#the beard with chain combination is making me lose my mind

[iguessricciardo]

#the beard with chain combination is making me lose my mind #daniel ricciardo #austin gp 2023 #mg

[whats-rambled-rambled]

Long Nights - part 1

Neil x Reader

Chapter 1: Don’t kill my vibe

summary: all days blend into one, and as your friend brings back an unusual challenge, you are more than happy to accept it

warnings: 18+, explicit language, some violence, blood mention

author’s note: Woot woot, new series hype!  

This setting has been brewing inside me for months now, and what started as an idea for a one-shot, turned out to be a fully fleshed out series (f!Reader again, for more gender neutral one check out StuckInReverse series!). And a good chance to introduce this brand new dynamic. Aaaand to play with some rogue tropes - because guess who's gonna teach Neil all he knows about locks and how to pick them? (canon what canon or at least let’s forget the implications for a moment and let's enjoy all the HAND CONTENT instead)

I’m really excited to share this story with you all!

The song for this chapter is Sigrid - Don’t Kill My Vibe

Anyway, enjoy! All feedback is greatly appreciated, let me know what you think?

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Tag list: @vaneilla @ergunbilge @invertedneil @wanderedaway

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You absent-mindedly swirled your coffee and ice cubes clinked against the tall glass as you watched a gutsy pigeon searching for crumbs under a table right next to yours. The green and purple feathers on its collar were shining in the morning sun, not as merciless as it was about to get in just a few hours, but still heating the crowded plaza to barely acceptable levels.

“I don’t know, man, all days blend into one, maybe it’s time to skip town again.”

Mahir leaned back on his chair, his glance sliding through the swarm of tourists pouring from the alley nearby.

“No new gigs?”

You mirrored his pose and shrugged.

“Some, but they just lack… pizzaz.”

“Pizzaz?”

“Yes,” - you sighed and gestured vaguely - “that certain oomph, that sparkle, excitement, when your heart starts beating faster at the sole thought--”

“You sure you’re not looking for...would say love but I know you too well, so... a good shag?” your companion chimed in with a sardonic smile plastered on his face.

You scoffed, amused by that insinuation.

“First of all - thank you,” you started, your eyes lighting up and your grin getting wider with every word. “Second - that thrill is better than a good shag, and after a job well done, you can ride that high much longer than even the best orgasm.”

“Forget I said anything--”

“And finally,” - you continued, ignoring his distressed groan - “you skip all the awkwardness of the morning after.”

Mahir raised his hands in defeat, and even though he looked as if he took a mental note to never tease you like that again, you were sure he knew exactly what you meant. After all, he was your favorite partner in crime, and even though he’d come clean (...or at least slightly cleaner) a few years ago, you still could count on him whenever you needed to pull off a spectacular and/or a straight-up batshit crazy stunt.

“How’s Paddsy?”

“Grand, as far as I know, but haven’t heard from him in years, why?” you asked, tilting your head.

Your friend looked at you with impish sparks in his eyes.

“I remember how you kept yourself amused during your teenage years.”

“The challenges?” You raised your brow and laughed at the memory. “Ha, petty theft is one way to fight a dullness of existence, all right.”

“I bet you’ve gotten sloppier with age.”

That taunt in his overly casual tone was clear as day. Were you really that bored, though?

“Please, I could do it right here and now without any prep.”

...yes.

He sent you a smug smile and started browsing the crowd for a possible target. “Okay, what about... that guy over there?”

You followed his gaze and your eyes laid on a pair of men, lost in a conversation, keeping to the peripheries of tourist groups as they walked through the square. One of them was gesturing with enthusiasm, a wide smile brightening his tanned face, the blond hair in complete disarray combined with a slightly unbuttoned white linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves and beige trousers completed a disheveled look. Couldn’t be older than thirty. He was accompanied by a more composed middle-aged Black man, a maroon polo shirt and grey suit pants complimented his fit and refined posture.

“The yellow mane or the polo shirt?” you asked and Mahir snorted in response.

“The polo one.”

You looked the stranger up and down as you assessed the case. Even from afar, you could see an outline of a wallet in the pocket of his trousers, and the short sleeves meant easy access to the watch.

You smacked your lips and pouted. “Too easy.”

“Okay, so both of them,” he said, watching with satisfaction as you perked up at the suggestion.

“Now we’re talking!” you laughed, clapping your hands. You pointed at Mahir’s camera sitting on the table, internally blessing his choice of hobbies. “Mind if I borrow this for a moment?”

“Sure, whatever.”

You bounced at your feet and grabbed the camera and its case, securing both straps on your shoulder. A sudden rush mixed with a familiar coldness as you got your head in the game.

“Be right back.”

Circling the crowd, you positioned yourself on the path of your targets, blending in with the crowd. Right then, nobody would tell you from other slaphappy sightseers, mesmerized by the architecture of the Old Town district. Stopping abruptly every few steps to take yet another photo. Too preoccupied to pay attention to your surroundings. Making it way too easy to bump into someone, you know? Or, if you were clumsy enough, two people one after another, in a little live-action pinball moment.

You raised the camera and stepped back right into the polo guy, yelping at the impact.

“Sorry!” you squealed, jumping out of his way. Straight into the blonde man. “Oh gee, I’m terribly sorry!”

“You all right?” he asked as he caught you, placing hands on your arms for a split-second hold, enough to prevent you from bouncing back and bumping into someone else.

You turned around and met the bright blue eyes studying you curiously.

“Yep,” you mumbled through sheepish laughter. “And you?”

He beamed, raking his unruly hair with his fingers.

“Yeah.”

Your gaze flitted back to his companion, who was looking at you two with polite interest, visibly eager to continue his stroll.

“Sorry again! Have a lovely day, gents!” you chirped, sending one more apologetic smile and squeezing between them to walk away in the opposite direction.

Ten steps later you twirled around. Aiming the camera at a statue nearby, you checked on the men with the corner of your eye. The blonde guy glanced over his shoulder for a moment, but he didn’t seem suspicious. Good.

You made your way back to the cafe and fell back on your chair.

“No sweat,” you said and smirked, handing the camera back to Mahir and placing the case on the table. You turned it around so he could see what was inside - two watches, some mileage card you pulled out of the polo guy’s wallet, and something you grabbed from the other one… an Oyster card for public transport in London? What a combo. And of course, you could have picked the entire wallets instead, but what would be the fun in that? You didn’t have to make their life that much harder, after all, you just wanted to prove a point.

Mahir peeked inside and smacked his tongue.

“Okay, you still got it.”

“Damn straight!” You reached for your abandoned coffee and emptied it in one swig. “But I’d better get going.”

“Wait, what about the loot?”

“Keep it,” - you shrugged, leaning in to place a small kiss on the bearded cheek - “and tip that nice waitress well, will ya?”

“Sure,” sighed Mahir and patted your hand on his shoulder. “Be careful out there, mate.”

“Always.”

You stepped out on the sunny square again. There was nothing particularly interesting on the agenda for the day, so you decided to take a longer and more scenic route to your apartment. You put on the headphones and with your usual playlist on shuffle, you maneuvered between groups of people on your way to one of the alleys. And just as you were about to cross the road, someone blocked your path. You glanced up and it took all your self-control to maintain a neutral expression, despite all the warning sirens blaring at the full volume inside your head. How even--

“Darling! Long time no see!” said the blonde man you’d just robbed gleefully and grinned, his arms spread wide as if you’d known each other for years. Without dropping a jovial face, he leaned in and gave you a chaste hug, using the opportunity to utter straight into your ear. “Don’t make a fuss and come with me.”

Bloody fantastic.

The stranger linked your arms together and started walking down the street, pulling you with him in a little too rushed version of a friendly stroll. It wasn’t your first rodeo, though.

“Where are you taking me?” you squealed, faking badly covered distress and scouting the area in search of his partner, but the polo guy was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, we need to have a little chat,” he said nonchalantly, securing a grip on you with another hand on your arm. “And the streets today are awfully loud, don’t you think?”

He dragged you into a back alley, losing the chummy demeanor with every step further away from the crowds. Lucky for you, the new setting worked in your favor. You’d been indulging him long enough, anyway.

Shifting your balance, you stomped hard on his foot, using the element of surprise to break free. Grabbing the blonde strands, you pulled his head down to meet your flying knee. A muffled groan escaped the stranger’s mouth and his curses followed you when you dashed to a small back street to your right. These few seconds of a head start were more than enough though, especially since you knew the area like the back of your hand. And that’s why you didn’t hesitate when you reached a chain-link fence. You jumped and bounced off the wall, pulling up on the edge and vaulting through the obstacle with ease, then gracefully landed on the other side and turned around just to see the man hitting the fence with frustration. He glared at you, wiping the blood from his face, and you almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“See ya!” you giggled and blew him a kiss, disappearing into another alley.

You emerged on the main street at a reasonable distance from the place you’d left the stranger, weaving between people on the busy pavement, making sure nobody followed you. After a few blocks, you grew quite certain that you’d lost the unwanted tail. You smiled to yourself. The day turned out to be way more exciting than you could have expected. And it wasn’t even noon yet. 

You noticed a dark grey SUV pulling over next to you, but by the time you realized what was going on, it was already too late. The next thing you knew, you got dragged into the backseat and trapped between the blonde man and the polo guy. Shit.

You glanced at the driver, searching for clues about what you’d gotten yourself into. The woman behind a wheel gave off a paramilitary vibe, but you couldn’t be sure. Anyway, there was no point in trying to escape - you needed to wait for a more suitable moment. You didn’t have too much room to squirm around, so you just fixed your gaze on the road ahead.

“Well, this is awkward,” you said, breaking the silence as the car started moving again.

“As my colleague said - we need to talk.”

You looked to your right at the polo man. “Abduction is such an underrated conversation starter.”

“So is theft,” he noted, a shade of smile tainting the corner of his mouth. “I really liked that watch.”

“I have no idea--”

“We’ve checked the square’s surveillance system,” he interrupted you, but his statement was so ridiculous you just had to laugh it off.

“Now you’re insulting me.”

He raised a brow as he studied you with satisfaction. “You’d rather admit that you’re guilty?”

“No,” - you bridled, slowly getting tired of the whole charade - “but there’s no way you got to the feed so fast, and with how crowded it was out there, there is no way you’d find anything incriminating in there.” You hesitated for a moment, then narrowed your eyes. “Speaking of-- how did you even find me?”

A sudden movement to your left made you switch focus to the quiet blonde man. Still pressing a bunch of bloodied tissues to his face, he showed you his phone - a red dot was blinking steadily in the middle of a screen.

...tracking? You opened your mouth to ask a follow-up question, but then it hit you and your eyes flared up. That hug.

“Sneaky. I like it.” You grinned and nodded at him. “How’s your nose?”

He lowered his hand with the tissues. It was bruised and swollen, but you couldn’t tell if you’d managed to break it or not. Still - ouch.

“Never better,” he said and grimaced slightly.

“You should put some ice on it.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“You don’t say.”

Biting your lip to stifle a giggle, you glanced back to your right. “So? What do you wanna talk about?”

The other man shook his head.

“Not in the car. We’re almost there.”

You looked out of the window to find out you were driving into an industrial zone, and not the nice part of it. You didn’t mind, though - abandoned and creepy factory buildings were your jam, and they made excellent locations if you ever needed a chance to escape.

After a few minutes, you reached your destination. You got out of the car parked near the entrance to an empty hall. The sunbeams were pouring inside through the broken windows near the ceiling, lighting up a small metal table and a pair of chairs.

“Kudos for prepping such a dramatic setting, gents,” you laughed, taking a seat at the table. The polo man sighed and sat in front of you, sliding a folder with documents your way. You peeked inside, only to confirm your suspicions. They got some serious dirt on you, all right.

“Let’s start again, properly this time. This is Neil,” - he said, pointing at his companion, who was standing nearby, leaning against a pillar - “and I’m The Protagonist.”

You gaped at him and slumped your shoulders. “The Protag--...you’re shitting me,” you huffed, but the man was staring at you indifferently. “Dude, your parents must hate you,” you snorted, not even trying to keep a straight face. “What’s wrong with-- ...I don’t know, David? Or some of the classics, like John?”

“That’s how everyone here addresses me, and I’d like you to do the same.”

“Do I have to?” you groaned as you looked at Neil. He simply nodded, so you had no other option but to roll with it. For now. “Ugh, fine,” you said, shrugging. “You guys are spies or something?”

“Or something,” said The Protagonist. “We use certain espionage techniques to our advantage.”

“Sure,” - you scoffed - “next thing you’re gonna tell me is that you need my help to save the world.”

Neil’s amused snort made you glance at him again. “Well, maybe indirectly.” Playful sparks lit up his eyes as he gave you a half-smile. 

Are they for real? If that was an elaborate prank, this would be a good gotcha moment, but the men seemed serious enough.

You shifted on your seat, laughing nervously.

“Sorry to disappoint, but you’ve got the wrong gal.”

The Protagonist pointed at the folder in front of you.

“We need someone with your skills.”

...right. “Such as?”

“Lockpicking.”

You arched a brow. “Why? You need me to crack something for you?”

“No.” The Protagonist shook his head and took a deep breath. “We need you to teach our agents how to do it.”

“Hard pass,” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m not a tutor material.”

All of a sudden, a familiar voice rang behind you.

“Show her the lock.”

And then you connected all the dots.

“Mahir, you asshole!” you fumed, glaring at your friend as he joined you by the table. “Sloppier with age, I swear, you’re the main reason I have trust issues!”

“Main?” - he sent you a skeptical look - “What about--”

“Okay, you’re in top three, but mind you, today’s stunt alone got you five places up the table.”

“Oh no, I’m gonna cry myself to sleep tonight,” he mocked in his usual deadpan manner.

You huffed - “You better,” - mentally kicking yourself for falling for his ruse so easily. Maybe he was right. Maybe you’d lost your edge. That’s what you got for staying in one place for too long. You blinked rapidly, getting out of your head to focus on an item The Protagonist placed on the table. A small metal lock, pretty basic. No security pins, but you knew this model was made with sloppy tolerances that could give any beginner a headache.

“What’s so special about it?”

“Give it a try,” said The Protagonist and waved his hand in encouragement.

You reached to the pocket of your pants for a compact set of lockpicking tools you always had on you. Nothing fancy, rather a handy emergency set than anything serious - those were safely stored in your apartment, ready for the real work. Unlike the one you were about to do. Or so you thought.

You placed a tiny wrench at the bottom of a keyway and applied a minimal amount of tension, trying to set the first pin inside using a short hook. Trying and failing. The feedback from the tools was bizarre, like the regular laws of physics no longer applied to the lock’s mechanism.

“What in the fresh hell--” you uttered through gritted teeth, pulling out the tools to examine the peculiar lock.

Mahir smirked. “Enough pizzaz?”

“Shut up, I’m still mad at you,” you waved at him dismissively and focused back on The Protagonist, who was watching your attempts with polite interest. And a hint of a satisfied smile. “Where did you get that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he replied, leaning back on the chair. “At least for now, that is if you’d like to reconsider our proposal.”

You nibbled on your bottom lip, drumming the fingers on the table. Mahir, you bastard. Of course he knew you wouldn’t be able to resist an offer like this. Even if that meant a certain commitment, and that wasn’t something you were particularly fond of.

“Fine,” you sighed. “But I’m gonna teach only one person.”

“Deal.”

As you shook on it, Neil left his spot by the pillar.

“That will be me.”

You nodded in agreement and asked, “What about the lock?”

“Keep it,” said The Protagonist, standing up. As if he’d share the secrets straight away. “I want to hear your thoughts on it the next time we see each other.”

“And when is that gonna be?”

He just smiled enigmatically. “Soon. Mahir - a word?”

“Is he always like that?” you asked Neil as you got up, watching the others making their way towards the exit, but he just shrugged in return.

“He’s a busy man.”

You eyed your soon-to-be student curiously, and he responded in such, although suddenly losing some of the confidence he’d had before. Even with the bruised face, he radiated with this natural charm, a soft smile and the blonde strands falling into the bright blue eyes only adding to the overall appeal.

“Sorry about the nose.”

“Thanks,” - he smirked - “can’t blame you for that though, right?”

Grinning, you extended your hand in an informal truce offering.

“No hard feelings then?”

“Not at all,” he said as your palms clapped together and you smacked each other’s arms playfully.

With any leftover tension gone, all you had to do was to discuss the schedule and a few other crucial details. Neil took some notes and promised to get everything ready over the next few days. He even offered to drive you home, but you politely turned him down. A long walk, even slightly longer than previously anticipated, seemed more tempting.

Your fingers brushed against the weird lock in your pocket and you smiled to yourself.

For the first time in months, your heart started beating a little bit faster.

(next chapter->)

#neil tenet #neil tenet x reader #neil x reader #neil tenet fanfiction #robert pattinson #tenet #tenet fanfiction #the protagonist tenet #mahir tenet #neil tenet imagine #long nights

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: language, attempted sexual assault and harassment, mentions of past sexual assault and harassment - do not read if these situations are triggering for you.

Word count: 6.1k - am I capable of writing anything short anymore???

A/N: HI I’M FINALLY BACK AND POSTING SOMETHING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ALMOST 3 MONTHS WOW. This story continues the Agent 14 series (so definitely check that out in my masterlist if you’re not familiar!) and...it’s something I’ve had on my mind for a while. I just needed to get it out. I hope that you like it and please share what you think! Feedback is appreciated!

When her phone starts buzzing, she’s mid-swing at the faded sandbag hanging from the ceiling. 

She’s glad to have the place to herself - the dusty air and stale silence more of a comfort. A bead of sweat slides down her temple, itching past her ear, and her finger scratches at the spot absently, coming away salty wet. There’s sweat slicking her scalp, too; she feels it under the tight twist of her braids, heat trapped beneath the strands. Her dirty little basement gym - faded posters lining the walls, advertising fights long finished, flickering bulbs hanging from the ceiling, stained linoleum - is quiet in the mornings. A kind of quiet that is all too rare in the city, in her life. 

Sure, it was nice of Sam to continue inviting her on their morning runs - she has every intention of taking him up on his offer, when she finally gets off the opening shift at work. She sees his 4 a.m. offers a couple times a week, shooting back a quick response that she’s already up, heading in to open the cafe. He finds it all so funny; calls her “Agent Barista”, and endearingly teases her about her rigorous coffee training at the SHIELD Academy. 

Okay but real talk, 14 - what’s your top secret mission down at Starbucks? Pinged her phone as she brushed her teeth and concealed undereye circles with strategic swipes of makeup. 

Key word in your question is “top secret”, Wilson. As in, tell you but I’d have to kill you. You know the drill. 

Another ping. Yeah, yeah. Y’all agents talk a good game, but I know for a fact 41 can be bought with a box of See’s candies. Just gotta figure out your weakness. 

Good luck. 

No luck needed. I’ll bring a couple sweaty super soldiers your way around 8:30, you’re welcome. 

With a wrapped hand, she flicks one swinging braid back over her shoulder, turning to her duffel bag for her phone. It’s buried under a spare pair of socks and a sports bra she forgot to wash, still buzzing as she grasps it and flips the screen upwards in her hand. 

Unknown caller. 

She’d bet every cent to her name that she could guess who was on the other end of the line. Tongue pressed against her teeth, she dismisses the call and drops her phone back in her bag. Fury can wait. 

Turning back to the sandbag, she sucks a quick breath through her nose, curling power in her lean shoulders, and then unleashes a furious combination of jabs and kicks on the beaten plastic. Grunts and harsh pants slip past her lips, fists slinging blow after punishing blow, her weight held bouncing on the balls of her feet. The sandbag is a stoic opponent, taking her fists and feet without so much as a groan of protest, swinging back only a few inches on the chain even as she whips around high for a roundhouse kick. Growling, she rocks her weight back on her heels, before leaping forward off one leg to drive her knee into the bag with bruising force. More to herself than the bag, she thinks, glancing down at the tender skin on her bare knee, stinging from the impact. She leans an elbow against the bag and drops her head, swiping at the baby hairs along her forehead. 

The phone buzzes again, insistent and muffled, and she lets her head drop back with a heavy sigh, eyes closed. 

“Shut up,” she mutters, eyes narrowing in a nasty glare at the offending noise. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

She whirls at the sound, fists raised - she hadn’t even heard him enter. 

Steve has the good grace to look sheepish as he approaches from a shadowed staircase in the corner of the room, his hands raised in surrender. Not many people have had the sheer dumb luck - and misfortune - of sneaking up on her, and the part of her brain not whiplashed by adrenaline grudgingly admires him for it. 

“Morning, Captain,” 14 sighs, her hands falling to her hips, rolling her neck against the tension in her shoulders. 

“Morning,” he smiles. He’s trimmed back the beard, she notices, closer to the sharp line of his jaw. Dust motes swirl around his golden head like fairy dust as he passes through the puddles of light cast from the weak overhead bulbs. It strikes her then, the unassuming slope of his shoulders, a little shuffle in his gait, not quite lifting his feet from the ground. Not a strut, no stalking or preening like the SHIELD boys she came up at the Academy with, eager to throw their weight around. Somehow, despite his height, he manages to duck his head, to look up at her under a fringe of enviable dark lashes. Disarming and soft, a wayward blond strand falling over his forehead, he tucks his hands into his pockets, standing just a few feet away from her. He nods at the hanging sandbag behind her. 

“Gave that thing quite a beating,” he says, tilting a dark eyebrow. She shrugs one shoulder. 

“Looked at me funny,” she quips back, still catching her breath from the last bout. Her tongue swipes at a drop of sweat on her upper lip. Sniffing, she turns her gaze down to the wrapping on her hands. “I don’t recall inviting you, Rogers - I thought this was a private session.” 

“Sorry for intruding,” he says, scrunching his nose and swiping at the errant lock of hair hanging before his eyes. With a jerk of his chin, he gestures towards her gym bag, where her phone has gone blessedly silent. “Fury had a feeling you would, um, how does Sam say it…’shady button’ him?” 

She snorts in spite of herself, just managing to slap a hand over her mouth before her laugh becomes obnoxious. Even in the dim light of the fluorescents, she can see the high flush creeping up those scruffy cheeks. Steve rubs the back of his neck, a familiar embarrassment curling in his belly; it’s a joke the team plays sometimes, and he gets it, he really does. Gotta laugh at your CO sometimes - it brings the team together; so he drops little phrases here and there, incongruous slang with his pleated slacks and old-fashioned manners. Even things that Sam says - the word “fam”, or adding “ass” as a suffix to virtually any word - from Steve’s mouth, they’re suddenly enough to have the team rolling with laughter, Tony red-faced, Wanda close to tears. The tips of his ears burn, and he always acts put out, lowers his stern father brows, but if there’s one thing he learned as a Brooklyn-born punk, it’s how to take his punches.

“Oh, I’m sorry - I’m sorry,” 14 says, hand still half-covering the silly grin tugging at her mouth. “It just sounded so funny coming from you. It was like-”

“Kinda like if your dad were saying it?” Steve purses his lips, tilts his head to the side.

“Oh god…yes, that’s exactly it.” It ignites a fresh burst of giggles, though she scrunches her nose and shakes her head at the image. “Uh, just do us both a favor and don’t say that again.” 

“I don’t think you can restrict Captain America’s freedom of speech.” He lifts his eyebrows, playful, considering. The slope of his nose casts a long shadow across his cheek, skin like Irish cream. She rolls her eyes, turning away to her duffel bag, using her teeth to tug at the wrappings on her hands. 

“So. You’re Nick’s new personal assistant or something?” Dropping to the bench, she rummages through her gym bag and takes a long gulp from her water bottle. She swipes at her phone screen - 3 missed calls now. 

Steve shrugs. 

“I volunteered,” he says simply, large knuckles still visible where they stay curled in his pockets. “Thought…hoped I might have better luck.”

She licks her lower lip, chasing a coveted drop of water. It’s not as though she’s tired of the job - it varies so much, from one day to the next, that it makes boredom impossible. No, it’s not the job, she’s just…tired. Of what, or why, she can’t really say. Steve is patient. He doesn’t say anymore, just waits, standing a few feet away and shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his soft eyes watchful. Her fingers go to her shoulders, massaging the oncoming ache in her muscles. 

“What’s the mission?” 

  **********                                                                                      

“You need some help there, punk?” Bucky leans a hip against the doorframe, arms crossed over his beloved NASA hoodie, an amused twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. Across the room, Steve frowns at him in the mirror. 

“Never really got the hang of these damned things,” Steve huffs, fingers losing the knot on his bowtie and sighing again as the cloth falls loose from the crisp collar of his shirt. Hands falling to his narrow hips, he turns to Bucky, wearing a look of defeat rarely seen on Steve Rogers. 

Wordlessly, Bucky shuffles across the carpet and begins to knot the offending fabric, fingers of metal and flesh looping one strand over the other and back again. Chin lifted, brows furrowed, a marble bust of martyrdom, Steve is ever stoic while he works. 

“Thought you were gonna shave for this,” Bucky comments, his voice quiet, not lifting his eyes from the tie. Steve makes a dissenting noise from his throat. 

“Yeah, well, the beard makes it easier to keep a low profile,” he says, a hand reaching up to rub his whiskers absentmindedly. “And besides, I’m sort of attached to it now.” 

Bucky chuckles, a smile dimpling his own scruffy cheeks. 

“Know what you mean - God, but nobody looked like this when we were kids, ya know?” He steps back, finished with the tie, and gives Steve an appraising nod, pursing his lips. “Not too bad, Rogers, not too bad.” 

Raising a dubious brow, Steve turns back to the mirror, tugging at the sleeves and adjusting his shoulders in the tux. Strictly white tie - totally out of his element, but sometimes duty comes with a dress code. He wedges a thick finger between the starched white collar and his own tender skin. 

“In this get up?” Steve shakes his head. “Never did get used to wearing a monkey suit.” 

Tongue in his cheek, Bucky grins. 

“Have you seen yourself in your uniform?” 

Steve flings a fist back behind him, grinning triumphantly when his hit lands in Bucky’s gut; a metal fist swings in retaliation, but Steve manages to sidestep, his hands raised in quick surrender. 

“Hey, not too rough,” he says, tamping down a mischievous smile. “Tony will have my head if I ruin another one of these.” 

“Tony could buy you one for every day of the week,” Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

A knock on the doorframe makes them both turn. 

It’s been years now, since he met Natasha - wind whipping up familiar curls on the deck of the helicarrier, a watchful smile, wolves’ teeth hidden under a lamb-soft face. Even later, when he learned to trust her, he always found himself surprised at her startling contrasts, the ease with which she managed to be two things at once; ally and spy, friend then enemy then family. In truth, she was testing him. They both knew. Years of probing, disguised as teasing and sarcasm and near-insubordination - assessing his strength, his weakness, the man behind the shield. And after all this time, it was his steadiness at each of her own turns that pacified her, let her learn to lean on him in return. 

She smiles in the doorway now, her bright hair swept sleek behind her ears, revealing diamond teardrop earrings, probably on loan from Tony’s collection. The tips of her hair just brush her pale, bare shoulders, revealed by the strapless neckline of her jumpsuit. Black was always her signature color - never dull, though, because with Nat black is a spectrum, a rainbow refracted through her prism: intimidating, alluring, powerful, subtle. 

“You clean up good, Rogers,” she smirks, her hands tucked into her pockets as she gives him a look of approval. “Keeping the beard, though?” 

Steve’s hand idly brushes against his trimmed whiskers.

“It’s grown on me,” he admits. “And besides, I’ve got too much of a baby face without it.” 

“Some girls like that.” 

“Some guys like that,” Bucky adds, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, well,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, willing down the flush that crept up at his friends’ praise. “I’m not supposed to be the bait tonight.” 

“No, I guess that’s my job.” Another voice appears behind Nat, her head peaking around Nat’s shoulder as she steps forward to share the space in the doorway. 

Unbidden, Steve feels his mouth fall open. He always thought she was beautiful, from the first time he saw her, no makeup and the sleeves of her sweater splashed with coffee and mocha sauce; this morning, in the dusty half-light of the basement gym, sweat gleaming on her forehead and arms. But he wasn’t prepared to see her like this, glowing in his doorway, draped in a pink silk slip that exposed one of her thighs. She’d let her hair loose from it’s tight braids, her makeup bringing a dewy sheen to her cheeks - she looked…fresh, blooming like a rose. A clean swipe of red across her lips, almost an afterthought, as if she couldn’t be bothered to make more effort than that. Steve swipes his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs and clears his throat. 

“Um, wow,” he says, wincing at his own voice, which nearly gave an embarrassingly pubescent crack. “I mean, you…uh, you look great.”

“Better than great,” Bucky pipes up, the amused tilt to his mouth the only hint that he enjoys Steve’s embarrassment. “She looks beautiful.” 

Nat nods in agreement. 

“The dress is perfect for you - is it one of Stark’s?” she asks. 14 shakes her head, modestly gesturing to the gown with her hand. 

“I’ve had it for a little while actually, I just couldn’t pass it up,” she sighs. “Just haven’t had the chance to wear it.” 

“Well, we’re finally gonna put some miles on it,” Natasha smiles, her eyes cutting to Steve, who has clamped his jaw shut to prevent himself from saying more. “We all ready? Happy’s pulling the car around.” 

14 nods, a shy smile tilting her mouth as she spares a glance at Steve before moving to follow Nat down the hall. She turns, and he sees that the cut of her dress falls low against the small of her back - almost low enough to glimpse the sweet dimples at the base of her spine. When they’re out of the doorway, he feels Bucky’s eyes on him - he’s perched on the edge of the bed, chewing his lip, one eyebrow lifted in an all-knowing look. He opens his mouth to speak but Steve lifts a hand. 

“Don’t,” Steve cuts him off. “I know what you’re gonna say Buck, but just- don’t.”

Bucky lifts his hands in surrender, standing from the bed and walking over to where Steve still stands in the middle of his room. 

“Fine, I won’t say a damn word,” Bucky sighs, shuffling across the thick carpet. He slaps his friend on the shoulder, gripping Steve with a firm hand. “Except you better move your ass instead of standing there like a dud - didn’t I tell you not to keep a lady waiting, Rogers?” 

 **********                                                                                         

Sam had whistled playfully as she glided out of the elevator on Steve’s arm, his eyebrows lifting halfway up his forehead. 

“Damn, girl - almost didn’t recognize you without your apron,” he winked, his gap-toothed grin charming as ever. 

“Didn’t match my shoes,” she winked back, flicking her hair over her shoulder. It sent a wave of her perfume drifting upwards; something bright and sweet, neroli, he thought, or orange blossom - maybe a hint of coconut. He had licked his lips without thinking; he’d like to smell it again, just to be sure. 

Here, in this stuffy ballroom across town, with eager officials and bourgeois brats trying to rub elbows with Captain America, he finds the smell much less appealing. Sweat and ambition, excess and greed, all covered in layers of atelier cologne (eau de aristocratie) and - well, Bucky heard enough of his socialist soapbox speeches back in the day, and his views certainly haven’t changed much. 

Still, he makes polite small talk with his admirers, rubs elbows, accepts drinks, all the while keeping one eye on the far corner of the room. It’s quiet, secluded, an overstuffed chaise with a soft cover tucked away from the buzz of the main dance floor. She’s perched there, ankles coquettishly crossed, the side slit of her dress revealing one leg and her glittering open-toed shoes; she leans on one arm, tilting her head towards the target, charming smile drawing up her lips as she hangs on his every word. Or pretends to, anyway. The target seems not to know the difference: Robbie Sinclair, a middle-aged man with the tanned smile of a Kennedy, salt and pepper hair slicked back from his face with a boyish cowlick escaping near the front, grins confidently as he talks to her. Steve watches him preen and puff his chest, spreading his legs to take up far more space than he needs. He stretches one arm along the back of the couch, leaning closer than appropriate, but she doesn’t move away. 

He doesn’t like this, any of it. To be fair, he’d never been a big fan of the espionage facet of his job; much to Nat’s chagrin, subtlety and subterfuge were not Steve’s strong suits. If he had his way, they’d come in swinging and arrest this creep (and his insider-trading Wall Street buddies, too). But shooting from the hip wouldn’t work here, not when they still needed hard evidence on this guy, something more substantial than rumors - heavy as those rumors might be, words like “human trafficking” and “slavery” coming up in his SHIELD files. He understood the necessity, and so did 14. 

Still, bringing her here and dangling her like a worm on a hook, hoping this asshole would take the bait…his stomach churned, whiskey bubbling unpleasantly at the thought. Steve angles his body around a chatty senator, trying to maintain his view on the corner. Sinclair looks about ready to take a bite, his head bent close to 14’s, sly smirk plastered on his face as he whispers something in her ear. Did her fist tighten around her glass? He can’t quite tell from this distance; he knows his own fingers are white-knuckled on his third whiskey. Or was it the fourth? 

In a blink, a stumble, a minute trapped in choked small talk with Miss New York (during which he wondered if her real teeth were filed down like a shark’s underneath that crown-winning smile like Sam told him), he’s lost her. 

A snowy static of panic whites out his brain, and his heart picks up against his ribcage as he all but shoves the beauty queen out of his way, his vision tunneling on the now-empty chaise in the corner. Where did she go? Where would she go? Barely managing subtlety know, he ducks his head, speaking to the comm device in his ear. 

“Natasha. Do you have eyes on them?” 

“…no, I was doing a sweep of the terrace outside,” she answers a moment later. “Did you lose them?”

Steve turns a circle where he stands, sharp eyes scanning each face and failing to find the one he wants to see. 

“They’re gone, I’ve lost visual.” He tries to keep his voice down, his tone tight and clipped. Through a break in the crowd, he thinks he catches a glimpse of her dress, but when he looks again it’s the wrong color, the wrong dress, the wrong woman-

“Alright, I’m heading back inside - I’ll go up the stairs to the next floor, see if they went up that way.” 

“Okay, I’ll take this floor,” Steve says, already making a beeline for the open doors of the ballroom, his tight-laced dress shoes clicking a solitary echo in the cavernous hallway just outside. Past the doors, and the gazes of nosy party-goers, he doubles his pace - the stiff starched tux protesting against the movement. 

They’re not tucked into the alcoves along this hallway, and he deliberates a moment where the hall forks in opposite directions, before darting to the left and continuing his clipped jog. In a small part of his brain, he knows he shouldn’t be this concerned about her. 14 was an agent - a highly trained, highly skilled agent; he’d worked with her enough by now to know firsthand how well she could handle herself. But the other part of him couldn’t shake the way Sinclair had looked at her - the way every man in the room had looked at her when she walked in, circling and waiting for their chance to close in. Not to mention the less-than-sterling reputation of Robbie Sinclair, who, aside from the trafficking conspiracy that put SHIELD on his scent, had a handful of secretaries threaten him with harassment suits, before they were quietly paid to keep their mouths shut. 

He comes to a dead end, a dancing nymph statue (far too baroque for his taste) mocking him with her tambourine against her hip. Doubling back, he curses under his breath and runs through the building schematics in his head, wondering where they could have slipped away to so quickly. 

“Natasha? Any luck?” 

“Negative. You?”

“No.” Steve clenches his fists and tries to force his heart back down from where it’s climbed up into his throat. His teeth grind together, jaw locked tight, holding in a frustrated growl. Unprompted, a wave of worst-case scenarios floods his mind - 14 dragged away by thugs, knocked unconscious, bleeding and gagged, unable to call for help. She’s a good agent. A good soldier. She can handle this. Try as he might to force them away, the tide of panic swells over and over inside him, the voice of his intuition telling him something must have gone wrong-

Behind him, an elevator dings. 

Steve turns to see the ancient metalwork door rattle open, Agent 14 stumbling out half a moment later. 

He blinks. She’s lost her shoes - no, she’s carrying them, the straps dangling from one hand. The side slit of her dress looks higher, and he notices the frayed edges along the top where the fabric has ripped. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair mussed, and she takes labored, panting breaths as she leans against the wall. 

It takes him a while to understand what he’s looking at. As his panic starts to ebb, something different, something wounded and green threatens to perch in its place, at the sight of her so disheveled, with swollen lips and rumpled clothes. He says nothing; he has nothing to say, shocked as he is by the bitter taste of his own thoughts, wondering if a rendezvous with Sinclair was worth the information she might have gained. 

It’s not until she starts sniffling that he notices the tears running down her cheeks.

The realization stops him cold, strangles the dark seed of doubt just starting to sprout in his heart, and fills him with shame and guilt. He takes a step forward. She’s not looking at him. 

“…14? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice hushed. “Are you hurt?” There were no visible wounds that he could see, though she had limped a little when coming out of the elevator. 

She nods, sniffing again.

“I’m-I’m fine,” she says, her voice scraping in her throat, barely holding back a sob. Squeezing her eyes shut, she presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent tears. 

In two steps he’s at her side, though unsure of what to do, what would be appropriate, what she wants or needs. Were they…friends? Acquaintances? Colleagues? Do work friends hug, comfort each other? 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he ventures softly, still not touching her, not crowding. He holds back a few inches, waiting, his hands feeling empty and heavy at his sides. “Do you want to?”

She nods, but it takes a few moments before she has regained her composure enough to lower her hand from her mouth and take a few rattling breaths, preparing to speak. 

“He…h-he,” she stutters over a sob, like a child who’s cried too hard for too long. “He grabbed me and-and was kissing me, and then he tried,” she’s interrupted by a hiccup and a shaky sigh. “He tried to…to…” 

She raises her eyes to his, tears welling up again, and shakes her head. She can’t say it, won’t say it - it is too much. It will make it real. 

For his part, Steve barely restrains himself from blacking out with rage. His jaw is so tight he can feel his teeth nearly crack from the strain, fists curled but unsatisfied with not being wrapped around Sinclair’s neck. How dare he? How dare anyone? When he gets his hands on this goddamned son of a bitch, he’ll-

His vengeful train of thought is interrupted when she collapses against his chest with a sob, gripping the lapels of his jacket for support. On instinct he wraps his arms around her, caging her in, his chin resting on top of her head. 

“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he hushes her and holds her, wishing there was more he could do, more he could say. He holds himself back from other platitudes, from it’s okay, and everything’s alright - he knows it’s not true. 

She shakes and cries and rides out the storm in his arms, full of anger and fear and shame and helplessness; all the while, he stands silent and solid, murmuring soothing words his mother might have said - in another life, when someone held him, protected him. 

Neither of them knows how much time has passed when her sobs become less violent, when her breathing calms, but she doesn’t step away. Her head doesn’t move from its place on his chest, and he makes no sign of wanting it to. Gently, slowly, he rocks her in his embrace, one hand smoothing over her back. 

After a while, she speaks. 

“I’m so tired,” she whispers. From this angle, he can see her blink slowly, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. He nods.

“You’re coming down from the adrenaline - that’s normal,” he murmurs, letting her weight sag against him, wondering if he’ll need to carry her.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not like that…that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” 

She doesn’t answer, not right away; her breathing has settled into an easier rhythm, less frenzied and panting. Her fingers slide from their place at his chest to rest around his waist. 

“When I was in high school, there was this guy.” Her voice startles him when she finally speaks again, she’s been silent for so long. He makes a noise to let her know he’s listening before she goes on. “He was…I don’t know. Popular, I guess. Cute. Football player. Advanced classes. All the girls liked him.” She takes a shuddering breath before forging ahead. “And-and I guess he liked me because he couldn’t leave alone for a single fucking minute.

“God, it was constant. He’d grab my ass, or say dirty things about me to other guys…sometimes it wasn’t even sexual, it was like…he’d squeeze my waist or pinch the fat on the back of my arms and comment about my weight.” She sniffs, and Steve tightens his arms around her, not speaking. “One time, between classes, he grabbed me by the hips and bent me backwards over a desk - he wouldn’t let go, and he was just laughing…and no one said anything, none of the guys or my friends or anybody.” 

Steve frowns, feeling impotent and frustrated. “I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head again. 

“The worst thing is I just put up with it. I didn’t say anything…I didn’t think, I didn’t know-” she huffs a bitter laugh. “I guess I just thought it was flirting. Like I should’ve been flattered by it.” 

“You shouldn’t - you don’t have to take that,” Steve says, fighting to control his tone. “Not from anyone.” 

“I know that now,” she says. “But I was just a kid…nobody told me. Nobody helped me.”

He opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say, but she goes on.

“And nobody told me that it never gets better, it never changes.” He can feel how tightly her fists are clenched at his sides. “No one told me that this would be the rest of my fucking life. First it was him, and old men at the gas station where I got snacks after school, and truck loads of frat boys following me home. Jesus even the damn milk guy at the café calls me ’sexy’ and won’t leave me alone.” She sniffles again, voice tightening with anguish. “I’m tired, I’m so tired - I’m so fucking sick of all of it…of-of just being a thing, I’m tired of being looked at, and-” She tries to swallow back her sob, but it crests and stutters in her lungs, taking over her voice once again as she presses her face impossibly closer. 

It breaks his heart and stokes his rage, the helpless, hopeless weight of her bitter words. Here he is, over a century old, and still watching people fight the same battles; battles to be heard, to be seen, to be treated like humans. He’d seen it all his life, women like his mother, like Peggy, spines of steel and hearts made of diamonds, resisting a world that would grind them down and make them small. He wishes his shield were wider, stronger. He wishes he could protect them from this. 

“I can’t tell you it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Because it’s not. It’s not okay, I’m so sorry.” She squeezes his waist gratefully and nods her head a little. “But you…you don’t ever have to feel alone in this, okay?” He leans back a little, prompting her to lift her head, to meet her tear-bright eyes. “You’re not alone. I promise.” 

It’s not enough. It’s not over. But today, for now, it feels like something. 

 **********                                                                                             

Natasha pages Happy, who pulls the car around to the front of the building. She says nothing as 14 limps down the front steps, shoes in hand, one arm linked with Steve’s and wearing his jacket, the too-long sleeves covering her hands. Nat’s eyes slide up to his - their silent exchange lasts moments, microseconds; her lips pinch tightly and her elegant white fists curl tight. 

Happy holds the door, offering a hand as 14 drops inside, folding her legs and wrapping her torn skirt as tight as she can around the exposed length of her legs. Nat glances at the open door of the car and steps away, angling her back to the patient Happy. She juts her chin at Steve. 

“You need a hand, Rogers?” He knows the look in her eyes is mirrored in his own - the look of a boxer stepping in the ring, of a lion sighting prey, a shark scenting blood.

Steve shakes his head, a hand reaching up to loosen his tie. 

“No, it’s alright. You go on with 14.”

Happy peaks his head around. 

“You don’t want me to wait for you, Cap?” he frowns. “I can keep the car running.”

Steve glances over Nat’s shoulder at the town car, where 14 has curled up in the backseat, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. 

“Nah. I need to have a word with Mr. Sinclair.”

  **********                                                                                        

The arrest doesn’t make the front page. Or any page of the papers, in fact. Robbie Sinclair wakes in a hospital bed, in SHIELD custody, and ready to make deals with anyone who will bargain - provided his security detail keeps him well away from the Avengers and their Captain. 

When the file crosses his desk, courtesy of Natasha, he notices the long list of names Sinclair has provided them with - powerful men, Wall Street and Capitol Hill’s finest, who found their positions one dirty handshake at a time. It would take some time to build a case against them all, find sufficient evidence for arrests, but SHIELD was up for the task. There’s a note in the back of the file, a small article someone has attached with a paperclip. 

‘Executive’s Secretaries Speak Out’ reads the headline, with the subtext ‘Sinclair accused of sexual harassment, assault’. It appears a few women who had crossed his path were tired of being silenced; they had banded together, sharing pain and courage, to finally see him brought to justice. And combined with the charges SHIELD was bringing against him, it was unlikely he’d step foot outside of a prison for the next couple of decades. 

It’s a start. 

A few days later, Steve rises before the sun, a creature of habit. He takes his run alone, listening to a podcast that Sam had recommended. By 5:30, he’s stretching at the bench in front of the tower, before making his way down the street to the coffee shop. 

She does a double take when she sees him, surprise and (he hopes) excitement creeping up in her smile. There’s only a couple of baristas in the store at this time - they haven’t hit their peak yet - and she’s wiping down the bar in front of the espresso machines by herself. 

“Morning, Cap,” she smiles. There are tired little circles under her eyes. She looks beautiful. “You want your usual?” 

“Hmmm,” he pretends to think, narrowing his eyes at the menu. “Actually…how about you surprise me.” 

She raises her brows, a little impressed. “You sure? Anything goes?”

“Anything - I promise I’ll try it.” 

“Alright,” she smirks, mischievous and much too eager, and she turns away from the espresso machines to the blenders behind her. 

Milk, syrup, ice - other ingredients he can’t see or identify, all thrown into the pitcher and blended. She leans against the counter as the machine whirs loudly, a cheeky smile dimpling her cheeks. Just as the machine stops, the bell above the door chimes, both of them turning to look. 

A small, wiry, white-haired man backs his way into the store, pulling a dolly stacked high with milk crates. He looks around, making sure he’s not backing into anyone, and catches sight of her behind the counter. Steve doesn’t like the look of his smile, or the way 14 ducks back down to her blender, her shoulders inching upwards.  

“Morning, sweetheart,” the man says, a bit too loud, rattling the crates on his dolly as he wheels around tables, towards the back of house. 

“Morning,” 14 replies coolly, not looking up from where she’s carefully lining Steve’s cup with mocha sauce. She doesn’t say anything more, keeping her head down as she pours out the drink and reaches for a canister of whipped cream. Steve’s eyes cut between them, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. 

The milk man hustles back through the store with an empty dolly, on his way to collect the next load of crates, and 14 sighs a little when the bell chimes on his way out. She’s just turning around to hand Steve his drink, when she notices that the café is empty - he must have slipped out as well. 

“Hey, pal,” Steve claps a hand on the man’s shoulder, consciously withholding his full force. “I was wondering - you usually deliver the milk here?”

“Yeah,” the man huffs, a little confused, and in a hurry to unload his crates. He squints, the rising sun in his eyes. “Why?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to talk to you for a second, that’s all,” Steve smiles. His hand doesn’t move from it’s place on the man’s shoulder. 

When he comes back inside, his towering, chocolate-swirled beverage is waiting at the end of the bar. 14 is waiting, too, arms crossed, one hip propped up against the counter. She tilts her head to one side. 

“Do I wanna know?” she asks. Steve shrugs. 

“Nothing to know,” he says, shuffling up to the bar to claim his drink and stare at it, incredulous and amused. “Now what on earth is this thing, a milkshake?” 

She rolls her eyes.

“It’s called a frappucino, old man,” she grins. “Drink up - you promised.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x agent 14 #steve rogers fic #steve rogers oneshot #steve rogers imagine

[jobean12-blog]

Bucky, Dog Tags and Bow ties

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 1,336

Summary: You have tried to keep your feelings toward Bucky under control for so long but once he shows up wearing his dog tags and a bow tie, you lose your control. 

Author’s Note: I blame @sallycanwait68 @loricameback @marvelgirl7 completely. This is what happens when we start throwing around pics and talking about him in bow ties and wearing dog tags....and I THANK YOU FOR IT <3

Warnings: SMUT without much plot! 18+ eyes only please

He walked into the room, bow tie undone, half his dress shirt unbuttoned and his jacket slung over his shoulder. You swallowed thickly, taking in his appearance, appreciating every chiseled inch of Bucky from head to toe. You have been ‘appreciating’ Bucky for quite some time now, never having the nerve to act on it. His eyes found yours and lit up as he jogged over, “hey, y/n, could you please help me with my bow tie, I can’t seem to get it tied right for anything tonight.” You smile at him and move closer to work on his bow tie, realizing he still had his shirt unbuttoned, languidly moving your fingers up his chest as you close each button. As you work your way up you feel something under the soft fabric and hear a slight jingle. You can’t stop yourself before you’re reaching into his open shirt and pulling out his dog tags, realizing what you’ve done you quickly apologize and tuck them back in hoping your face doesn’t give away how turned on you are.  

Only when you finish with the buttons and get to his bow tie do you dare a peek at his face, filled with a devilish smirk and darkened eyes he asks, “Like something you see, doll?” You mumble something unintelligible and finish tying the bowtie, “there you go, Buck, all set” you say as you pat his chest and turn to grab a much needed glass of cold water. Before you make a full spin, he grabs your wrist and you collide with his solid chest and come face to face with his pink lips and full beard, both of which you want to feel in places that you shouldn’t mention. “You never answered my question, y/n,” he says, eyebrows slightly raised and warm breath fanning you cheek. You regain some composure and reply with, “I didn’t see anything so I don’t know what you’re talking about James,” the use of his real name causing him to pull you in even closer. “That’s not the truth and you know it, doll, but just so you know, I think you look incredible tonight, good enough to eat,” he whispers into your ear, your body betraying you when you shiver in response. He gently releases you with a wink and saunters over to talk with Sam while you quickly turn around and finally get that cold drink.

When you arrive at the party, you have had some time to cool off and try to stop thinking about Bucky in nothing but those dog tags and the bow tie. As if he read your mind, Bucky appears at your side and offers you some champagne, “thought you might like something to drink, beautiful” he states as he hands you the flute and eyes you over his own. “Thank you, Bucky, so nice of you to think of me” you reply with a sly grin, thinking two can play at this game. “Oh, I do think about you, y/n, all the time...would you dance with me?” he asks, giving you a suggestive look. You thought you were going to be able to handle this but instead of thinking up a witty reply you simply nod and take his hand. You never thought your feelings toward Bucky would be shared, you were so good at hiding them, or so you thought, until tonight when he waltzed in, shirt open, bow tie undone and dog tags on, you nearly lost it and pleaded with him to fuck you then and there.

He smoothly moves you around the dance floor, his eyes never leaving yours, one large hand at the small of your back, your bare skin hot underneath while his other gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You couldn’t stop the way your body reacted to his touch and he knew it. He drew you in until your chest brushed his and his lips were close to your ear, “tell me you don’t want me and I promise I will leave you alone, doll.” You gripped the back of his neck, feeling encouraged and pulled him closer to say, “I’ve wanted you to fuck me for so long, and I don’t want to wait any more.” His eyes go wide as he processes what you have said and before you know it, he is pulling you out the door and into one of the limos outside. As soon as your ass hits the seat, his lips are on yours, hands grabbing at any fabric he can, desperate to remove it from your body.

He detaches from you for just a moment to put up the privacy screen and say, “you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about burying my face between these legs and having you come on my cock.” You don’t reply, and instead grab his jacket, and pull him on top of you as you lay yourself on the wide seat, feeling the weight of his body and his hard cock between your legs. He removes the rest of your clothing with haste, scattering it about without care and when his chest is bare other than his dog tags, you finger them and say, “I’ve fantasized about you fucking me with these on.” He growls as he places warm, wet kisses down your body, paying close attention to each breast, lightly biting and sucking at your nipples. He makes his way closer to where you want him and you moan as his beard brushes against your sensitive skin, pushing your hips up as he teases you with kisses on your inner thighs. The first swipe of his tongue has you both humming with pleasure and as he continues working your clit and pushes two fingers easily through your wet folds you can’t help the loud moan that you let out. He removes his mouth from between your legs and grabs his bowtie, using his free hand to bring it to your mouth, “can’t be too loud now, sweetheart, wouldn’t want anyone to come looking for us.” You give him a slight nod as he slips the bowtie between your lips, the cool silk a welcomed contrast to how hot you feel all over. He gives you one last smirk before putting his mouth on you again, bringing you to your orgasm with the skillful work of his tongue and fingers. He slowly moves up your body, removing the bowtie and kissing you deeply, spreading your legs further apart with his thick thighs and slowly pushing into you inch by inch. Your head falls back as he buries his face in your neck, telling you how tight and perfect you feel around his cock. He lifts his head to place soft kisses along your jaw, the dog tags lightly brushing your breasts and eliciting a sinful sound from you, “is this what you wanted, baby doll? Wanted my cock buried deep inside your sweet pussy as my dog tags caress your skin?” You simply grab the chain and yank his lips to yours as your walls begin to tighten around him and he reaches down to rub your clit and bring you over the edge. The combination of your satisfied moans and the feel of your tight pussy gripping his cock has him following you soon after, laying his chest to yours, dog tags pressed into your skin; no longer cool from the heat between your bodies.

He smiles at you, not wanting to move away, “if I knew all it would take is my dog tags and a bowtie to win you over I would have done this a lot sooner” he says playfully. You lightly hit his chest and run your hands through his beard, laughing and tell him, “It’s also going to take dinners, love letters, the occasional thoughtful gift, lots of cuddles and lots of sex!” He gives you a toe-curling kiss and says, “Oh doll face, I can do all that and more.”

@annavega333 @abovethesmokestacks @beckzorz @book-dragon-13 @buckmesideways22 @buckysbrat @buckingmadness​ @cchellacat​ @cametobuyplums​ @collinsstanharbour​ @chuuulip​ @eurynome827​ @hiddles-rose​ @im-not-great-at-making-up-names​ @jewelofwinter​ @jewels2876​ @kilyra​ @littledarlinhavefaithinme​ @lancetuckershairgel​ @marvelous-meggi​ @marvelandotherfandomimagines​ @nerdypinupcrystal​ @negansdirtygirl22​ @randomfandompenguin​ @suz-123​ @stuck-y-together​ @southernbell91​ @spacemansam​ @sebbytrash​ @tranquil--heart​ @viking-hel​ @sebastiansloserclub​ @madkskillz​

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky smut #dog tags #bow tie!seb #ladies of the hbc

[iwantitiwriteit]

Slow Burn: Act I - Part 2

The Meet Cute - Part 2

Pairing: Chris Evans x Famous!Reader

Summary: You meet Chris Evans at a rooftop, industry party in New York, but will your awkwardness ruin the night?

Warnings: Profanity, Sexual connotations, fluff gone sour (?) Read on to know what I mean

Notes: Please check out the moodboard + music specially curated to go with this part! Read the previous part here.

Although you had a few lightweight drinks, not wanting to get too turnt in front of strangers, you’re not really sure how you ended up here: In the middle of the dance floor, spinning, stepping and outright getting down with Chris motherfucking Evans.

It may have started with your light buzz, then a declaration of “that’s my song!!!” on your behalf, then Chris following you like a wide eyed puppy.

A mellower song plays. Yours and Chris’ energy comes down some, chemistry lingering. You simultaneously notice you’re holding hands and become all too aware of yourselves. Meaningless “ums” and “uhs” fill the air until you excuse yourself to the restroom, but not before you exchange shy smiles with Chris.

You freshen up in the mirror and take a moment to reflect on the night, on meeting Chris, with his tall, muscular frame, genuine smile, heart warming laugh, and blue eyes you could just drown in… Get a grip, SIS! You’re supposed to be meeting industry professionals, not fawning over snackable superheroes, no matter how charming. What time is it even…?

Pawing at your person for a sign of your phone, you realize you might have left it at the bar. Ugh, I hope no one took it. Who am I kidding? Rich people don’t steal phones… right?

You hurriedly rush out of the bathroom, but stop short at the sight of a boyish-looking Chris, hands tucked in his pockets. For the second time tonight, you both take a moment to take each other in. You don’t realize it, but you hold your breath as his eyes scan your hair, your eyes…her nose, her lips, her skin—

“You found it!”

“Huh?”

“My phone! Thank God! I don’t know what I’d do without it!” You say as you point to the black, sparkly device poking out of his pocket. It only became visible when Chris subconsciously went to rub his beard, under a trance at the sight of you. 

“Yeah, the bartender found it. I told her I’d give it to you.”

You go to retrieve it from his pocket, but stop short again, reminding yourself you shouldn’t be that handsy with him. He takes that as a cue, and returns the phone to its rightful owner.

You check the time. 1:39 am. Yeesh.

“I know, right?” It must’ve shown on your face. “I didn’t even notice half the party cleared out,” he says while looking at you sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You chuckle lightly as you take in your surroundings for the first time in God knows how many hours. Had I really lost track of time, giggling with him all night? Yes sis, you did.

Tens of people are scattered about, trash is being cleaned up, and some of the younger staff are taking advantage of the photo-op area. Meanwhile, Chris is rambling about something, cutely at that, but you don’t tune in until he asks, “Do you?”

“Do I…”

He chuckles and says, “Have a place to stay in Boston yet? I always wait until the last minute to find a place when I’m filming out of town.”

You cock your brow. “Are you offering?”

“Ha! No ma’am! I enjoy my bachelor’s pad how it is. Just me and my best boy, Dodger.”

“Is that so?” 

“Mmhmm, just a pair of dysfunctional, male codependents.”

“So, it’s a no girls allowed ordeal?”

“No, it’s just--”

“A different girl every night, and they’re on their merry way by morning?”

“No--”

“Oh, so--”

“WILL YOU LET ME TALK?! Jeez woman...” You both giggle at your antics and his feigned frustration. He rakes a hand through his hair before he begins again, but you attempt to cut him off one last time for fun. “Wow, ok!” He makes like he’s going to walk away, but you catch him by the wrist to keep him in place.

“Wait, no, I’m sorry!” You say between laughs and tugs on his arm. “Look, I’ll zip it,” Chris turns to you as you mime zipping and locking your lips. He puts his free hand out, not wanting to lose this physical contact with you, motioning for the imaginary key. You oblige. 

“Thank you, and for good measure...” he tucks the “key” in his pocket. You’re admiring the deep, rich tone of his voice when he gently places his hand over your mouth, his other hand still in your hold. Your brain is short-circuiting and your heart is skipping several beats.

“I was going to say,” wow, your eyes are just... wow.  “It’s more like a different girl every other night, gone by dawn.” 

You scoff and swat his hand away from your mouth, and now you both laugh at his antics. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he quickly reassures, as if you couldn’t tell it was a joke. 

“No, I just really value my space, ya know? Not that I don’t appreciate guests, because I really do! You should see me; I host a WICKED game night.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“I just have to be... never mind. That’s more than what you asked for.”

“No, no, what is it? You can tell me.”

“I guess, I just have to be… selective, about who I invite into my--”

“Game night?”

“You’re quite the smart ass, huh?” You smirk and shrug, but it’s true: you love to crack jokes-- good or bad, for better or for worse-- especially with people you’re comfortable with. We’re not that comfortable, though. We just met.

“I get it, though, truly. Especially in this line of work,” You pause for a moment, fiddling with your fingers before you ask, “Don’t you ever feel like you can’t tell someone’s intentions? Like, you can’t tell if someone wants to be around you for you or... for what they think they’ll get in return. It’s just easier to stay in your own, comfortable bubble sometimes. I don’t know…”

The way you asked made Chris think you were looking for some words of advice more than agreement. “Well, sussing out someone’s intentions is difficult, but gets easier with experience. And not just experience with dealing with a bunch of slimes balls, but experience in listening, trusting your gut when it talks to you.” He gives you a warm smile, and you give a half one back, the thoughts of your very recent past preventing your smile from being full, bright, the way Chris came to know it tonight. In that moment, he found himself missing it.

Sensing the heaviness, Chris changes the subject, “So, uh… have any plans after this?” 

“At damn near 2 am?”

”Clearly you’ve never hung out in New York because this is considered too early to go home. This city never sleeps, ya’know? ‘S how it got the nickname.”

“No, I didn’t know that! Thanks for the tip.”

“Yeah, yeah of course, anytime.” The sarcastic back-and-forth leave you two smiling and gazing in each other’s eyes. Why do we keep doing this?

You clear your throat, “But, uh, no… well yes. Heading back to the hotel to get some Z’s. Gonna be at iHeartRadio tomorrow for a show, and I have to be alert for it.” You serve an overexaggerated focus face, to which he laughs at.

“Well, you could always have coffee.”

“Mm-mm, nope, no coffee for me. I’m still hoping to grow a few more inches.”

He sizes you up, “I don’t know, I think you’re just about done sprouting, Kid.”

“What did I say about calling me that?”

He drops his head a little and pouts his lip like a sad puppy, “Only Mackie can call you that...”

“Right! Don't make me tell you again. There won’t be a third time. Just, a consequence I have not thought of yet.” He lightly laughs as you continue, “Anyways, it’s an acoustic set, and I need real energy, real focus, ‘cos I feel like mistakes are far more noticeable when it’s stripped back, and I gotta be all here for it,” you tap your temple.

He nods, “Not only a smart ass, but quite the critic, too? Dangerous combination.” You shrug again. What can you say? You’re particular when it comes to music. “An acoustic set though— should be awesome! Who’s playing?”

...uuuummmm…  You start and stop your reply a couple of times, before awkwardly laughing. Maybe he’s just messing with me… “It’s a secret,” you say with a wink.

“Hey! Kid, Captain Little Ass! I’ve been texting both of you! Come over here for a picture!” Mackie’s booming voice bursts your bubble, and the two of you make your way over. Scott, Ansel, Jaden, and a few other people who you probably should’ve met tonight are huddled in conversation. Mackie approaches you with his phone.

“You mind snapping a few pics of me and the boys? We’ll do a couple poses and then I wanna get you in there.” 

“Oh, it would be my utmost pleasure to snap some ‘pics’ of you and ‘the boys’.” 

While they sort out their poses, you make with unlocking Mackie’s phone. It opens to Mackie’s and Chris’ text chain, and what you see sinks your heart a little bit. Well, damn. 

“Hey Kid, we’re ready,” Chris says with a smirk that quickly dissipates when you unintentionally scowl at him, stewing in your thoughts. He thinks it’s because you really don’t like the nickname, but boy is he so wrong.

Anthony was insistent on getting you in a picture, no matter how many times you declined saying you weren’t “picture ready”, when really you were too annoyed to prolong this night any longer. He waved over one of the gawking busboys, no doubt in awe of being in the same room as Shmaptin Shmerica.

As you handed the busboy the phone, he whispered he was a “big fan”, Oh. Really?, and “couldn’t believe” he was meeting you. You thanked him with a kind smile and offered to get a picture with him afterwards, Chris watching the endearing interaction. I’ll have to ask her what she’s been in so I can watch it.

Chris watched you as you scanned the group for a good spot to fit in, then go in the opposite direction of where he stood. After a few snaps, Chris yells, “EVERYBODY: NEW SPOTS, NEW POSE!!” Everyone scurries around, but you being stubborn, stay put. He inevitably finds his way to you, but you ignore his presence.

A few more pictures are taken. Everyone’s smiling their Hollywood smiles, but then there’s you on the end, just mean mugging. On the last picture, Chris puts his arm around your shoulders. The nerve, the GALL, the cologne… no, NO! Get it together! When the photos are done, you quickly go over to the busboy and make good on your promise of a picture with him. You can feel Chris’ eyes on you.

After a couple of selfies, Chris offers to take a picture for you both. When your fan is satisfied with the picture and gets back to work, Chris comes over to resume conversation with you, but you’re too in your head to hear him. You just see his plump, pink lips moving. Damn him and his good looks, and perfect lips and—

“How’s that sound?”

“How’s what sound?”

“Coffee— in Boston.”

“I’m sure there is some, but I thought y’all were more known for your tea parties.” He laughs and your breath is arrested by the beautiful sound, deepening your conflicted feelings. He seems so genuine, but the texts…

“I meant, when we’re both back in Boston, going out for coffee— with me?”

If he would text that, what does he want so badly to see me again for? *gasp* He must think I’m a quick fu— “Why?”

He’s taken aback by your curtness. What does she mean ‘why’? I thought we had a good time tonight, and I want to see her again… “Because ‘here’s to good company’, remember?” He recounts your toast from earlier in the evening, raising his hand to mime a glass in the air for emphasis. He lets his hand fall awkwardly at the sight of your unamused face.

“Good company, huh? Even for a ‘airheaded wannabe’?”

What is she talk… It hits him like a ton of bricks. 

It’s you. YOU are the musician girl Mackie and Scott wanted him to meet. YOU are the one playing the set tomorrow, and that’s why you have fans wanting pictures with you. But most of all, YOU had seen his blind judgments of you. FuuuuUUUUUUcccckkk.

“Shit. Listen, I—“

“Have to call it a night and get some rest. Wouldn’t want hot air to be the only thing coming out of my mouth tomorrow. Good night, Chris.” With that, you quickly brush past him, and walk over to say goodbyes to your co-stars. You all share your excitement for starting filming next week, and they wish you well on your show tomorrow.

You make your way to the elevator, but not before you look back for Chris, who’s nowhere to be found. You hoped you’d see his face, and there’d be a look in his eyes that would tell you that tonight wasn’t a waste, that he was as genuine as you’d read him to be and that you’d only read those texts wrong. 

But those blue eyes weren’t around for you to drown in. You figured he went somewhere to be pissed about his efforts coming up fruitless. No different than the rest.

Part 3

#chris evans imagine #chris evans x reader #chris evans fluff #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x female reader #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans one shot #chris evans x poc!reader #chris evans x woc #chris evans x you #Slow Burn Series

[dc41896]

Happy New Year!

HAPPY NEW YEAR GUYS!!!! Hope this year brings unlimited success, an overabundance of positivity, and growth to all of you :)!! So this is a combination of an idea I had with a prompt idea submitted by @lovelymari4​ who mentioned the reader going to Germany and running into Florian. Hopefully you, and everyone who reads this, like what I came up with!! (P.S. If you guys ever see me use the same name twice for different imagines, my bad I forget the names I use sometimes lol)

Pairing: Florian Munteanu x Black Reader 

Warnings: None 

Word Count: 2,171

“Y/N! Take our picture in front of this fountain please?,” your best friend, Daya, asks posing with her boyfriend Zeke. Taking pictures of the couple was pretty much your job during your trip to Germany seeing that you were the dreaded “third wheel”. 

Not that you really minded being the third wheel, both Daya and Zeke were your close friends and times with them were always fun. Well, fun in those times when you weren’t feeling the effects of being single. Seeing that it was New Years Eve, everywhere you guys went had decorations and flyers advertising about parties and how you didn’t want to be stuck at home alone. 

Plus walking around a foreign country viewing beautiful statues and historical landmarks as the snow lightly fell around you made you wish that you could share that experience with someone like how Daya and Zeke were. 

“Alright, I took multiples so hopefully you guys like them,” you answer, standing up from your squatted position as you hand Daya her phone back. 

“Thanks Y/N! And I trust you, you know my angles unlike someone,” she answers tilting her head towards Zeke.

“Hey I take good pictures! You just don’t like them.”

“Right so are they really good pictures then?,” she asks, squinting her eyes as if she’s trying to figure out an answer to her own question. 

“I mean the ones I take of myself get a good amount of likes so I would say so,” he counters with a smirk as you laugh at their discussion.

“Yea yea whatever. Y/N do you want some pictures too?,” she asks.

“Nah not this time, we can keep going-,” you start before being cut off by someone bumping into the back of you, causing you to stumble forward before being steadied by your friends. 

“Um who the-?!,” you thought as you turned around to see who (or what honestly) hit you. Seemingly towering over you, you’re met with a muscular man wearing dark jeans, Nike’s, and a leather jacket lined with a soft material covering a black long sleeve shirt. His brown beard was soft and just as thick as his body, while his green eyes seemed to capture your soul, but not in an intimidating way, like you wanted to keep looking into them for as long as you could.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?,” the mystery man asked in a deep, accented voice, slightly bending down to look in your eyes.

“No you’re fine! I mean fine like you don’t have to apologize because I’m fine not because you’re fine. I mean you are but-,”

“What my friend is trying to say is that she’s ok,” Daya answered looking at you amused by how you were acting.

“Yea that.”

“That’s good. I was recording a story for Instagram and my friend here failed to notify me in time that someone was there. I know very dumb and again I’m really sorry,” he replies, cheeks slightly red from embarrassment.

“It’s ok, just maybe don’t try to post and walk at the same time. Especially with people around,” you softly laugh, along with him and your friends. 

“I’m Florian by the way, and this is my friend Leon,” he introduces as his equally fit friend moves forward to shake all of your hands. 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N and these are my friends Daya and Zeke.” 

“Nice to meet you guys. Well, we don’t want to hold you up from what you guys had planned next, so hope you guys have a great day and Happy New Year!,” Florian smiles.

“Thanks and Happy New Year to you guys too!,” you smile before you and your friends turn to continue your sight seeing. After only a few steps, you hear Florian calling your name as he jogged to catch up you.

“You dropped your um…lip gloss?,” he states handing you the small tube and making you smile.

“Yea lip gloss and thanks, this is my favorite one so definitely don’t want to lose it.”

“And we wouldn’t want that to happen. I mean not we as in us, like I know you like it and I think it’s pretty and probably looks good on you too-,”

“It’s ok I know what you mean,” you giggle as he softly chuckles. There’s a small silence between the two of you. With his hands in his pockets as he slowly shifts from one side to the other, you could tell he wanted to say something else, but something was stopping him from getting whatever it was off of his mind. 

“Hey I don’t want to seem creepy or anything, which honestly that statement in itself probably makes it creepy so this already isn’t going well,” he begins, pausing to laugh to himself and mentally grateful that you laughed too. “I was wondering if you and your friends had plans for tonight? Because if not, me and Leon are going to this party for New Years, and a bunch of our other friends are gonna be there, so you guys are more than welcome to join.”

“Um thanks that’s really nice of you to invite us! I’d have to ask them first though to see what they might be thinking.”

“Yea of course! Definitely think about it and I’ll give you my number so I can text you the address and everything if you guys decide to come,” he smiles as you pull out your phone. You had to admit watching his giant hand type on your phone was pretty funny. He didn’t have any problems maneuvering through the screens and buttons, but still the sight of such a bulky man with this small phone in his hands was quite a look. 

“Amused by a huge man such as myself holding this small phone?,” he asks with a smirk giving your phone back. While you could hold in your laughs, the look on your face was plain as day to what you were thinking. 

“A little, but not like in a bullying or ‘making fun of’ kind of way I promise.”

“It’s alright, my friends tease me about it all the time. And speaking of friends, it looks like yours may be having a very aggressive discussion.” Looking over your shoulder, you see Daya and Zeke’s hands going back and forth as both of them try to prove their point on something probably pointless.

“They’re probably arguing over where to eat. Let me go break them up before they bring anymore attention to themselves,” you sigh. “Thanks again for my lip gloss and I promise to message you about the party.”

With a wave and a final goodbye, you both went your separate ways. You, giddy from having an experience straight out of a romantic comedy and Florian feeling just as excited, hoping that he would see you again tonight. 

______

Lightly spraying perfume around you, you walk out of the bathroom in your dark high-waist skinny jeans with black stiletto booties paired with a fitted, long sleeve, black turtleneck. Yea it was probably simple compared to the glittery cocktail dresses you were sure to see around tonight, but you were not about to risk pneumonia going out in this German winter.

“Aww look at our little girl all grown up!,” Daya gushed making you shake your head. 

“Come on D, lets not embarrass her on her first date,” Zeke smiles wrapping his arm around Daya.

“Ok, both of y’all need to calm down, last time I checked I am grown up and this isn’t my first date. Now if you’re done mom and dad we need to head out before we’re late.”

“Ok, but not before we take a group picture!,” Daya smiles before reaching her arm up to make sure all of you were in the screen and snapping a picture of your smiling faces.

Arriving at the hookah lounge that Florian sent, you see the man himself standing outside now clad in a red hoodie, dark jeans, and a different pair of Nike’s. The street light above made his thick, gold chain gleam more so than it already was as he occasionally shifted from one side to the other with his hands behind his back.

“Hey, you didn’t have to wait out in the cold for us,” you greet as the three of you walk up to him.

“I know, but it’s easier this way so I can show you where we’re sitting versus trying to text it to you,” Florian responds with a smile.

“Woww thick, sweet, and looks like Hercules reincarnated? Sis marry him or I will!,” Daya whispers to you while you all follow him to the section him and his friends were seated.

“Can the man ask me out first? Better yet, can we get confirmation that he actually likes me?,” you whisper back, softly laughing at how your friend was basically trying to marry you off.

“What do you think this is?! Yea it’s not one on one, but open your eyes because he definitely asked you out it’s just in a group setting.”

Shaking your head, you direct your attention towards Florian as he introduces you to the rest of his friends seated on the plush couches. Meeting his crew made you truly understand the saying, ‘birds of a feather, flock together’ as all of his friends were equally as good looking and fit as he was. They also were just as nice immediately including you guys in their conversations and asking questions getting to know you. 

Seated next to Florian, you both took turns talking with your friends and maintaining your own conversation. You found out he was an actor and lived in Germany, which would explain why he didn’t seem fazed when standing outside in the cold. 

You also saw how down to earth and caring he was, which of course made you even more attracted to him and was something you didn’t want to happen. Not that you weren’t open to a relationship, it’s just long distance relationships were tough and came with plenty of challenges. That is if you guys became an actual item.

“Guys it’s almost time!,” Daya excitedly squeals, before joining Zeke at the bar to grab a glass of champagne.

“So if you don’t mind me asking, what’s something you wanna get out of the new year?,” Florian asks, green eyes seemingly hypnotizing you from how much attention he was giving you.

“This is probably gonna be really boring, but the basics as far as health, positivity, success. But what I’m most concerned about, is whatever is meant for me making it’s way to me for the next year, decade, and rest of my life,” you answer, twisting the stem of your own champagne glass between your fingers, making the liquid lightly swirl. “What about you?”

“Definitely more success and health, and I just hope to spend as much time with my family and friends as I can.”

Just as he finishes, you hear people around starting to countdown from 10 signaling that the New Year would be coming soon. Both of your groups stayed seated as the timer on the screens around went back from five and eventually got to zero making everyone yell out “Happy New Year!”

You hugged Daya and Zeke, before they turned to each other to have an infamous New Years kiss, which was on the minds of the other couples there as well. That was always the awkward part about New Year’s Eve parties. It seemed that everyone around you was glued to someone else’s face, while you stuffed yours with snacks. 

Setting those thoughts aside, you turn to hug Florian and wish him a Happy New Year, to which he does the same; kissing you on the cheek and making you giggle as you squirm back a bit.

“Sorry, my beard’s a bit ticklish,” he laughs instinctively reaching his hand up to lightly graze his beard. 

“No it’s ok,” you smile. In that moment, it was as if both of you were on the same wavelength as you both leaned in to meet the other’s lips. Lightly caressing your head with his hand, your hands find their way to his hoodie softly clutching the fabric as if to not ruin it. As you both pull apart, part of you is amazed at the fact that truly just happened while the other wishes it never stopped.

“You got some uh gloss on your lips,” you say, giggling as you hand him a napkin. Letting out a deep chuckle, he wipes the product from his lips before discarding the paper on the table in front of him. 

“Is that the same lip gloss I handed you earlier?”

“Yea, why? You’re not allergic are you?!”

“No no! Don’t worry, I’m just thanking God that I gave it back to you,” he winks, causing that giddy feeling to well inside of you again, as all of your friends can be heard doing various wolf whistles and shouts around the both of you. 

Taglist: @melinda-january​ @honeychicana​ @themyscxiras​ @fumbling-fanfics​ @lady-olive-oil​ @crushed-pink-petals​ @lovelymari4​ @felicity-x0​ @ellixthea​ @jojolu​ @jnk-812​ @brwn-sgr​ @captainsamwlsn​ @nina-sj​ @itshinothey​ @wildfirecracker​

If anybody else wants to be tagged, has asked to be tagged and doesn’t see their name, or only wants to be tagged for certain people I write for, just let me know! :)

#florian munteanu #florian big nasty munteanu #florianxreader #florianxblackreader #florianxWOC

[walviemort]

empathy belly, part 2

Summary: Killian and Emma are expecting again. But this time, Emma would like Killian to carry some of the weight of the pregnancy—literally (albeit with the help of magic). While the prospect of growing a bump alongside his wife is daunting at first, they both find it makes for an oddly exciting journey. As their waistlines expand, so does their love. (Sequel to Empathy Belly)

rated T/light M | 6.2k | AO3

A/N: I wasn't expecting to revisit this story, but then this idea (inspired by a story I read years ago) came to me and demanded to be written. So here we are! Some shameless weight play and a bit of bump lovin'.

Emma and Killian were both speechless as they stared at the positive test in front of them. They were going to be parents for the second time. (Well, technically third, but--from the start. Together.)

“I love you. So much,” Killian said, voice thick with emotion, as he pressed a kiss to Emma’s temple.

“I love you too,” she breathed, mind racing. It was going to be an adventure for sure; Hope had just turned one, and they hadn’t planned on having another kid so soon, but when was their life ever predictable? “Are you ready for this?”

“Absolutely not,” Killian answered, chuckling. “But I know we can do it.”

“Yeah, we can.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Good thing Hope has weaned already.”

“Aye; though I can’t say I’ll complain about what that will do to your breasts.”

“Killian!”

“What? I’m only a man.”

“I know, I know.” She glanced down at her chest, which had really only gone back to something resembling normal a couple months ago; she didn’t know how she felt about all those changes happening again so soon. “Ugh, and I just lost the baby weight, too. And this one will probably start showing even sooner.” She placed her hand on her stomach, remembering how big she got with Hope—all 8 pounds, 10 ounces of her—and wondered if this one would be the same.

“Which means you will be even more delectable all the sooner,” Killian murmured, and tried to distract her with kisses along her neck. She squirmed, both at the tickling sensation of his beard and remembering how much he had adored making love when she was pregnant, even with (or especially because of) the baby bump.

“Yeah, but you’re not the one gaining all the weight.”

“Uh, I definitely gained a few pounds last time.”

She gave him a sidelong stare. “Like, five. Not forty-five.”

“Forty-five more reasons to love you, my darling. And I was referring to the stunt you pulled right at the end there.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know you think you’re being cute, but it’s very different when you’re the one carrying all that extra weight around your midsection—and for a lot longer than a day.”

He sighed. “I know. ‘Tis a pity that women must bear the burden of childbearing. But you know I’ll do anything to support you or ease it.”

Unfamiliar wheels started turning in Emma’s head; she blamed it on prego brain. “Anything?”

“Of course.”

She slid her hand from her stomach to his. “Would you be willing to support me...here?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “How so?”

Emma put on her best doe eyes. “Well, you get to enjoy me when I’ve got some extra baggage; why don’t I get to enjoy the same?”

His eyes grew wide. “Are you saying you want me to carry the babe?” She’d half-jokingly mentioned it after Hope was born, so it wasn’t a surprise that was his first guess.

“No; I don’t think that’s possible. But there’s nothing saying you can’t put on a few more pounds.”

His brow furrowed in thought, and he eyed his own stomach with something like trepidation. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he started, then worried his bottom lip. It was rare he was this speechless.

“What, worried about your good looks going out the window?”

He tilted his head in derision. “Please. I saw my alternate future self. He may have been in dire need of a bath and a haircut but he was still handsome as ever.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just...if I did put that weight on, I’m not sure I could lose it quite as quickly.”

She wanted to repeat what she had just said, but he did have a point: quite a bit of her bump disappeared in the weeks after Hope was born; it was just the lingering 15 or so pounds after that took some time. That was a far cry from the full amount.

“What if...what if I found a way to do it with magic?”

“Like a transformation spell?”

“Yeah, like that combined with the empathy belly spell, or maybe, like, a reset button.”

“Come again?”

“Something that would let you gain weight the normal way but I’d be able to flick my hand and bring you back to your present weight.”

“Hmm, I feel like we could have some fun with that one. Possibly even a contest of sorts.”

“Of course you want to make it a competition.”

“You know how I feel about a challenge. But think about it: we could compete to see who has the biggest belly by the end.”

She gave him an assessing look. “You liked having that bump, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “It had its novelty, to be sure.”

She hummed. “Let me do some research and see what we can come up with.”

“It’s a deal.”

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

There were a surprising number of spells out there, it turned out, that would let them do what they were trying to do. She probably should have scheduled a doctor appointment before she focused on that, but, whatever.

“Okay, so this one does what I was talking about—it reverts a person’s body to a certain point in time, as long as we have a hair or something from that point in time,” she started explaining the next night, a stack of books next to her at her seat at the table. “Then this one,” she started, grabbing the next book, “would connect everything—you’d gain weight in the same places I do, pound for pound.” He was listening intently. “And then this one entirely mirrors a pregnancy—symptoms, weight gain, everything, but I don’t think I’d want you puking at the same time I’m puking because it would probably set off a chain reaction.”

“I’d do it if you wanted me to.”

“I know. But I don’t.” It was better if she had someone to hold her hair back. “So what do you think?”

He hummed in thought. “Is there a way to combine them? Like, make sure the weight gain is concentrated in certain places, but not tied to yours?”

The reckless part of her wanted to say ‘yes’, but again--that might be prego brain talking. “I don’t know, but I can find out.”

By the next day, she had her answer (and an appointment scheduled). She didn’t even really tell him what was going on; she just plucked a hair from his head when she got home and stuck it in a vial, then waved her hand and muttered the incantation under her breath, making it glow.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” he asked, after rubbing the spot she’d yanked from.

“Yup. One more thing.” Then she rummaged in her coat pocket for a larger vial with a blueish potion. “Here; drink this.”

He took it gingerly, eyeing it cautiously. “And what does this do?”

“The hair was for the resetting spell; I figure we keep this in a safe place for the next thirty-some weeks and then you’ll be back to normal after the kid comes. The potion is what will direct everything; you’ll only gain weight where I gain.”

“You’re brilliant, love,” he said, smiling, then gave her a kiss. “Bottoms up,” he continued, then popped the cork and drank it in one swallow. His face turned sour with the taste, but what she noticed was the brief, dim glow his body took on--much like hers had she added a drop of blood to the brew.

“Feel okay?” she asked.

“Other than needing to wash my mouth out with rum, yeah.”

They stared at each other for a long, charged moment. “So we’re officially doing this,” she finally said.

“Aye. Time to see who can get the biggest belly?”

“It’s on.”

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

The doctor’s appointment the next week confirmed everything and put her at about 8 weeks along; a bit too early to tell the family, but everything looked good and, surprisingly, Emma wasn’t feeling too nauseous. Of course, that all went out the window the next week, and frankly, between that and keeping up with Hope, they’d both forgotten about their challenge until the nausea abated, somewhere around 11 weeks—which was when Emma first noticed her bump.

“Killian! Come look!” she shouted from the bedroom, in front of their floor length mirror. It was barely noticeable, really, but it was definitely there—a firm little thing just behind her belly button.

Killian came running, wearing only his pajama pants, then stopped short when he saw her and the way she was standing in profile view.

“Is that...are you….?”

“Yeah,” she said, in a watery voice.

He came closer and placed his large, warm hand over the tiny bump. “Well, hello there, little one.” Then his eyes grew wide, and he moved to stand in front of her, also perpendicular to the mirror. “Does this mean…?” His hands traced over his own stomach, but it was just as flat as it had always been.

“Mm, looks like someone needs to catch up,” she teased.

He smirked. “Indeed I do.”

Quickly, they measured each other’s waists, as a starting point (subtracting a centimeter off of hers to make up the oh-so-tiny difference) and took note of starting weights.

And then Killian ate a larger breakfast than usual...and lunch...and dinner.

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

They broke the news to her family a few weeks later, right around 14 weeks. Her bump was becoming more and more prominent, though still small—just rounding out her stomach.

Not that anyone noticed in the excitement over Baby Jones #2, but if they’d taken a closer look at Killian, they might have noticed the slight strain on the buttons of his shirt. He was definitely behind in the competition, but Emma had been more than pleased to discover the previous week that his stomach was a bit softer than usual.

“Bout damn time; I’ve been overeating enough,” he commented, poking at the ever so slight amount of flab at his midsection as he stared at it in the mirror.

“Yeah, but Hope’s been a handful. And you’ve been doing so amazing keeping up with her.”

“It’s the least I can do; you need your rest.” He had been chasing after his daughter more while Emma napped; it must have been just enough to counteract the extra calories. “Guess we just need some more late-night ice cream meals,” he added, winking.

“Mmm, I like the way you think,” she agreed, pressing herself close. “But first: all this putting my hands all over your bare chest has me wanting other things.”

“I can definitely help with that.”

(Emma’s increased libido probably played a part in curbing any weight gain, too.)

Killian actually lost a bit of weight a couple weeks later when he came down with a stomach bug, negating much of his progress. Emma tried to keep foods in him but they just wouldn’t, and even once it was done, it took a bit before his appetite came back.

So, at around 17 weeks, Emma had a very solid lead in their competition. He was actually staring longingly at her rounded belly while tracing just how flat his was.

“You’ll get there, babe. I believe in you.”

“I sure hope so. Maybe Granny can help?”

“Oh, you know she would.”

—————————

A couple weeks later, he’d become a regular at Granny’s for lunch, and got the same thing every day: double cheeseburger with bacon, fries, AND onion rings. The successes of the endeavor were hidden under a loose-fitting tshirt—and, though no one could see it, evidenced by the waistband of his jeans starting to cut into his flesh.

“What happened to Mr. Healthy Foods Prevent Scurvy?” the old wolf finally asked him one day. “I haven’t seen you eat a vegetable that wasn’t fried in weeks.”

“It still counts,” he tried to brush off with a shrug. “I’m simply trying to take full advantage of your cooking, darling.”

She wasn’t buying it. “No, it’s not that; this is something else—and it reeks of pregnancy hormones.” Then she leaned in and asked quieter, “Are you trying to get a belly to match?”

“Something like that,” he admitted, suddenly not sure he should eat that last onion ring.

But Granny just grinned. “Well, that’s awfully sweet of you. I’ll do what I can to help. But you’re eating salads too; you’re too young for clogged arteries.”

“I’m older than you.”

She just waved him off and brought out a salad—which, he had to admit, he’d been missing. But then an alarm went off on his phone; bloody hell—the doctors appointment! He said a quick thanks, threw some cash on the counter, and hurried out (which was a wee bit more difficult than it used to be).

Emma was waiting when he arrived at the office, slightly out of breath. “You okay?”

“Aye; never better,” he assured her. “When do you go in?”

“Any minute now.”

It only took a few more until she was called back, and not half an hour later they were staring at a fuzzy black-and-white image on a screen—one that was sharper than it had been on the last visit.

“There’s your baby!” the technician announced. They stared in awe as she pointed out all the parts as the baby moved around inside Emma. “Do you want to know what you’re having?”

“Yes,” they said simultaneously.

Another girl. They both cried.

They were staring at the sonogram in the hallway because they were still too elated to leave. “Hope is getting a sister,” Emma gushed.

“Aye; another little princess,” Killian responded, then turned his attention to Emma’s belly. “Hello there, darling little girl; we can’t wait to meet you.” And then he pulled Emma tight for a kiss.

They held each other for a long moment afterwards. “Mm, you’re finally a bit more cushier,” she commented, pressing her belly into his. “But you’ve got a ways to go.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Granny’s cottoned on, by the way.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Says she’ll help but doesn’t want it to come at the expense of my health.”

“Tell her I appreciate that.”

“I will.”

“But seriously; we’re at the halfway point, dude. It makes me wonder just how serious about this challenge you are.”

“Oy!” he protested. “You know I am.”

“Prove it.”

“I intend to, but I do need one thing from you.”

“Seriously? What?”

“Bigger jeans.”

————————

Larger pants were acquired—and Emma even bought a few past that, to accommodate any future growth. And damn if he wasn’t trying. But he still had Hope to keep up with, and work, and this all was significantly less easy than she thought it’d be.

She stroked her own round belly and wanted to do the same to him. (But at least it hadn’t impeded their nighttime activities.)

It was while watching a movie on TV, though, that an idea struck her; a bit of Internet shopping and a couple days later, she had her prize in hand—something that would hopefully help Killian catch up.

“What’s Kalteen?” he asked when she put one in front of him at breakfast. His bit of paunch was evident against his tshirt, but if she had to compare it to weeks in a pregnancy, he was at maybe 16 to her 22.

“It’s a weight gain supplement,” she said casually. “I guess wrestlers and body builders use them.”

He eyed it warily. “Oh really?”

“Yeah; figured it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Carefully, he tore open the small package with his hook and then eyed its contents. “Looks harmless enough...and smells okay…” Then he took a bite. And another. Until he finished the whole thing. “I think these just might help.”

The difference was immediate, and two weeks later, they stood in front of the mirror again with her hands on his bump. It was definitely one now. His chest had softened a bit, though it was impossible for that to catch up to hers. His belly, though—that had finally reached a point of similarity, and Emma liked it even more than she thought she would.

It really didn’t look much different from hers: it rounded out from his navel and sat fairly high on his midsection, much more like a baby belly than a beer gut. The line of hair that traversed his stomach was a bit sparser as it stretched over the expanse—and the more she stared, the less she could keep her hands off it.

“Like it, eh?” he teased, then pressed forward, pushing it against hers.

“Mmm, yes,” she purred, then slid her hands down to his hips and squeezed. “Ooh, and you’ve got some love handles going on there, too, Captain.” The way his jeans cut into them didn’t look very comfortable, but she loved how it showed everything off.

“The better to love you with, my dear,” he murmured, then pulled her as close as she could get in a searing kiss.

Which meant things quickly moved to the bed, and feeling her bump brush against his while making love was even more thrilling than she could have imagined.

She didn’t know how that would work as they got bigger, but she couldn’t wait to try.

——————————

It wasn’t until a trip to the Nolan farm a few weeks later that anyone dared say anything. Everyone noticed Killian’s gut, but knew better than to challenge Captain Hook about it. If anyone was going to, it would have been Granny, but she only seemed to be indulging him so for one rare moment, Storybrooke minded it’s own business.

David and Snow, however, couldn’t. At first, Snow had taken it as a testament to her cooking that Killian asked for seconds whenever they were over. But now, Emma was nearing the start of her third trimester—and Killian had a very similar silhouette.

The men were out in the barn, getting things ready for winter, when David decided to confront Killian. “Hey, uh, is everything okay, Hook?”

Killian was in the middle of drinking from a water bottle and scratching at the underside of his fairly prominent belly. He swallowed, sighed, and then replied, “Aye, everything’s perfectly fine; why?”

“Well, uh…” David hadn’t planned this far ahead. “I know having a pregnant spouse can be stressful, especially when you’ve already got a little kid, so, um...you’re not drinking too much or anything, are you?” he finally stammered out, staring at the floor—though his eyes did flicker up once, first to Killian’s stomach, and then to his eyes.

Killian sighed again, then shifted his hips a bit. “You’re wondering why I’ve put on weight.”

“Yeah. You know I’m always here for you, man—if you need to talk or anything—”

“It’s not like that, mate, I promise you,” Killian interrupted. “Everything with me and Emma is perfectly fine. Probably more fine than you’d like to know.”

David huffed. “Don’t make me regret this, pirate.”

Killian just chuckled. “If you must know, I’m doing this willingly. Emma asked if I’d help carry the weight this time around, and this is how,” he explained, gesturing to his belly.

“Seriously? You know that’s not healthy.” David had put on a few sympathy pounds in both pregnancies but this—this was different.

“It’ll be fine. There’s magic involved—it’ll all come off after the baby comes, and that’s why it’s concentrated in front and not elsewhere. And Emma and I have a bit of a contest going on.”

“What’s that?”

“To see who’s belly will be largest by the end of this.”

David might not understand the how or the why of all of it, but he definitely understood that. “And who’s winning?”

“She is, but only by a couple centimeters.”

“And you’re just gonna let it stay that way?”

Killian seemed a bit taken aback by the change in David’s tone, but then smiled. “Heavens no.”

“Good. Let’s win this.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Yeah, but you’ve gotta do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Play Santa at Christmas?”

Killian laughed. “You’re on.”

In private, David told Snow what was going on. She rolled her eyes, but agreed to help.

And not a word was said by anyone when Killian was offered a third helping.

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

A week later, at Thanksgiving, everyone was stuffed—but no one moreso than Killian.

After a long nap at home together, their hands resting on the other’s stomachs, they took a measurement.

Killian finally had the lead over his 28-week pregnant wife.

“Look at you, inching ahead,” she said, impressed, nudging as close to him as she could get. She still got the oddest thrill from pushing against the softness of his stomach, especially with her own—even if his didn’t have a wriggling inhabitant.

“Did you doubt in my capability, love?” he asked, taking his own enjoyment in her round belly, tracing it lovingly. But then he jumped back, just as their growing daughter kicked against his. “At least that doesn’t happen to me,” he chuckled.

“No, but Hope sure seems to love yours,” she giggled back. More then once, she’d found them lounging somewhere, Hope looking exceedingly comfortable against the squishy mass.

“This one doesn’t punch back,” he replied, patting against his belly. “Do you think I’m ready to play Santa yet?”

“Not quite, but I think we’ll get you there.”

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

The lead went back and forth for a bit—the baby hit a growth spurt at the same time as Hope did, giving her extra energy.

But between David sneaking extra snacks to Killian at the station, the general abundance of holiday treats, and spending more time inside, Killian had a solid lead by Christmas Eve. Emma was around 33 weeks by that point, but by her estimation, Killian looked like he was at 36.

He perfectly filled out the Santa suit and was charm incarnate as they went around town spreading cheer. But god, she couldn’t wait until they got home.

She put Hope down for the night and then found him in their bedroom; he’d shed the hat and fake beard, but still wore the red coat and his pants. Good.

He hauled himself to his feet and waddled over to her; the way the spell worked, the weight was starting to sit lower on his stomach, much like her belly would be soon. Watching him move like that was...something else. Something that had her clenching her legs together.

“You know, Santa Claus won’t come if you’re not in bed,” he teased, voice dripping in innuendo.

“Oh, we can’t have that, can we?” she answered, shuffling toward him. “I desperately want Santa to come.”

“Mm, but have you been naughty or nice this year, love?” he asked as she got close enough to grip the furry lapel of his fuzzy red jacket.

“Very naughty,” she whispered. “I’ve been keeping things pretty kinky this year, Santa.”

“Oh?” he purred. “How so?”

“Let me show you.” It took some effort, but they met halfway to kiss, bellies bumping together as she pushed him back towards the bed, fingers searching for the zipper on the coat. She had to pull back when his legs hit the mattress, lest he fall back; she wanted him upright a little bit longer.

They paused to take a breath, chests and stomachs heaving, and she slowly undid the zipper, revealing his so-round stomach, straining against the tshirt he wore. The only complaint she had was that she couldn’t see where anything else was straining, but she’d get to that soon enough.

“So fucking hot,” she cursed as she pushed the coat off his shoulders; it was evident he’d been sweating in the thing, and not just from their yet-brief makeout session.

“And do you intend to cool me off, or heat things up?”

“That one,” she said, already slipping her hands under the stretched cotton shirt and pulling up. It slid off his stomach without much effort, revealing more of his warm, stretched skin and now-soft pectorals above his belly. (Softer still was the hair that still covered them thickly—possibly even a bit thicker than it used to be.)

He’d finally given up on normal jeans and started wearing maternity pants a couple weeks ago; either Emma’s libido was seriously out of whack or there was something about him that even made those sexy. The way the pair he currently wore was hugging the curve of his stomach was so weirdly hot, and she was jealous of the elastic that constantly got to hug him. “Let’s get these off, too,” she said, tucking her fingers under the stretchy material.

“As you wish, always, love,” he said, pressing a kiss against her temple and helping her slide them off.

She guided them down his thicker thighs but still-skinny calves, and he stepped out of them, but she stayed down there, hidden out of sight around his large form. “Oh, you’re definitely being naughty,” he teased, voice full of humor. “Come back up here, love,” he said, shifting his stance a bit and bracing his hand and hook low on his back.

“Mm, no; I like the view down here.” Where she could see exactly what he was desiring.

And she silenced any further protests from him with her mouth.

He returned the favor shortly after, with his tongue.

And then she enthusiastically rode him into oblivion, bellies bouncing together in time as they both chased the most incredible orgasm.

It was hard to curl up together afterward, so they settled with tucking into each other’s sides, their bumps leaning against each other.

“If we keep this up, you may end up back in the lead,” he panted.

“We can’t have that now, can we?” she tossed back.

“What happened to this being a contest?”

She squirmed a bit. “What if I want you to win?”

“Throwing the competition, eh? I knew you were a pirate.”

She giggled. “I just like what I see.”

“As do I.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and reached her hand over to trace his stomach; it was warm and soft under her hand. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for doing this.”

“Would it be odd if I admitted to enjoying it, too?”

“No.” She couldn't judge him at all when she was getting such a thrill from it.

“I will be glad to get my old body back, much as I assume you will, but this has definitely been a treat,” he mused, tapping his fingers on his belly. Then he turned to her, a bit serious, and asked “You do still know where the vial is, right?”

“Uhh…” she started, feigning confusion and watching as his eyes grew wide in panic. “Yes, I do; don’t worry. It’s in the hospital bag, wrapped up in like a million layers of plastic wrap.”

He sighed in relief. “Good. I would have stopped eating now if you’d lost it.”

“I definitely want your flat stomach back too; don’t worry. But this has been fun.”

“It has. Hard to believe there’s only 7 weeks left.”

“And you already look ready to pop.”

“I do; don’t I?” he chuckled. “But maybe...we see how far I can go?”

A shiver of thrill went down her spine. “Oh, definitely.”

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

Once Christmas had passed, it seemed like everything was in a race to the end. Emma and the baby kept growing as they should, and everything was pointing to a happy, healthy birth. Once her belly dropped, around 37 weeks, life got a bit more difficult, but her parents were around to lend a hand, and Killian was ever supportive, even as he continued to chase the limits of this challenge.

Honestly, it was kind of surprising—he’d definitely slowed down with the extra weight, much like she had, but he wasn’t letting it stop him. He still cooked, he still kept up with Hope (who had finally understood she was getting a sibling, but they weren’t going to try to explain Killian’s belly), he even shoveled.

And yet, it didn’t seem to have an effect on his stomach. “You know you’re going to have to go back to your old eating habits,” she teased one day as she watched him enjoy a second serving of ice cream after dinner.

“I’m well aware,” he answered. “But if my body is supposed to revert, I assume that means my appetite will as well.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

He shrugged. “Then don’t get rid of the larger jeans anytime soon.”

Honestly, his belly was impressive. It probably looked like he was full term with twins at this point, the way it protruded in front of him and sat low. She’d long since given up the idea of keeping up, though their baby also seemed to be in a sprint to the finish—logically, she knew she was no bigger than when she’d had Hope, but she still felt as though she was massive.

She had a breakdown one day, right around 39 weeks, over that very fact. As always, though, Killian was quick to assure her otherwise.

“You are as ethereally beautiful as always, my love,” he told her, pulling her into his side from where they sat on the couch. “And how on earth can you think yourself so large when you’re sitting here, next to me?”

He was right. With the way they were sitting, side by side and bump to bump, it was easy to compare the two, and his towered above hers by several inches.

“I’m the one who should feel like the whale here, Swan.”

“And you don’t?” she wondered.

“Oh, I do. A humpback. Which makes you a beluga at most.”

She laughed through her tears and cuddled as close to him as she could. They hadn’t been able to get in on in a bit, but that hadn’t stopped her admiration of his form. Which was when she realized something very, very important.

“Oh my god—i haven’t taken any pictures of you!”

His brow furrowed. “No, I suppose we haven’t—though some were probably taken on Christmas and Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, but...I should have been keeping track! Ugh! We’re fixing this now.” She grabbed her phone off the coffee table—a minor feat, bending forward that much—and ordered him to stand against the wall of the living room. Him standing took even more effort, but he complied (and she may have taken video of him walking over, as an extra memento). He obligingly posed for her, in profile and head on, even taking off his shirt to show everything.

“Okay, now come back over here.”

He waddled back and flopped down next to her. “Yes?”

“Open your legs.”

He arched an eyebrow but did as told; his belly quickly filled in the space between his legs, but there was still just enough room in his lap.

Moving faster than she had in weeks, she shifted up and over until she was sitting on top of him. His eyes grew wide with lust, and she was sure hers already were.

As much as she could, she bent over him, bracing her hands on his bump, and whispered in his ear “Remember how we tried to get labor going with Hope?”

He swallowed. “Aye.”

“Maybe we should find out if it’ll work with this one.” She tried to emphasize it by rolling her hips, but all that did was press her bump even more against his, so it was hard to tell if his sharp intake of breath was due to arousal or actually needing air.

“I quite like that idea, darling. And I hope you still do when we are finally able to get upstairs.”

“If you go first, then I definitely will.”

The way his much rounder ass filled out those jeans definitely kept her ready as she slogged up the stairs. And it ended up being the most awkward, but somehow still perfect, afternoon of lovemaking since this whole thing began.

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

Three nights later, they were coming down from another shared high when Emma felt it—a sharp jolt high on her stomach, much stronger than any of the Braxton-Hicks she’d been feeling off and on. Killian was laying on his side, watching her, and noticed the change in her expression immediately.

“Emma? Is it time?”

“Not quite yet, but...yeah. That was definitely a contraction.”

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, then tried to get out of bed—only to remember that something was weighing him down. “Uh, how urgent is it?”

“Probably not at all,” she giggled a bit. “Second kids come faster but we’ve probably got a bit of time.”

He worried his lip, glancing first at her, then at his belly. “Does that mean we should take care of this sooner rather than later?”

She sighed. “Yeah, probably.”

He echoed her, patting his belly lovingly. “Is it odd that I’m going to miss it?”

“I’m going to, too. But we’ll always have the memories.”

“You’re not typically so cheesy.”

“I don’t typically have an infant trying to escape via my vagina.”

“Fair point.”

“But you’ve got time; let’s say farewell properly.”

She scooted herself closer and grabbed his ample chest as she kissed him, then moved her way down, pecking his skin as she went until she got to the apex of his belly. Then she gave one last massage of his stretched skin, before encouraging him to get up.

“Time for a final weigh-in and measurement?”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Emma had started with a 30-inch waist, while Killian had been at 32. Now, she was measuring around 47 inches; damn. Killian, though… “Holy crap! 56 inches!”

“Seriously?” He tried to look, but couldn’t see enough of his body to confirm it. “I feel oddly accomplished.”

“You should.”

The bathroom scale—which she could only just see—said she’d gained the same 45 pounds this time around; not surprising. Killian had to rely on her to see the scale once he stepped on, though.

“Well?” he asked as she read the number.

Her eyes bugged out a bit. “You sure you want to know?”

“We’re about to undo everything, right? Just tell me.”

“Uh…”

“Swan.”

“75.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Bloody hell...maybe I was too good at this.”

“You won’t hear me complaining.”

He cradled the massive bump with his hand and stump, hugging it close one last time. Even if it hadn’t been real, it had been an exciting experience. But their life was about to get twice as crazy, and he couldn’t be (literally) weighted down anymore. He took one last long look at himself in the bathroom mirror, the way he was now, before turning to Emma. “Want me to get the vial?”

“I’ve got it.” She waddled off, leaving him alone for a moment.

As weird as this had been, and as little as he could remember what it felt like without a giant waterskin hanging off the front of him, he’d gladly do it again for Emma; he could tell it had made everything that more bearable this time around. It may not have been physically taking any of the burden, but he certainly had emotionally, and he was glad for it.

“Here it is,” she said, holding the wrapped-up bottle, but then grabbing her belly again. “Yeah, we need to get this going. Hold on.” Carefully, she unwrapped it, taking extreme caution to make sure nothing happened to it. It was still glowing like it had when she first cast the spell all those months ago. “Okay, here goes,” she said, then uncorked it and began to murmur.

Smoke poured out of the vial and twisted itself around Killian, and it felt like he was being hugged and pressed by it. It wrapped itself entirely around him, but then disappeared—and he was nearly thrown off-center by the change.

He looked in the mirror, and he was exactly as he’d looked 8 months ago: firm and toned, with no trace of the impressive belly anywhere. To be safe, he traced his waist, his chest, even his rear end; it was all back to normal. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“Yeah. Damn, I forgot how how you are,” Emma gushed.

Killian threw her a sidelong glance. “I believe you said that last time.”

“I did; didn’t I? Right before—oh, crap.”

Her water broke.

“Let’s go have another baby, then; shall we?”

“Let’s do this.”

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

Hours later, Charlotte Leia Jones was born. Since Hope was still with Emma’s parents, she and Killian were taking some time getting to know her and reflecting on the last several months.

“Another perfect, beautiful daughter. I love you, Emma.”

“I love you too,” she said, leaning into him. “And seriously--thank you again for what you did during this pregnancy.”

“You know it was my pleasure, love. And I’d gladly do it again.”

“Not anytime soon, okay?”

“No, certainly not,” he agreed, kissing her temple.

They sat there quiet for a bit more, until Emma’s stomach rumbled. “Ugh, I’m starving; what about you?”

“You know...I’m not as hungry as I thought I’d be.”

She just giggled, sore as she was, and rested her head on his shoulder, ready for whatever life brought them as a family of four.

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

thanks for reading, friends! tagging a few: @cocohook38  @sherlockianwhovian @ashley-knightingale @jennjenn615 @wyntereyez @superadam54

#cs ff #cs fluff #cs smuff #pregnant!emma #weight gain #Empathy Belly #my ff

[tsaralance]

Game of Survival

The Twilight Saga fanfiction Chapter 1

Summary. A few vampires are taken and have to fight and flight to survive.

“I’ll go hunt for a bit.” Carmen spoke and took on her coat. She kissed Eleazar on the cheek. “I can accompany you.” Eleazar spoke. “It’s the last Wednesday of the month.” Carmen said. Eleazar knew that was her hunting alone day. “Right. As long as you be careful mi amor.” “Of course I am. I have lived for fifty-one years before knowing you. I can handle myself for a few hours.” Carmen smiled and gave Eleazar one more kiss before she left. “We go shop tonight!” Kate yelled from the house while Carmen ran into the woods. Carmen was hunting on her own once in a while. Sometimes she just needed some time alone. To think about her past. Her human life. What there was left to remember after being alive for centuries and Eleazar gave her the space she needed. Even tho he rather was there by her side a lot of the time. She just had hunted on a deer when she took her time, in human phase, to go back home when an unknown vampire jumped in front of her. “Hola Sinora.” His voice was charming but with a deadly undertone she heard instantly. “I shall pass and you leave me be.” And with that Carmen walked around the vampire to continue her way home. “I’m unable to let you do that.” Two other vampires jumped on the ground, surrounding her. This was not good. She knew that. She smelled the smell of Felix, but he was buckled up in chains. This was not good. Carmen jumped high into the air, into a tree, making it break in the process as she jumped from tree to tree. “Get her!” The leader of the group ordered. Felix was growling, but was hidden unconscious in a second. One of the vampires jumped into Carmen, they both fell down to the ground, the ground cracked beneath them. Carmen screamed in anger. Something stung the back of her neck, what felt like a electric shot, and in an instant her body was numb, paralyzed, while she could process everything around her with her mind. “This is the twelfth one. Let’s go to the base and get started.”

The smell of human blood filling her nose. It smelled so good, but she tried to compose herself so that the scent of human blood would not get to her. It was a lot. There must been more than ten dead people around here somewhere. But she had been living on animal blood for decades, almost a full century and that wouldn’t be changed. Not now, not ever. Why was she here? Why were all of them here? Captured, taken from freedom, for what? What purpose was it to take different only non-gifted vampires and capture them? Carmen was buckled up, a thick chain around her arms, her feet and her neck, all combined so she was unable to frealy move. Or break it. Next to her in the cage was Liam. He looked straight forward, consumed in his own thoughts. Behind Liam was Tia, who was whimpering the whole time, like she was praying, and next to her was Felix. So the Volturi wasn’t the abducter? Or were they and was this all a trick of some sort? In all the other cages were vampires Carmen didn’t know. In total with her included their were twelve vampires. She never had seen most of them before in her entire immortal life. That’s when a similar smell hit her. Consumed her. She knew that smell. Didacus. An ancient Spanish vampire rather known as Diego. “Diego?” Carmen brought out. Waiting for an reply. “Carmen.” It was him. He was in the cage on the other side of the isle. He hadn’t changed. He still had his black curled hair that had pieces of grey into a little ponytail. The beard still covered his face and there was a scar that wasn’t there when she had known him. The scar, how did he got the scar? She wondered. He had survived. “I thought you had died.” Carmen tried to move in the little cage to go to the front, her fingers surrounded the strong iron bars. “I told you to run and hide.” Diego said to her. “I did.” “This doesn’t seem like the place to have a reunion love birds.” A dark skinned vampire said. “May I decide that for myself, sir?” Diego looked over at his neighbour. Liam and Carmen looked at each other for a moment. Liam had heard everything but didn’t said a thing, but his eyes spoke. Does Eleazar knows about him? “Yes Spanish bastard.” Diego crowled at his neightbour and the neightbour did the same. They would tear eachothers teeth out if they got the chance. “Why did you leave?” Carmen asked. She had cared for him and he just left her. In an unknown world. “May I tell you once we are out if this situation?” Diego was avoiding the subject. “Alright.” She said. She knew getting out of here was their first priority. “Does your family know about your friend?” Liam asked her. “Eleazar does.” “Who is Eleazar?” Diego asked. “My mate.” Tia looked up from over her arms, she was hugging herself and whimpering. “Liam can you move aside a bit, please?” Liam did what Carmen asked him to. “Tia?” Tia looked over at Carmen. “You alright?” Carmen asked the Egyptian girl. “Yes. I’m just worried.” Carmen moved her right hand through the cage to reach close to Tia. Tia did the same. They held hands. To show comfort. Liam didn’t said anything, ignored the two hands in front of him and just focused on his suroundings. That’s when they heard a door open. Carmen did let go of Tia’s hand and returned to sit in her cage, making herself as small as possible. A shadow appeared on the wall. It came towards them. It was a man, in a black coat, black boots and black jeans. He walked through the cages, passed Carmen towards Felix, and back again. The man stood still before Carmen’s cage, and looked at her. He was unlocking the cage. Carmen tried to move as far back as she possibly could but there was no escape option. She was trapped like an animal. Didacus started to roar and shake the cage he was in. The vampire stopped opening Carmen’s cage and moved over to Diego. The vampire opened the cage of Didacus and zapped him with something, with his hand? A power like Kate’s? Carmen just looked at the scene and a few other captured vampires started to make a lot of noise in their cages. Diego was weak, almost unable to stand on his feet while he was being dragged. The vampire strabbed Diego on the chair, like mental people in an asylum, and a big needle came into view. “What are you doing?” Liam shouted. The vampire ignored the commotion behind him. A Russian vampire was cursing loudly in Russian. That needle. It couldn’t enter through the vampire skin, could it? Diego got punctured, venom rushed out, around the needle. Diego started to scream in excruciating pain when the inside of the needle was being put inside his neck. When that was over Diego was tragged towards another room. Next was a Swahilian vampire, she was praying for merci. Next came the Russian vampire, next a british, and now the vampire came for her. She tried to fight her abducter off but without any success. Liam tried to grab Carmen by the arm, but through Carmen did he got electrocuted. The same effect like with an electric fence, the last one gets the shock. Right after Carmen got electrocuted and she lost all her senses for a short moment. She was like jelly. The shock she felt felt like the one Kate made, but the lose of her senses was like Alec’s powers, but different. This vampire, their abudcter, was gifted. When she was in the chair she tried to get the control of her body back, but it wasn’t working. When the needle entered her neck she screamed so loud the whole world could have heard. A tiny object was being injected into her, what resulted in pain. She was being dragged over to another room. Her clothes being ripped off of her, the only thing she still wore were her undergarments. When she wasn’t paralyzed anymore she started to be able to move her limbs again. “Put them on.” The vampire she met in the forest, most likely the leader, told her to put on the black outfit he had for her. “What did you put inside my neck?” Carmen asked him. She wasn’t moving one inch before she had heard about the matter. “A tracker. Now put the clothes on.” Carmen did what was asked, and new information came at her. “Just one of you can survive.” Carmen was shocked. “Now a picture.” And a portret photo was taken from her. “Here drink some.” The vampire gave Carmen a bottle. “No, thank you.” The vampire looked surprised. “Why not. It gives you more chance of survival.” Carmen looked at the vampire. “I don’t drink human blood.” The vampire looked surprised. “You are a vegetarian vampire like the Cullen coven?” “Yes. They are my extended family.” The vampire was shocked. “God damnit, if I had known… to late for it now.” With that the battle of survival began.

“They took Carmen!” The Denali’s had come all the way to the Cullen’s in Forks with the news. Carmen had been taken and Eleazar was sure it had to be the Volturi. When Carmen and Eleazar had left the Volturi because it was too hard for Carmen to see the love of her life struggle between the two worlds, did they had given the permission to leave the Volturi. But what if the Volturi wanted Eleazar back after centuries and this was the way how they would get him back. “Who did?” Carlisle asked. Esme was worried, it was written all over her face. Rosalie hugged Esme. They had always been close to Carmen, it was hard to hear their beloved friend, cousin, was taken. “The Volturi. It can’t be anyone else.” Eleazar was worried. He always had tried to protect Carmen from any form of harm, and now he felt like he had failed his duty. Failed his mate, his wife, his lover and his best friend. If something would happen to her he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Tanya took over. “We figured the Volturi may have taken Carmen to get Eleazar back into their guard. We smelled Felix at the scene we found in the woods a few miles from our home.” Garrett continued. “Trees broken into pieces, her necklace found between the cracked solid of the dirt. We followed the scent all the way to the ocean were it disappeared.” Alice left the place, got sucked into a vision. “Alice.” Edward said, but he saw what Alice saw. They all present in Volterra. In the main room, facing Aro. “Alice what is it?” A worried Jasper tried to comfort Alice and tried to take her uneasiness away. “We need to get to the Volturi.”

A day later all of them arrived in Volterra.

“We come for Aro, Caius and Marcus.” Carlisle said in the welcome hall of the palace. “Well hello.” Heidi came in, smiling. “How is everything going?” Heidi was speaking to Carlisle and Eleazar, her past coven members. “We need to talk to Aro, Caius and Marcus emedietetly.” Eleazar spoke seriously. “What is going on?” Heidi asked. “Carmen is gone. I need to know if she is here.” Eleazar said strongly. He was a man on a mission. “we do not have her. You guys are not the first vampires to arrive here to ask about their loved ones.”  “What?!” Kate and Rosalie said in eunion. “We do not have her.” Heidi got bumped aside by Eleazar and without permission he walked towards the hall of his past leaders. All the others behind him, stronger together. Heidi followed. The main door burst open and the Cullens and the Denali’s entered the room. Aro, Caius and Marcus looked at their unexpected visitors. “Why do we owe this pleasure?” Aro folded his hands together as he rose to his feet. “Where is Carmen?” Eleazar asked. “We don’t have her here.” Aro said. He didn’t really care about Carmen but Edward knew Felix was gone by reading Aro’s mind. “Felix is gone too.” Edward said. “Yes.” Marcus said. He wasn’t really there in the room but he knew what was happening around him. “We smelled Felix at the scene. He was there.” Eleazar said. He didn’t believe them. “Felix has been gone for one week.” Caius said.  “If it wasn’t you then who was it?” Garrett asked. Eleazar was trying to keep his composure. “We don’t know but we’re trying to figure that out.” “Why would you think we would take one of our own?” Aro asked curiously “Is it quite a normal thought that we may think you pretended it with Felix to get gifted vampires to join the Volturi for the freedom of their loved ones.” “Carlisle.” Edward said. He was warning his father right before Caius stormed over at Carlisle. His temper showing. Caius was inches from Carlisle. It looked like a deadly staring contest. “If we would have done what you say we had done it already!” Caius eyes burned with fire. Kate was growling loudly between her teeth. She was ready to rip Caius apart limb for limb. All for Irina and just because he deserved it. Tanya held her sister by the arm, whispering in her sister’s ear. “Caius.” Aro spoke charmingly but stern. Marcus was just watching the scene from his chair. Not really caring about everything that happened in his home. Caius backed away and walked slowely black to his chair. “Caius is right on this matter. If we would have done this we would have killed you all when we came to forks for the hybrid matter.” Aro looked at Renesmee, who hid behind her mother. Renesmee a child now, grown into eight years old. “How do we know you are not just telling us what we want to hear?” Rosalie asked, crossing her arms. “Rose.” Esme said sternly. “Aro is telling the truth.” Maggie and Siobhan entered the room. “Liam has been missing as well. We did come here to ask about the matter.” Siobhan told them all. “I know when someone is lying, and Aro and the whole Volturi members are telling the truth.” Maggie said. “How long have you been here?” Tanya asked Siobhan and Maggie curiously. “A day.” Siobhan replied. “You are not the first and only ones here that came to the Volturi to ask about the matter.” Maggie looked at Aro who looked back at her. “or asked for help.” “We don’t need their help.” Kate spat out. “Calm down love.” Garrett whispered to his mate. “Who else is here besides all of us?” Edward mentioned all the people in the room. Aro spoke again. He was all finding this kinda amusing it seemed. “You, them and the Egyptian coven.” Alice stepped forward. “Benjamin isn’t here. I saw him in a forest.” Edward and a few others of the vegetarians looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You could have told us that.” Rose said. “Why didn’t you told us?” Carlisle focused on her while he ignored Rosalie. Jasper just was silent the whole time. Keeping all the emotions in the room not to escalate. “Because I didn’t know it was related to what happened to Carmen.” Tanya spoke. “But it is. Whoever has Carmen also has Liam and Benjamin.” “This is some bad shit.” Emmett said. “Yes Emmett. It is.” Bella said. Amun walked into the room, his mate right beside him. “Benjamin isn’t here because he is looking for Tia. Tia is the one that’s missing.” Everyone looked at one another. “Heidi arrange a few guards and make Dimitri to try to find the scent of Felix again.” “Yes sir.” And with that Heidi left the room. “Yes to answer your non yet asked questions, Dimitri is unable to find the scent of Felix.” And Aro started to laugh like a maniac.

A few hours later Amun and Kebi, Siobhan and Maggie and all of the vegetarians were in the main room again. Jane, Alec and the three leaders were present in the room with them. “Dimitri wasn’t able to find Felix’s scent yet again. Alice have you seen any of the missing vampires in a vision?” Alice looked at Aro and replied. “I’m unable to see into the future of all the missing vampires. I can’t even get to see one second. It is like I get blocked by something.” “Like someone with a shield kinda gift.” Eleazar said. “Alice wanted to reply when the room started to shake. “What is happening!” Renesmee yelled. She was scared. Jacob was there too, he tried to comfort her just like Bella and Edward. A kind of portal, like some screen, appeared on the left of the room, replaced the left wall by the side of the entrance. Next to it came another portal and photo’s started to appear, with names and dates. Carmen was in the middle in the left row. Her eyes were pitch black, like she hadn’t drank in days. No wonder. She was already missing for three days. Carmen’s information appeared next to her picture. Above the pictures of all the vampires was written alive. In the row next to it was written dead.

Carmen Philipa Maria Vasquez Mendoza Nationality: Spanish, British Born: Spain, Gibraltar, 1700 Changed: England, battle of Gibraltar, 1727

“Carmen.” Eleazar said. “Poor Carmen.” Said Esme. That’s when a scene started to appear in the right portal like screen. All the missing vampires standing ready. The countdown began. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1…..

#the twilight saga #the twilight saga fanfiction #twilight fanfiction #denali coven #cullen coven #my fanfics #this is for the twilight lovers #and I hope that #allbeintheattic #loves it

[awesomecolorfulcollectorwombat]

How Unofficial Concert Recordings Flowered in the 21st Century

New Post has been published on http://nahlahussain.com/how-unofficial-concert-recordings-flowered-in-the-21st-century/

How Unofficial Concert Recordings Flowered in the 21st Century

Most times, Eric Pier-Hocking will get to the venue before you do. It’s not because he wants to be in the front row, grab some limited edition merch, or even meet the performing musicians. But all of those sometimes occur in the line of duty.

This evening at Trans-Pecos near the Brooklyn-Queens border, he is in the front, though only because the room is small and the exact center of the stage in front of the performer is the most convenient place to set up his microphones. Plus, there’s a booth alongside the nearby wall where he can sit. And he will be acquiring something rare, in that he’s about to make a high-fidelity recording of an exquisite performance by acoustic guitarist Daniel Bachman. And, in fact, he does meet the artist, as well. “Mostly just to say hi,” Pier-Hocking shrugs. The show isn’t empty, but it’s far from a sell-out. In time, though, more people will be able to hear Bachman’s performance. Pier-Hocking is there to preserve the music and share it. In the process, he has become a valuable part of the 21st century musical ecosystem.

For most of the artists he records, he’ll make sure to secure permission in advance, but like an increasing number of touring musicians, the Virginia-based Bachman is fine with audio-obsessed fans like Pier-Hocking. In this case, Pier-Hocking doesn’t even ask, just sets up his recording gear.

“I’m all about it,” Bachman says, understanding that high-quality recordings of his performances are good calling cards to have out there, his music spreading further when Pier-Hocking posts it online. “I actually record other musicians myself,” the guitarist says. “I’ll just pull up the voice memo app on my iPhone and record an entire set. I do it on the road a lot so that I can listen back to friends or other people I get to perform with.”

Wearing a black denim jacket covered in pins, Pier-Hocking is not a professional audio engineer. The 37-year-old works by day as a production manager at a publishing company. With short hair and a neatly cropped beard, it’s easy to peg him for the enthusiastic indie music fan he is. But to call him an amateur wouldn’t be accurate either. What he does goes far beyond recording on an iPhone.

Tonight, Pier-Hocking is running a pair of MBHO KA100DK omnidirectional microphone capsules (via a 603A capsule attachment) into “a home-brewed” PFA phantom power adapter by way of a set of newfangled “active” cables, wired up by a colleague on a web forum for live-performance recording aficionados. (Most still refer to them as tapers.) Along with a feed from the venue’s soundboard, the microphone signal runs into Sound Devices MixPre-6, a digital multi-track recorder.

But, once getting his gear set up and he’s sure his levels are OK, Pier-Hocking mostly just sits and listens attentively to Bachman’s performance. Occasionally, he glances at the MixPre-6, just to make sure it’s still running.

Capturing the music from the two different sources—his own mics and the sound-board feed—as a pair of multirack WAV files, Pier-Hocking will later align the two recordings in Adobe Audition CC. It gets pretty geeky. “Usually the mics are milliseconds behind the board feed,” he says. “I zoom in on the WAV and look for a sharp point I can isolate, like a drum hit, and then shift it all over.” He corrects the EQ with Izotope Ozone 5, tracks and tags them with Audacity, and outputs them as high-def, lossless files known as FLACs. Once Bachman has gotten back to him with approval and corrects the track listing, Pier-Hocking will post the show as FLACs and mp3s to NYCTaper.com, a website established by Dan Lynch in 2007.

Eric Pier-Hocking, taper.

Vincent Tullo

Sometimes, with an artist’s permission, Pier-Hocking will also establish a page on the Internet Archive’s Live Music Archive, where visitors can listen to shows right in their web browsers, and where files are backed up regularly to locations in Egypt, the Netherlands, and Canada. “I love Archive,” he says. “You upload it once, and it sets it up for streaming and all the formats. It saves me a lot of work. And I know when I die, my recordings will still be there.” He pauses for half a beat. “Which is comforting, I guess.”

Like every other part of the music world, taping has changed utterly in the digital age. Once dismissed as mere bootlegging, the surrounding attitudes, economies, and technologies have evolved. It’s been a long haul since Dean Benedetti recorded Charlie Parker’s solos on a wire recorder. In the ’60s and ’70s aspiring preservationists snuck reel-to-reel recorders into venues under battlefield conditions, scaling down to professional quality handheld cassette decks and eventually to DATs.

The myth and popular image of “the taper” persists, even though there haven’t really been tapes since the early 2000s, when most tapers switched from DAT to laptops and finally to portable drives. But old terms are hard to dismiss. Many now prefer “recording” or even “capturing” to “taping,” though recent headlines are a good reminder of just how durable “tape” really is, and most just use the term unconsciously and don’t have a preference about the terminology one way or the other—as long as you don’t ask them to leave.

Unlike most every other part of the music world, taping has not only thrived in the 21st century but come into its own, from advanced cell phone gadgetry (like DPA’s iPhone-ready d:vice MMA-A digital audio interface) to compact handheld recorders (like Zoom’s varied line of products), from high-speed distribution to metadata organization. Despite constant radical change, taping has never been disrupted. Rather, it has positively flowered.

Innovations have occurred within practically every area of the signal chain. Some nights, Pier-Hocking uses Shapeways’ 3D-printed mic arrays, custom manufactured on behalf of Pier-Hocking and his compadres so they can more easily set up their mics in various live situations, from the small rooms like Trans-Pecos to big arenas like Madison Square Garden. The “active” cables Pier-Hocking favors, which have been around about a decade, are very discreet. Connected to a phantom power source, these cables allow tapers to use the kind of capsules that once required a full microphone body. Mics powered by active cables can more easily be hidden in a hat and smuggled into the front row, making them a boon to “stealth tapers,” who do their best to record without being noticed. “I’m too nervous to stealth,” Pier-Hocking says. “Most of the time.”

He gets his cables right from a taper who doesn’t sell them publicly. “You can buy active setups commercially from Schoeps, Neumann, MBHO, and probably some other microphone manufacturers, but they’re often very expensive,” Pier-Hocking says. “Tapers have reverse-engineered these active-type setups and have even had their own capsule attachments manufactured in some cases.”

Continuing one of many tech practices pioneered by Deadheads, others have tapped—somewhat invasively, no doubt—into the private signals of wireless in-ear monitor systems used by Radiohead, U2, Bruce Springsteen, and others. The power of editing software has allowed fans to then combine them together—sometimes with audience recordings—to make virtual live multi-tracks. (No one has yet used the same FM system to override an in-ear signal and broadcast messages direct to Bono to thank him for Songs of Innocence, but it would also theoretically be possible.) Deadheads, meanwhile, have moved onto creating 5.1-channel surround-sound mixes, sometimes combining the band’s official releases with fan-made tapes of beloved shows to make vivid remasters, as with the band’s beloved May 8, 1977, concert at Cornell University.

An invisible hit parade has acted as an alternative to the mainstream music industry since the moment consumer-grade wire recorders became available in the 1940s. The creation and exchange of unofficial recordings has survived the commercial rise and fall of 45s, LPs, CDs, cassettes, and even mp3s, as well as countless record companies. No matter your tastes, your favorite artists almost unquestionably possess shadow discographies that (mostly) can’t be found through official channels like streaming services and record stores, with landmark recordings in nearly every genre. Along with tapes of performances, fans have long coveted studio outtakes, illegal remixes, hip-hop mixtapes, live DJ sets, radio sessions, and other veritable field recordings from the legal grey area known as the real world. But that is perhaps all that remains the same.

BitTorrent naturally serves as the backbone of the serious-minded 21st century taper network, with recordings spread across torrent sites like Dimeadozen, Lossless Legs, and the Traders’ Den, with the music spreading to other services from there. In fact, BitTorrent creator Bram Cohen has said he explicitly developed the peer-to-peer file-sharing platform in 2001 for the pioneering taper project known as etree.

Established as a mailing list in 1998 to collate information between FTP sites, etree took its name from the Usenet-era Deadhead practice of organizing “tape trees” for efficient distribution, where each participant was responsible for copying the recordings for several others. With a little foresight, a recording could spread from one Deadhead’s master tape to dozens of copies without losing much fidelity. BitTorrent’s basic premise—that all downloaders redistribute data to all other downloaders—is a digital extension of the Deadhead ethos that everybody might share for free with everybody else, each according to their Mbps.

“For the first three years that BitTorrent existed, etree was the only site listed on the official BitTorrent FAQ,” says Tom Anderson. By the time BitTorrent launched, Anderson had already developed a database to keep track of etree’s recordings in circulation, perhaps the most irreplaceable part of etree’s suite of fan-developed sites.

“In 1998, I traded through the mail for a Dead show, and I already had two copies of it,” Anderson says. “That was pretty frustrating.” Wanting software to keep track of his own collection and already being a somewhat picky professional database developer, Anderson found the available options for tape collectors lacking. So, naturally, he built his own using a dynamic domain hosting service and importing setlists from an existing open-source Deadhead project. Anderson made the new database expandable and flexible and finally emigrated the project into etree by the end of 1999.

Predating the torrent tracker, “db” (as Anderson abbreviates it) is a quietly landmark achievement in fandom. Containing metadata for some half-million different sets of files representing some 44,000 artists, the database is the closest thing to a definitive index of live recordings circulated by fans. The Grateful Dead, Phish, and other jam bands dominate, but it also contains secret histories for acts large and small, from ’80s Philadelphia power pop band The A’s to British prog act Zzebra. And it affirms that—yes—the tapes do exist.

Db has been Anderson’s laboratory for years. “Being such a long-lived project, I’ve done a lot of living within that period,” he says. “Db was always there for me whether I needed to learn a new library such as Scriptaculous or just needed something to do. I explored many different paths in programming including a Lucene implementation in pure PHP, better database design which I would take with me to new clients, early work in caching and templating engines with Smarty. I’m much better at vim [a text editor for coders] thanks to programming on the live site in real time.”

He says he’s proud that “the database structure is correct enough that it’s lasted,” but he acknowledges its front end could use an upgrade. To that end, the site has recently released an API, a tool other tape-loving coders can use to query the etree database and build new portals to etree’s culturally invaluable set of metadata. Anderson sees the site’s future in the API.

A decidedly part-time labor of love for the site’s overseers, it has been subject to surprisingly few outages over the years. “Four consecutive days once, around 2005,” Anderson says. But the site’s consistency, its openness, and the totality (and permanent incompleteness) of its data, are all emblematic of the invisible hit parade as a historical entity.

Pier-Hocking’s taping gear consists of a pair of microphones wired for stereo sound, a mobile MixPre-6 audio recorder that captures high-quality audio, and a set of headphones.

Vincent Tullo

After a show, Pier-Hocking will mix his recording and post it on the internet for others to download for free—all with the artists’ blessing.

Vincent Tullo

Anderson, Pier-Hocking, and countless others are participants in something broader than themselves, vital players in an ecosystem of audio obsessives, mystery-loving historians, and completist fans. Virtually the opposite of streaming services like Spotify, the ad-hoc network is wildly decentralized and noncommercial.

At least in the world of traditional tapers, there is a premium placed on recording quality, but it is equally the domain of debased and marginalized formats, from wire recorders to reels, from cassettes to minidiscs, and the never-ending race to preserve the music contained on them. Where Spotify can barely muster songwriting credits, recordists slather on detail, often posting obsessive data about mic placement, signal chain, tape lineage, song performances, audio imperfections, and other ephemeral and contextual information.

Sanctioning an official section in the audience for tapers in 1984, the Grateful Dead became known as the most taper-friendly band in the world. By then, Deadheads were already modding microphones, building their own preamps, experimenting with DATs, publishing phone book-length tape catalogs, and exploring internet-based distribution networks. More than anybody else, it was Deadheads who built the infrastructure on which the modern taping world operates. And, perhaps, it was the Grateful Dead’s enormous and resolutely nontraditional success—and critical rediscovery in the early 21st century—that provided one tipping point for taping’s new acceptance.

Attitudes have shifted, perhaps in part because record stores aren’t overflowing with obscenely priced “import” CDs containing unauthorized recordings. And more to the point, musicians don’t make much money these days selling their recordings. “So you may as well be giving your live recordings away,” says Nancy Baym, a Microsoft researcher and author of the new book Playing To the Crowd: Musicians, Audiences, and the Intimate Work of Connection. “If your economy is attention, this is going to get you more attention and more die-hards who want to come to your shows and buy things that create revenue.”

Of course, nearly every audience member has a tape deck in their pocket. Though the new iPhone XS and XS Max include stereo mics, most serious tapers scoff at those holding their phones aloft during performances, regarding them as disruptive to musicians and fellow audience members alike. To serious tapers, “phone recordings” are synonymous with incomplete, inconsistent, and rarely enjoyable documentation.

“Put in a little effort if you’re going to do it,” says Pier-Hocking, who would love to see more serious tapers. “If you need to secure a spot, get down to the venue early. Don’t be a jerk to others. Don’t do something that’s going to affect other people’s enjoyment of the music.” He emails me one night after a Neil Young show, still stewing at the video recordist who gave Eric and his wife guff about blocking his camera’s view, and then proceeded to not even record complete songs anyway.

And sometimes those holding their phones up aren’t even recording anyway. They’re live-streaming the show on Facebook Live or some other platform. Baym sees the rise of easy phone streaming as endangering tapers. “Now there are so many people live-streaming that when you go to YouTube it’s all live-streams that have ended and aren’t there anymore. I feel like streaming on phones has maybe eliminated the preciousness of it, and I don’t mean ‘preciousness’ in a coy way.”

But when done with care, live recordings can provide rich and intimate ways for fans to experience the music of their favorite artists and even discover new ones. In the current corporate vernacular of the music industry and startups everywhere, it might be thought of as organic, listener-driven engagement. But, if so, it is organic, listener-driven engagement that platforms and labels can never control, only attempt to feed.

At their best, live recordings might be seen as a musical equivalent of a product drawn directly from the earth, rather than something sold in the store. “Farm-to-table” is an overdone comparison, but these recordings do exist in a space several steps closer to the music’s creation. Providing access to a cultural landscape where media giants hold little domain, the invisible hit parade remains an authentic musical underground in a freemium world, a hideout where listening habits go unmonitored and unmonetized.

There are still sketchy releases—in a few cases available on Spotify and the iTunes Store—often based on the old-fashioned loopholes of European copyright law. But even that practice has taken modern turns. The site Music Mafia sold leaked tracks by Kanye West, Chance the Rapper, and others via Bitcoin auction, only taken offline in September 2018. And there’s been an uptick of grey market LPs to go along with the new vinyl revival. But those are the exceptions. Mostly, there has been an explosion of access points.

The ever-populist YouTube contains streams of uncountable unofficial recordings, including multiple canons of classic bootlegs, and as a primary source for new recordings. Of course, it doesn’t constitute a permanent archive, with any video apt to disappear at any moment depending on the whims of rights-holders or the algorithms acting on their behalf. (And it’s not exactly non-profit in YouTube’s case. Somebody profits from all those clicks, just rarely the musicians or tapers.) Beyond that, though, there are easily shared links to public and private file-sharing sites, email lists, blogs, Facebook groups, and at least as many other backchannels as there are messaging services.

The ease of access doesn’t appeal to all musicians, or their labels. While taping might sometimes seem ubiquitous, musicians and others have any number of valid complaints about the practice that have nothing to do with profits lost from being “bootlegged.” Some artists, for example, would prefer to exert some control about whether a particular performance might enter the permanent record. (While Prince was alive, fan-made recordings were apt to disappear from the internet in puffs of purple smoke.)

Another concern is that the music was made for the people in the live audience, and only the people in the audience. Still another point of view entirely is that live recordings are something special that are fun for serious fans to exchange but also contain a certain magic that disappears when those recordings are made available for instant clicking, more digital sugar to be passively consumed, passively regurgitated, and actively forgotten. And, as Nancy Baym notes, “a lot of times it can be discouraging to look out an audience and see telephones instead of faces.”

But while ubiquitous, people recording on their phones aren’t tapers in the traditional sense. What makes this perhaps the golden age of the invisible hit parade isn’t merely the quantity of the recordings, their quality, or even the speed with which they hit the internet. It’s the totality and ubiquity that now allow listeners to absorb these bodies of work as their own indisputable cultural histories, preserved by fans and their unofficial institutions.

Beyond db.etreedb.org, there are countless sites that make it their music-loving business to curate and organize unofficial recordings, such as the Albums That Never Were and Doom and Gloom From the Tomb (disclosure: this writer has contributed), culling threads and collections of unreleased material from a variety of artists. In this way, home taping isn’t killing music (as the British Phonographic Industry once notoriously declared), but keeping it absolutely alive.

Just like an issue of Billboard, there are many parallel popularity charts on the invisible hit parade. On the dance music continuum, there’s MixesDB and 1001Tracklists, capturing decades of song-lists and sometimes the recordings themselves, going back to Tom Moulton’s pivotal tapes made for Fire Island clubs in the ’70s, though many of the virtual tapes are filled with recordings that belong to numerous rights-holders apt to zap them from existence.

“It’s a fugitive format by nature,” says Michelangelo Matos, a mix columnist for Mixmag and author of The Underground Is Massive: How Electronic Dance Music Conquered America. “There are always things being [deleted] without warning.” He cites the Deep House Page, which for a time in the late ’90s became a staple repository for vintage DJ sets. “I download what I can of what I like,” he says, “sometimes through third-party sites.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, these third-party services designed to rip audio from YouTube and other platforms have become the Recording Industry Association of America’s latest target.

Archiving can be a form of activism, the late historian Howard Zinn once asserted. He was speaking of government records, but in this ephemeral 404 century, the act of preserving endangered music (or any other type of media) might well qualify too. If music fans constitute a series of interlocking communities, then these unofficial recordings often constitute a significant part of its collective memory.

“Pirate archivists view official media preservation as a precarious business,” says Abigail de Kosnik, author of Rogue Archives: Digital Cultural Memory and Media Fandom. “A very small percentage of television has ever been officially archived, a little more film has been saved—but still, just think of all of the amazing silent film that has been lost forever.”

Though she acknowledges “many people who pirate media do it for convenience of access rather than preservation,” she also notes that “pirate archivists certainly do not pirate because it is ‘free,’ they pay quite a bit of money for Virtual Private Networks and other types of masking technologies, they usually donate to the torrent trackers they use, and they pay a great deal for their high-capacity servers.”

One veteran taper who works as a programmer once spent a weekend (while his wife was out of town) reverse-engineering the way livestreams work and figuring out how to capture them. Keeping these professionally shot and mixed videos on an external drive—an hour-long set preserved in its original format is usually between 750 megabytes and 4 gigabytes, depending on the bitrate of the webcast—he uses an Oppo Blu-ray player to browse and watch them from a media library, though a Roku or any other media server peripheral would also do. Occasionally uploading some for friends on special request, his is mostly a private collection. It is here, perhaps, that “taping” becomes like the old boogey-beast of old. But how else are you going to find a pristine capture of Beyonce at Coachella?

Others see the future of taping as going legit. Frank Zappa infamously re-bootlegged the bootleggers, and Pearl Jam has been releasing every show on CD since 2000. More recently, sites like Bandcamp have also allowed artists the flexibility to post live sets for sale as they see fit, as electronic artist Four Tet did this fall. For the past several years, Cafe Oto, the renowned London venue for jazz and experimental music, has sold selected live sets as part of its Otoroku series. Others have used live-streaming as a promotional tool, from bar bands with selfie-stick-mounted iPhones to global stars.

But Brad Serling, founder of the archival and streaming service nugs.net, has taken it several steps further. In the early ’90s, Serling—a Dead taper since 1990—shared samples of his tapes with potential traders by posting .au files on an FTP site. Once out of college, he scored a job working for ex-MTV VJ and early internet media entrepreneur Adam Curry. Over Labor Day 1995, he became one of the first to stream a concert online, when—on behalf of Curry’s OnRamp—he multiplexed eight phone lines to create a 128k signal, webcasting Metallica’s Molson Ice Polar Beach Party live from the North Pole. He marvels at the increases in processing power and bandwidth that have allowed his business to flourish.

A veritable network of on-demand live music, both video and audio, nugs.net evolved from a free fan site. Serving the jam bands one would expect with a name like nugs.net, including Phish and the various post-Jerry Garcia offshoots of the Grateful Dead, the site now also distributes live recordings for decided non-noodlers like Pearl Jam, Bruce Springsteen, and Metallica (who themselves have had a tapers’ audience section since 1991). Serling laughs at the time Coldplay contacted them, inquiring about how to stop recording at their shows.

“We added a CD business in 2004, which we still do to this day, which is kind of amazing,” says Serling. “People really like collecting stuff. They like having a shelf filled with every tape. Pearl Jam is a big part of our CD business. Bruce Springsteen is a huge part of our CD business.” The latest act to partner with nugs.net are the New York alt-jammers Sonic Youth, whose celestial guitar noise could find a new audience among the jam-oriented fans browsing the site.

Of all the 21st-century innovations in taping, Serling’s might be the furthest out, especially with acts starting to bundle their ticket sales with nugs.net’s official recordings. “It’s the ultimate in the whole evolution of taping,” Serling enthuses. “You bought a ticket to the show, and you scan that with your phone and get access to a professionally mixed recording of it.”

It’s probably not a coincidence how often tapers become involved in other aspects of the music communities around them. For nugs.net’s Serling, it became a vocation. NYCTaper.com founder Dan Lynch’s day job as a criminal defense attorney, meanwhile, led him into a new relationship with many of the small venues he was visiting, shoestring spots often run by 20-somethings with a love of music but little eye for legal details. Decades older than many of the musicians and venue operators, Lynch came to fill the non-metaphoric role as the responsible adult with legal expertise when they found themselves in legal trouble for any number of minor infractions. With music once acting as an escape from the burden of his court cases, it took over his daylight hours, too.

“I saw what was happening to the [do-it-yourself] venues,” he says, “and I volunteered in 2008 to represent pro bono all the people who had been given summonses or tickets as a result of a raid on the [venue] Market Hotel,” a place he’d made recordings. “And I eventually represented people from maybe five or six other DIY venues in a variety of other ways, having to do with raids by the police.” When the Market Hotel was shut down seemingly for good, Lynch found himself on the board assembled to bring it up to code and legalize it. He is likewise involved with Trans-Pecos, where Eric Pier-Hocking had recorded Daniel Bachman.

Tapers are everywhere in the music business. The founder of Daniel Bachman’s label, Cory Rayborn, began as a taper, recording (and booking) shows around North Carolina. “It was always a good entry point with bands,” he says, “a great way to introduce myself and be able to generate something high quality for their archive.”

In an age of streams, algorithms, and media consolidation, participation in the invisible hit parade remains a way to connect with music and the worlds it builds. With media and data available virtually free and music itself absorbed into the background of the landscape, it is a way of finding value in an area where financial and cultural worth have been turned upside down, and reinvesting it with meaning.

In the ’90s, Pier-Hocking initially started trading tapes on Prodigy’s forum for the band Nirvana. But soon realized it helped to have tapes few others possessed, so he started making his own, first of the Washington DC punk band Girls Against Boys. “I listened to them all over and over, no matter how bad the quality was,” he says of his earliest recordings. When he connected with NYCTaper more than a decade later, after he’d stopped taping, he discovered that one of the site’s main contributors—Jonas Blank—was someone he’d traded with years before. They reconnected. And give or take other life obligations, like children and jobs, the various NYC Tapers can often be seen hanging out even if only one of them is necessary to make a recording, easily spotted forming a collective tapers’ section, like a school of fish.

“I was enamored with this thing that I had made out of vibrations in the air,” Pier-Hocking says of his Girls Against Boys tapes, remembering the feeling of being the nearest time traveler to the music, picking up the sound at its moment of creation for future listeners, an act of creation by itself. “I wasn’t responsible for the music,” he marvels. “But I was responsible for something.”

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