottom lip between his teeth, not a single subtle bone in his fucking body, oh god—

Billy locks eyes with Eddie, and all the colour drains from his face. He's never seen genuine fear on Billy Hargrove before. Wide-eyed, tense-shouldered, deer-in-the-headlights terror. He blinks and Billy's schooled his features into something resembling neutrality, but the image has already branded itself on the inside of his eyelids. It takes a couple seconds for his heart to start beating again, tripping all over itself in its panic.

Steve saw it too, no doubt. Suddenly he's glancing between Billy and Eddie and his expression is so locked down Eddie can't tell what he's thinking but it's definitely not good.

And random basketball guy doesn't notice a goddamn thing. He just keeps waving his solo cup around, 'cause he has no idea he's standing in the blast zone of a fucking timebomb.

He'll have to walk past them to leave.

This is the worst moment of his fucking life. And that's a high bar.

He manages to get his legs working again. Somehow. Walking has never felt so unnatural. Jerky, awkward movements propelling him forward. He's not sure what to do with his hands. Or his face. How many times has he blinked since he started walking? Why do his shoulders factor into this whole process? What are they supposed to be doing?

He's a couple steps away from slipping past them when random guy notices him, and his brow furrows. "Hey!" He turns to yell over the landing's railing, at the party at large, "Hey, the freak's up here!"

Fuck.

Time to run.

He wakes up the next day with a headache.

Turns out it is difficult to outrun people who actually exercise regularly. So not only did he leave the party more broke than he was when he went in, but the only thing he had to show for the whole ordeal was a split lip and a bigger target on his back.

Fucking assholes. Can't take a joke.

Thankfully, Uncle Wayne wasn't around when he stumbled in at 3am, he doesn't want to have to explain how he got the shit kicked out of him. Again. The old man's dealing with enough as it is. And he always gets this fucking sad look on his face that hurts worse than the bruises.

He buries his face in his pillow and groans.

The front door rattles as someone slams their fist into it. Repeatedly.

What the fuck.

Is that what woke him up?

Does the basketball team make house calls now? He can't think of any reason why someone would be knocking on his door right now. The shitheads he sells to on the regular know not to come to the trailer park looking for anything, and his bandmates don't wake up this early on Saturdays.

He's contemplating whether to get up or not when the knocking stops. Guess that answers that.

Only thirty seconds of blissful quiet later it starts up again. At the back door. Which is way closer to his bedroom and way more fucking annoying.

He drags himself out of bed, scratching his thigh only to realize he's still wearing his jeans from last night. Gross. Whatever.

He flicks the blinds open to check who's out there only to yelp and jump back like they burned him.

It's Billy.

Billy is at his place. Looking angry.

"I can fucking see you, asshole, open the door."

Shit.

"What's in it for me?" He winces as the words come out of his mouth. That…feels like the wrong thing to say.

Eddie rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. They're still dry and gummy with sleep, he's maybe not operating at peak efficiency right now.

"You open the door and I don't bust your windows, how's that."

"...Alright, fair enough."

Fuck, now he kinda regrets not seeing Wayne last night. He wants to tell his uncle he loves him one more time before he fucking dies.

The lock sticks, like it always does, and he has to ram the door with his shoulder a couple times to wiggle it loose.

Billy crosses his arms, shoving past Eddie the second the door squeaks open.

It's weird having him in the trailer. Being stuck in the cramped hallway, shoulders brushing the walls, with no choice but to be in each other's space. He never really noticed that Billy's a couple inches shorter than him. Or that he has tiny, faded freckles on his nose.

Really not the time.

Eddie clears his throat and turns away to hip-check the door closed, leaning into it with two hands on the latch just to make sure it stays put. And to look busy for an extra couple seconds.

"So, uhh." Eddie tries to run his fingers through his hair but his getting caught on tangles. Gnarly bedhead is the least of his worries right now, but it's on his mind anyways. "What brings you here?"

He sneaks a glance at Billy when he doesn't get a response. Billy chews on the inside of his cheek, adjusting his elbows til his arms are folded so tightly it looks uncomfortable.

Jesus Christ, is he nervous?

Why wouldn't he be, right, Eddie knows something that could ruin his entire life. But it's still…weird. He seemed so fired up when he was outside but now that they're face to face Eddie can see the cracks in his mask.

"You know why I'm here," he says eventually, unexpectedly quiet.

"Actually I was pretty sure you were here to murder me, but now I'm starting to have doubts."

Billy blinks at him. Just once, thrown off balance for a split second before he huffs, frustrated. "I should, you know. I should just fucking kill you and be done with it. I don't need this shit, not…" he trails off, his expression pinched.

When Billy reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, Eddie thinks for one stupid, terrifying moment that he's gonna pull out a weapon and actually murder him.

But instead he produces a wad of bills, stuck together with a paperclip, and flicks it at Eddie's chest. He just barely catches it, fumbling for an embarrassing few seconds while Billy watches, unimpressed.

"Are you…" Eddie squints at the money clutched in his fist, and starts again with an incredulous laugh, "Are you trying to buy my silence?"

A muscle in Billy's jaw twitches. He jerks his chin towards the cash. "Took it from Andy after you ran off."

What.

He looks a little closer, flipping through tens, wrinkled singles, that one twenty Chance drew tits on. It's…all the money he made last night. All of it. Every dollar those assholes shook out of his pockets while he was bleeding on the ground.

Holy shit.

Wait, this is definitely a bribe.

Which, if he's being honest, wouldn't normally bother him, but in this situation just feels wrong. Giving the money back isn't an option—it was his in the first place—but taking it still makes his stomach twist.

Eddie runs his free hand down his face, stopping to rub his mouth. The scab crusted on his chin throbs a little.

"Thanks," he says slowly.

Billy doesn't react.

Okay.

Eddie lets out a tiny breath to ground himself. "I didn't mean to, uh. Overhear. You two." Off to a bad start, Billy's posture goes rigid. But he presses on, hoping that clearing the air will help in the long run. And not get him punched in the short term. "I didn't, it was just. Wrong place, wrong time. And honestly, man, my plan was to just pretend I was never there in the first place, I swear."

He shrugs helplessly. "You guys don't have anything to worry about. Not from me."

There's a very long, awkward pause. Billy hardly moves, and doesn't look away for a second, pinning him in place with narrowed eyes. "I don't know you, Munson. Why should I trust you."

Christ, he really didn't want it to come to this. But he's floundering trying to come up with anything else to say. He rubs the back of his neck, and sighs. "Communal solidarity?"

"What."

"'Cause I'm also a flaming queer." Well. At least it was slightly more delicate than how he came out to his uncle.

Billy rocks back on his heels, eyebrows shooting up. "Oh."

He looks genuinely disarmed, and this time it doesn't go away the second Eddie blinks.

God, he is fucking cute isn't he.

"So, are you and Harrington, like." Eddie taps two fingers together. "An official thing, orr…?"

Billy flushes pink. A pretty, pretty pink, in adorable little splotches across his nose and cheeks. It's way too fun to see him like this, Eddie almost doesn't care if he's already dating someone. "I…" He rubs his cheek, like he's trying to scrub away the blush. "Don't know," he mumbles.

Well. That's interesting.

"Maybe, uh. Lemme know when you figure it out."

Billy snorts, a flicker of a real smile brightening his face. "Yeah. Maybe."

He can work with that.

~~tag list 💕 @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

#stranger things #billy hargrove #eddie munson #harringrove #mungrove #steve harrington #a raven's writing desk #harringroveson #steddilly #this was another thing that was supposed to be short and quick and ended up thousands of words long #but we love self indulgence lmao

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