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radioactivepeasant · 5 months

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Snippet Friday Week Two: Blackmail au

First

The cheers were deafening. Overwhelming. Too much noise and too many people and-

Jak clamped his hands over his ears and shrank behind Sig.

Ahead of them, Damas carefully navigated a throng of warriors, all of whom seemed to want to slap his back or tousle Mar's hair. Jak didn't like them touching his brother. He wasn't their kid. He wasn't theirs!

"Easy, kiddo," Sig murmured, and wrapped one thick arm around his shoulders. "There's not too many kids in Spargus. Losing Mar hit everybody hard."

There hadn't been too many kids in Sandover, either. But Jak could say with reasonable certainty that no one would've kicked up this much of a fuss if he or Daxter had gone missing.

Well, maybe they would have if it had been Keira. She had a parent to miss her, after all.

Jak swallowed down a prickle of envy. It tasted like anger, and stale bitterness. In Haven, it was easy to look at people there and think of his childhood as ideal in comparison. But Spargus made it clear that Sandover had provided the bare minimum of what a child needed to survive. Necessities, but no true emotional investment. No genuine love.

Mar seemed to be getting as overstimulated as Jak. He grew quiet and subdued, huddled against his father's chest. There was just too much happening.

Damas smiled softly at him and hefted him a little higher in his arms. "I know. You're doing so good, baby. We're almost home."

"Want Dax an' Jakky," Mar signed, beginning to look zoned out.

Damas turned to face Sig and the older boys.

"Jak," he called gently, "Could you come take your brother for a moment? He's asking for you."

It was as much strategic as it was simply responding to Mar's needs.

Jak needed something to ground him, and by the looks of it Daxter was too overwhelmed to help.

Mar needed his older brother to feel a sense of normalcy.

And Damas wanted- needed- to make it known that this older boy was his.

Jak stepped up beside him and held out his arms for Mar. Honestly, Damas had no idea how he could carry his little brother and an ottsel the same approximate weight without a hint of difficulty. Had he always been so strong? Damas pushed away the questions for later and put an arm around Jak’s shoulders -- shielding him from the crowd and silently declaring to the onlookers that the boy was his at the same time.

A buck-toothed child sitting on her parent's shoulders called out in a voice just high-pitched enough to be heard over the crowd, “Who's that guy?” as she pointed at Jak.

Damas smiled in the girl's direction. “This is Jak, my firstborn!” he declared proudly. “We were separated when I was first exiled. My enemies could not find him and so they told me instead that he was dead. Yet here he is, the thorn in Praxis's side he cannot remove!”

The praise set Jak’s teeth on edge. It reminded him too much of hero talk. But at the same time it was an uncomfortably unfamiliar experience. Someone was talking about him to others as if he was proud not of Jak's accomplishments so much as his mere existence.

Jak pulled his eyes away from the crowd to focus on Mar. He could put aside the discomfort of crowds for his brother.

“Hang in there, kid,” he murmured.

Daxter patted Mar's head, almost falling off Jak’s shoulder to do so. “Just try to think of whatcha wanna show us first when we get to your room, okay?”

Mar brightened a little at the suggestion. “Show you my toys!” he decided. “You can play with me?”

Jak hefted him a little higher. “Uh…sure kid.”

As long as his idea of play wasn't “hold on to Jak’s back while he goes Dark and play Flut-Flut Ride" like they did in Haven sometimes. Jak really didn't feel like explaining that to Damas and Sig.

________________________________________

Mar had...a lot.

Just. A lot.

Jak counted six picture books sticking out of a bright red crate in a corner that had been furnished with a stack of pillows and a bucket of blocks. There was a drawer of clothes, long outgrown, with a scant two shirts that still fit. He had toys-!

So many toys!

Jak sat on the floor in something akin to shock as his brother ran back and forth from his cot to deposit things into his arms.

A soft Lurker made of cloth and feathers.

A little leather thing that looked like a bald Flut-Flut.

An old, worn-out teddy-bear with a crude "P" stitched onto its chest.

A rubber ball.

A wooden top with a string on it.

Jak frowned and held up the top, keeping it out of reach of Chopper's curious jaws. "I've never seen one of these with string on it before. What's it for?"

Damas looked up from sorting out the clothes that no longer fit Mar. "Oh. That's a trompo. Loop the end of the string around your finger, then throw the top. If it lands on its point, it spins."

"Huh."

Jak set the other toys to one side. This did not deter Mar, who proceeded to hand them all to Daxter.

"So you...just pull it and throw? Like a grenade?"

Jak took the toy and wrapped one end of the string twice around his middle finger. With a shrug, he flicked his wrist and let go of the trompo. It bounced, only barely glancing the tip to the floor, and rolled away. Jak's eyes narrowed. There had to be a trick to it. He picked it up and began winding the string around it again. Maybe he'd thrown too hard? Maybe it was more like casting a fishing line than a grenade.

The second time, the trompo landed on its point and spun around once or twice, but soon wobbled and fell. The third time, it spun for nearly four seconds before clattering to the floor. The fourth attempt was too fast and sent it rolling across the room again.

Sig sat down beside Damas to watch the boys. Daxter and Chopper had both been completely buried under Mar's four beloved stuffed animals -- none of which had been forgotten in the last two years.

Mar had grabbed his weighted Star Blankie from his cot and was menacing Daxter with it, intent on tucking him into "bed".

And Jak crouched barefoot in the center of the nursery, watching the spinning top with wide, fascinated eyes. It was as if he'd forgotten the rest of them existed, hyperfocused on unraveling the secrets of a little wooden trompo.

"Well, at least two shirts still fit. Pants will be an adventure, but-" Damas looked up and his words trailed away.

Beside him, Sig was watching Jak with such a sadness in his eye that it drove thoughts of clothing from Damas's mind entirely.

"...Sig?"

The breath Sig took was shaky. He swallowed hard.

"I've never seen him play," he whispered.

"I didn't think he even knew how after what they did to him. I-"

He stopped and covered his mouth with one hand. He didn't want Mar to see him looking so distraught. But he couldn't help wondering how many years it had been since Jak had played. Since he'd even been allowed to act his age. Had the "training" started early? Did he ever know what it was to be coddled? To be tucked into bed, or held close during thunderstorms?

Would he allow them to fill in the holes Haven had left behind?

Sig's throat ached when he looked at the innocent smile on the teenage mercenary's face. There was still a sweet little kid in there, there had to be. But they had to make him feel safe enough to come out.

"Daym, we have to get him some toys," he whispered. "I...I don't think he's ever had any."

The same realization Sig had made dawned slowly on Damas’s face. His brows knit together and the lines etched around his mouth deepened. Perhaps he needed to take his resolution to treat both boys equally a little more literally than he'd first planned.

"Oooo!"

Mar had finally noticed the trompo.

He stopped trying to bury Daxter and Chopper in toys and scampered over to lean on Jak’s back.

"Oowow, Za!"

That innocent look turned bashful as Jak twisted to look at his little half-brother. "Pretty cool, huh?" he asked.

"Do it again!" Mar signed enthusiastically, "Make it go all the way to the door!"

Jak shrugged. "Why not. We'll give it a go."

"Heads-up, in five minutes I think Mar needs to get ready for bed," Sig warned suddenly.

"I'm not tired!" Mar protested.

"Mar-mar you've been rubbing your eyes for fifteen minutes," Daxter tattled from under the stuffed animals.

Jak bounced his shoulder, causing the toddler to slide off. "And you turn into a Lurker when you're overtired. We'll do one more spin, and then I'll-"

He frowned. No, they weren't in Haven anymore. Things were different now. He didn't know the rules here.

"Uh. I guess they'll get you ready for bed?"

Damas actually looked embarrassed, and even a little sad. He blew a breath out through his teeth.

"Jak," he began, "It's been…It's been two years since Mar was home. As much as I want to fall back on the routine we kept…before…I- I don't think that's what Mar is used to."

Sig nudged Damas’s elbow in an attempt at comfort and nodded. "He's right, cherry. Do you…want to show us what you usually do?"

Jak exchanged a look with Daxter. Daxter shrugged and extricated himself from the pile of toys. He brushed himself off and eyed the room critically.

"Yeeeeahh….I don't think he's gonna sleep. Not without the lights on. Those barbarians in the Underground never turn the lights out. And lemme warn you now: this kid? He's a climber. That dresser better be anchored to the wall, or he will try to monkey his way up it in the middle of the night."

“Ah. So he still does that.” Damas chuckled ruefully. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

He raised his brows at Mar.

“And for the record, little one, Daddy, Ba, and Jak and Daxter are all on the same page here. You're not staying up to break of dawn just to play with your toys. They'll still be here tomorrow, I promise.”

"Well, then can Dax and Jakky sleep over?"

Mar ran to climb up into Damas’s lap, beaming winningly at him and Sig. "So they can play with me tomorrow?"

"Of course, Marmo," Sig answered warmly. "They can stay as long as they want."

Mar's eyes lit up and he threw his arms up with a jubilant hiss. Then a puzzled look came over him.

"Does he have to ask his grown-ups? With the scribbly face and Mr. Green Man?"

Jak's face hardened. "I don't have to tell them anything," he scoffed.

Sig nodded with a hard set to his jaw. "They aren't his grown-ups, baby. Me and your daddy are, or close enough to it."

If anything, this only seemed to confuse the little boy more. He wrinkled his button nose at Sig, then looked to Damas. "But I thought Jakky lived in the stinky city!"

"Not if I can help it," Jak grumbled. He let out a gusty sigh and shifted his eyes away. "Look, um. Your dad is...we...we kinda...share the same dad. It's weird, I know."

He missed the gentle expression that passed over Damas’s face. It was the first time he'd acknowledged their connection at all, let alone out loud. That was a promising sign. Damas could only hope his firstborn would continue to be open to getting to know them.

Mar blinked slowly as he digested this information. The big boy had been calling him "little brother", now that he thought of it. But Mar had thought they'd just decided to be brothers, like how he decided to adop' his puppy! But if he and Jakky shared the same daddy-

"Are you Jakky's Ba too?"

Sig laughed awkwardly. "Uhhhhh no. At least, not originally. I wasn't related to his ma."

He glanced up at Jak.

"You can call me what you want," he joked, "long as you aren't knockin' my marksmanship."

Jak looked just as awkward. "I'll uh, I'll stick with Sig."

He fiddled with the string of the trompo and wound it up. When he was satisfied that he'd twisted the cord correctly, he shifted his weight and prepared to throw the top again.

"Okay squirt, last spin, then you pick which side of the bed the dog gets tonight."

Daxter stretched out his spine and leaned on the stuffed Flut-Flut.

"You want us to camp in here with ya, kiddo?"

Mar started to nod, then a thoughtful look came over him. He snuggled closer to Damas’s chest.

"Um," he mumbled, then looked a little guilty as he signed, "Yes, only I think maybe Daddy might get scared tonight. And I am a big kid now, so I should help him be not scared."

Jak actually cracked a grin, alleviating some of the guilt on the little boy's face. "Oh yeah? You're gonna be his bodyguard tonight?"

"Yeah!"

"Well who's going to stay with Chopper?" Jak teased.

A look of consternation wrinkled Mar's brow, then just as quickly melted into stubbornness.

"You! You sleep in my room with Chopper!"

The boys sent a skeptical glance at Mar's alcove bed. While it had been commissioned with growth in mind, it was still over a foot shorter than would be comfortable for a teenager. If he stayed in a fetal position the whole night, Jak supposed he could manage it. After all, on his first night in Spargus, Jak slept in the indoor oasis, curled up between potted palms and safely out of sight.

Apparently, that wasn't acceptable for a long term stay. Not that Jak intended on staying that long. Not while the Baron was still alive and still a threat to his brother.

He told himself he didn't need a bed. Why bother when he wasn't even meant to stay that long? He'd done his part, he'd brought Mar back to his -- er…their -- family. Any moment now they'd probably give him an air train pass back to Haven.

Keep your expectations low enough, and it's harder for people to disappoint you.

Sig noticed his quiet and cleared his throat meaningfully at Damas. And for his part, Damas interpreted the sound as quickly as Daxter could read Jak's faces. He stood and, after reluctantly handing Mar to Sig, excused himself.

Daxter folded his arms. "Where's he off to?"

Sig held Mar's hands and bounced him up and down. He smiled. "Oh, just moving some bedsheets around to make a curtain."

"Is he into interior decorating on the side?" Daxter demanded, "And does he do free consultations?"

"What."

Daxter shoved Jak's skeptical face. "Hey, if Krew's dead, the bar's mine. And the way that man decorated is a travesty!"

Sig laughed outright. "Well, the "incident" left poor Tess at the bar all by herself for a couple days, so I'm sure she's tweaking lots of things here and there."

He leaned back against the squishy blue bean-sand-chair thing. "Nah, this is just a privacy curtain for the sitting room. Til we can find just the right room for you two chili peppers."

With a wink, he added, "You won't have to fold in half just to sleep if we put you on the couch. If your old man remembers to get his clean laundry off of it."

"I'm working on it!" Damas shouted from the other room.

"You...don't have to do that," Jak mumbled.

This much attention without a task attached to it was...weird. It made him nervous.

Sig gave him a no-nonsense look. "You're teenagers," he said bluntly, "You need boundaries. As much as you and Mar love each other, he can't be up in your space every minute of the day. Having a room of your own lets you...regroup, y'know? Have some privacy when the world gets to be a little too much."

Jak started. It was as if the big man had been reading his thoughts. He did feel overwhelmed. He needed a safe place to withdraw to. But he didn't know this place. He didn't know where the safe places were! Jak folded his arms tightly over his chest and let the channeling ring dig into his skin, cold and hard and proof he was there, and real.

"What's the catch?" Daxter asked on his behalf.

It didn't seem like the question surprised Sig much. He wrapped Mar in a tight hug, then set him down on the floor. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and feigned nonchalance.

"Well, you gotta keep your room clean enough to walk in. Easier said than done for some kids."

Jak relaxed slightly. So there was an exchange. Easier to accept things when he knew exactly what the terms were. Borrow a room for a while in exchange for keeping it clean. Made sense, they'd need it again later, probably. But it didn't seem like a fair exchange. Surely there had to be something else they wanted from him!

"What else do we have to do?" he asked.

There was no hostility in the question, only mild curiosity. But Sig winced all the same.

"Well, considering we ain't Krew, or whoever you worked for in the Underground, nothing. This isn't a job, cherry, it's a home! We're not employing you, we're trying-"

He scratched his head, stumped for how to phrase it. How to explain to the boys that they were entitled to being cared for.

"We- Damas and I- we just want to give you back the childhood they took. Dunno what that looks like yet, but...give us a chance? We just want you to be okay."

First

#jak and mar are separate people au #fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter #jak and daxter au #dadmas #king damas #dad sig #damas and sig are platonic life partners in this one #jak and daxter mar #long post #blackmail au #snippet friday #free day friday #jak has to learn how to be a kid again 🥲#don't worry though. by the time they defeat Kor he will have amassed a staggering amount of legos #also he will have built hotwheels tracks around the walls of his room everywhere

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cryscendo · 4 months

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For the drabble game! Kurt, au: sports!au (gymnastics), trope: exes, prompt: “sometimes, i sit in bed and wonder what would happen if things were different.” :)

thank you so much for the request, this was so much fun to write. i decided to make this kurtbastian bc i’ve never wrote that ship before and you gave me some freedom with the ship choice. sorry if this is ooc at all, i tried my best <3 i decided to go about this as gymnast!kurt and coach!sebastian. it makes more sense in context i promise

Word Count: 823

Fic can be read under the cut!

“Porcelain, take a break! You’re useless if all you're gonna do is fall on your ass every time you try to swing on the bars. Give yourself ten then be back on the high beam.”

Thank god, Kurt thought. He had been working with Coach Sylvester for awhile now, and though his routine has improved for it, his sanity is certainly taking a toll. She pushed him in ways that no other coach had prior.

Well, aside from one.

He attempted to dust the chalk off his hands, — though he admittedly was just making small puffs of dust clouds, — before reaching for his water bottle. He had been a practicing gymnast for close to fifteen years, and these days he’s starting to feel those years wear on him more and more.

“Damn, Hummel, you look like you’ve been going through it. That new coach of yours really rides your ass, huh?”

He recognized the voice immediately. He wished he could be surprised by the other’s presence, but given as they frequently occupy the same training facility, it wasn’t all too much of a shock. With a sigh, he turns and faces the owner of the voice.

“What do you want, Sebastian?” Kurt took a sip of his water as he took in the man before him. Sebastian looked largely the same that he always had. Then again, they are forced into relative proximity with enough frequency that he could never possibly forget how he looks. Sebastian looked at Kurt with that same smirk that always agitated him when they were together.

“Who says I want anything? I have a trainee I’m working with, but she seems to be running a bit late. I guess not everyone is as punctual as you are, Kurt.” Kurt scoffs in annoyance, looking anywhere but at the other man. At Kurt’s lack of response, Sebastian continued on. “You seem exhausted, how about you come have a seat in the bleachers with me for a bit?”

“I really don’t think that’s a good-”

“Just for a few minutes. C’mon, we can be nice.” Despite everything in Kurt telling him that spending any period of time with Sebastian was a bad idea, he decided to silence that part of him. There was not much that the man could do in ten minutes. And besides, Kurt could admit, if only to himself, that he missed Sebastian.

They sat in silence at the bleachers for only a moment before Sebastian spoke up again. “So Sue Sylvester is your coach now, huh? Makes you seem like quite the masochist.”

“My routine is better for it. I’m at the best I’ve ever been.” That much was true. There was hardly a gymnast in the state that could outpace him.

“You didn’t seem to appreciate being pushed back when I was the one doing it.”

“You were different,” Kurt insisted, finally looking Sebastian in the eyes as he spoke. “Sure, Coach Sylvester puts me through hell, but there’s no emotional attachment there.” Sebastian should know that it was always different with him. It was largely Kurt’s fault, he should’ve never gotten involved with his coach. But of course, hindsight is always twenty-twenty. “You were my coach when I needed my boyfriend and my boyfriend almost never. Can you see how that maybe fucked me up?” Kurt let out a sigh, shaking his head. “As dumb as it sounds, sometimes, I sit in bed and wonder what would’ve happened if things were different.”

Sebastian looked at him coolly and that in itself frustrated Kurt even more. Then, he let out a small huff of a laugh, but there was hardly any humor in it. “You have no idea what my intentions were. And you’re right, that does sound dumb. There’s nothing you get out of dwelling on the past.” The look on Kurt’s face turned into one of confusion. Sebastian elaborated further. “Kurt, you were great. But I knew you could be incredible. So my methods are unconventional, I’ll admit that. Made you tougher, though. Sounds like a pretty good deal, don’t you think? So in a way, I don’t feel too bad about pushing you.”

Kurt seemed at a loss of what to say for a moment. He was trying to conjure up what to say in reply to all that. But before he had the chance, his coach was calling out to him. “Porcelain, you got one minute!”

Kurt wasted no time in standing up. “Goodbye, Sebastian.”

“Kurt, wait.”

Kurt stopped midway down the bleachers and looked back at Sebastian, an eyebrow raised. Sebastian spoke up again. “Why don’t we get coffee again sometime soon?”

At this, Kurt gave a small smile. With a shrug, he continued back down the bleachers, but not before giving one final reply. “Maybe after I win my next gold medal. I mean you said it yourself, I’m already great. I figured you’d want to see me be incredible.”

#glee #kurt hummel #sebastian smythe #kurtbastian #prompt fill #my fic #my stuff #backslashdelta #i have abandoned the idea of these being under 500 words im just not built for that #i hope you like! i wanted to try something different but i may have dropped the ball a bit idk

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antilocaprine · 1 year

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I got an anon ask that wondered if I had any plans to continue this prompt fill, which is an AU of my already-an-AU Among Us/HLVRAI crossover Some Stars Are Not Enough. This is the result. (You don’t have to read Some Stars to get this, but you should read the prompt fill linked above, since this picks up right where that leaves off.)

45% Chance

The ship groans around Benrey as he sprints through the corridors. This time, he’s literally going through them - with no humans left on the ship, he’s free to clip through the structure. It slows him down a touch, since he needs to make sure nothing is exposed to the vacuum of space before he steps into it, but he’s got all his senses flared out like a net, his form warping into a dish-like shape with limbs in order to catch all the information he can get before he reaches the lab and the spacewalking suits.

Something cracks on the other side of the bulkhead he was just about to cross into and he jukes to the right, pounding through several hissing pipes and another bulkhead. He stumbles out into the lab and steps sideways to get himself free of the bed he’d walked into. Casting a frantic glance around, he lunges for the spacesuits and wrenches them out of their cabinet, breaking the door lock so he can pull them free.

The lock floats by his face and he pauses to stare at it, then at the rest of the room. The lab is a mess of floating jars and colorful liquids that are coalescing into wobbly balls, drifting aimlessly through the air. The gravity is failing, and that means the second reactor is close to failing, too. Benrey moves faster.

There isn’t enough time to try to rig the suits together. Benrey jams himself into the biggest one, which will allow him to keep his own suit on with its auxiliary oxygen pack. However, that means he’s down to two arms and two legs - the spacewalking suits weren’t designed to change with him.

The screaming alarms rise in pitch and distort, then fall silent with a strangled chime. Benrey whips his head around and listens. There is a faint whine coming from the rear of the ship, which is now below him - he had to brace himself against the wall to get into the suit in the failing gravity. The reactor is going, and he’s running out of time.

He’s not really sure what his plan was beyond this. He’s in a suit that will give him four hours of oxygen on top of the two hours of oxygen his own everyday suit contains. (The people who sent them on this mission - the humans, not the Supervisors - figured if something in the ship broke and they lost oxygen for over two hours, it wasn’t going to be fixed. Why waste resources?) Benrey’s own, ahem, unique physiology means that he can use the same amount of oxygen for about twice as long as a human. It’s still probably not going to be enough.

The ship groans in protest of what’s happening to it. Benrey feels a bit bad - it’s not the ship’s fault it was chosen for a mission that was doomed to fail. They’re all just playing pieces in a bigger game that none of them know the rules to. It’s not fair - but what is?

Gordon’s shocked face flashes through Benrey’s mind, and he takes a sharp breath. He shouldn’t leave it like that. If there’s any way to get back to them -

Probably not quite a 45% chance, now. Maybe 20%, at least? Benrey’s not great at calculations, but he can probably swing 20%.

The ship screams and something wrenches. Suddenly, half of it falls quiet.

“Hull breach,” Benrey hisses. “Fuck.”

He shoves the huge spacewalking helmet between his legs, locking his ankles around it. Upside down in the far corner of the lab, he pulls his torso out of the spacewalking suit and shoves more arms out, catching the walls and ripping them free. Rivets ping loose and tumble through the air as Benrey curls the walls around himself. He doesn’t need a lot of room - just enough space to keep all the suits folded inside with their fresh caches of oxygen. The tricky part will be getting a solid enough seal to maintain the atmosphere with no gaskets and no external bulkheads.

Unless…Benrey glances up through the narrowing space above his head. If he can reach the right wall panel, then maybe he could get a secondary layer. He’ll have to move quickly, though. Already he can hear cracks forming in the nearby bulkheads.

The vacuum is closing in.

* * *

“Dad? Shouldn’t you put your helmet back on?”

Joshua’s voice is shaky, and Gordon snaps back to himself. He’d been floating away, his eyes on the porthole window of the escape pod that is rocketing away from the stricken spaceship.

“Yeah - yes, right.” He shoves the helmet back on and engages the locks with a hiss. Then his eyes flick to the control panel and he curses. 45% oxygen? That must be what Benrey saw, what made him back out. Just Gordon and Joshua will be okay, but adding another adult would have shortened their conscious time by a potentially lethal amount.

“Is Benrey gonna be okay?”

The pod is traveling on a surprisingly straight path, and Gordon can still see the ship. The pod must be rotating - or the ship is, because it’s tilting nose-down in the porthole view. He finds himself thinking about terrestrial ships sinking at sea.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Gordon reassures his son, though his voice is strangled.

He feels like he’s going insane. Benrey kissed him. What the fuck?

“Oh. Okay.” Josh looks around, but the jumpseat harness keeps him from moving too much. “Where’re we going?”

Gordon glances back at the control screen. “The pods are all - uh, they’re programmed to rendezvous with each other to form a raft. Then they’ll send out a distress signal, and someone will pick us up.”

“Okay.” Josh kicks his feet. “Um. How long?”

“It depends, buddy. Might be in ten minutes or two hours, or tomorrow.” Or a week, but Gordon isn’t going to mention that. Hopefully someone had gotten off a long-range distress signal from the ship’s transmitter while he and Joshie were locked in the stargazing room. Otherwise they’ll be at the mercy of interplanetary shipping schedules. All the planet-to-planet people transfers are limited to once a month, and they certainly don’t have enough air to hold out that long.

“Okay,” Joshua says, sounding preoccupied.

Gordon knows that tone. He tilts his helmet against the shoulder harness to look over at his kid. “You have to go to the bathroom, don’t you?”

Joshua nods.

Gordon sighs and checks the control panel. “Can you hold it for ten more minutes? We’re supposed to dock with the rest of the raft then, and after that you can get up and use the cubicle.”

“Can I go now?”

“No. If we get knocked around by something you could get hurt.”

“Okay,” Joshie sighs, and Gordon stretches himself up to peer back at the ship, now inverted in the pod’s window.

It looks…weird. Some sort of vapor is coming off the snout, and it’s tilting away from the wispy trail.

Gordon breathes in sharply through his nose. That’s atmosphere. The ship is venting atmosphere, which means there’s a hull breach, which means -

“Shit,” he swears under his breath.

“Huh?”

“Nothing!”

Joshua seems like he’s ready to protest, but Gordon holds a hand up. “I’m - watching the numbers, okay?”

Apparently that sounds boring enough to satisfy Joshua, and he ducks his chin and pats his legs in an off-kilter drumbeat.

Through the window, the ship cracks in half.

Gordon’s muscles are so tense his vision is starting to darken around the edges. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, and he forces himself to breathe steadily as he watches the front half of the ship droop, then disconnect from the back half. A burst of debris is expelled from what must be the cargo hold - Gordon clinically picks out chairs, gas cans, crates, and tables.

He doesn’t see another pod. He’s not sure there were any left. Benrey was bunking with Tommy, and Tommy’s pod is blinking in the image of the raft on the control panel, so that means that, unless someone else hopped into that pod and left their own, Benrey’s trapped on the dying ship.

He must have a plan, Gordon’s sure of it. He must. There’s no way he would have sent Gordon and Joshua away without having a plan - right?

But he’d kissed Gordon. And it felt like a goodbye. It feels more and more like a goodbye with every passing second, as Gordon watches the field of debris expand into the vacuum of space.

“Dad, can I -”

Gordon can’t pay attention to what Joshua says, because at that moment, the ship explodes.

It should make noise, he finds himself thinking wildly. It should be making a sound, or there should be a shockwave that hits the pod and sends it spinning. But this is the void of space, and all there is is a bloom of terrible light that obscures the intact rear half of the ship. When it clears - fire can’t live without oxygen - the entire stern of the ship is so much blackened debris, scattered chunks of bulkhead tumbling away in all directions. Without air resistance, their momentum will keep them going practically forever. Maybe someday, one of them will end up crashing through the atmosphere of the planet the ship came from. Maybe someday, some tiny remnant of their vessel will find its way home.

The pod’s transmitter crackles with static. “...Freeman! Mr. Freeman? Can you hear me? Mr. Freeman, come in!”

Gordon reaches out and hits the transponder button with numb fingers. “I can hear you, Tommy,” he says, voice hollow. “Can you see -”

He can’t finish, but luckily Tommy doesn’t need him to. “We saw it. You’ll connect, um, you’ll be docking with us in just a second.”

Sure enough, a heavy clunk sounds through the bulkhead behind Gordon’s jumpseat, and the whole pod shudders. Some sense of motion that he hadn’t even noticed ceases. He twists his head around, but he can’t see past the helmet, and there’s no window back there, anyway. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what to think.

“Fucking finally,” Forzen’s voice snaps through the static. “What took you so long?”

“We were trapped,” Gordon rasps. “On the observation deck. The doors locked on us.”

Several voices clamor at that, but Gordon can’t pick any of them out.

“Dad!” Joshua whispers. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah - yeah, go ahead.” Gordon unclips his own harness at the same time as Joshie does, but he kicks away from the jumpseat and plasters himself against the window.

In the distance, the ship continues to drift apart.

Tommy’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Mr. Freeman, is Benrey with you? He’s not showing up on the scans.”

Gordon swallows. “No,” he chokes out, then stops. What else can he say? They already know he’s not with any of the others.

“Oh,” Tommy replies, and then he, too, falls silent.

“So…maybe he’s the one who sabotaged the ship,” Forzen says after a moment, and Gordon’s vision whites out. Luckily, several other voices are jumping to Benrey’s defense, Dr. Coomer and Bubby flinging curses over the channel and Darnold’s voice trying to call for calm.

“It wasn’t him.” When Tommy speaks, the others go quiet. “One person couldn’t do that. Watch - look at it! It was broken from the start.”

The others go quiet, and Gordon’s throat is hot and thick with grief and fury as he looks at the desolation. Benrey was supposed to get out of that. How could he just kiss Gordon, push him away, and then - and then die?

How dare he?

“I got a signal out before the, um, the ship’s communications went down,” Tommy continues. “My - um, I mean, we should be getting picked up soon.”

“How soon is soon, my dear Tommy?” Dr. Coomer’s normally jovial voice is tight.

“Um, really soon.”

Light blooms across the pod window again, and Gordon flinches back, squinting into the glare. This isn’t the dirty yellow-orange glow of an explosion - this is the clean white light of a spaceship.

“Is that a courier?” Forzen’s tone is disbelieving. “Is that a fucking courier? Who the fuck heard you and has the clearance to re-route a fucking courier -”

His voice cuts out with a screech of static.

Please stand by, the courier says in a gentle voice. You will be relocated shortly.

“Dad?” Joshie has finally emerged from the tiny restroom cubicle, and pulls himself along the wall to reach Gordon. “Who’s that?”

“It’s a courier,” Gordon says blankly. “They’re - living ships, with a mind and everything. They’re the fastest commercial vessel in the quadrant.”

Joshua peers through the window at Gordon’s shoulder and gasps. “Is that our ship?”

“Um-”

“But where’s Benrey?” Joshie twists around to look up at Gordon in distress and ends up knocking himself loose from the wall. Gordon catches him as he floats by upside down. Zero-G is weird. “He was supposed to follow us - you’re supposed to get married!”

“What?” Gordon sputters, completely derailed.

“He kissed you, so he has to marry you!”

“He did WHAT?!” Several voices shout in unison from the control panel.

“Fuck,” Gordon swears vehemently. He’d thought the courier had cut them off, but apparently it had just overriden their speakers for a moment. “Uh - nothing! It’s not - it doesn’t…matter.”

He clenches his teeth and listens to the others yelling at him.

“Is Benrey okay?” Joshua whispers.

Gordon bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know,” he says quietly, even though he does know. No one could have survived that explosion. Hell, he’d probably been killed when the ship broke in half and started venting atmosphere.

He’s probably been killed.

The pod shudders, and Gordon’s boots hit the floor with a clank. He curses and stumbles, juggling a suddenly-heavy Joshua, and they both nearly fall before the gravity slips and they tumble weightlessly up into the air again.

My apologies, the courier says calmly. Please be seated for relocation.

“Shit - sorry! Let’s strap in, Joshie.” Gordon kicks off the wall and fumbles them both into their jumpseats, fastening Joshie’s harness, then his own. He looks over at the control screen to see that the raft of pods has detached and is rising in a steady line into the bright spot of the courier above them.

Are you fully secured? The courier sounds slightly tetchy.

“Yes - sorry, yes, we’re strapped in,” Gordon replies, and the weightless feeling disappears as the courier pulls them into line. On the control screen, Gordon can see the first two pods already vanishing into the courier’s cargo hold.

Thank you, the courier replies blandly. Gordon catches a glimpse of the vessel’s hull as the pod passes by, and it is just as sleek and white as the advertisements make it seem. Then the hold encases them and his view of space is cut off by the darkness of the ship’s interior.

The pod slows, then settles with a clank as some sort of mag-locks catch it with a hum. The view outside the window spins, then flips, and then Gordon can see two other pods facing him across the open hold.

Please remain seated and secured while retrieval continues, the courier says.

“Continues? Who’s missing?” Tommy asks. “Mr. Freeman?”

“We’re here,” Gordon replies. One by one, the rest of the crew responds.

There is one more signal to retrieve, the courier says.

Gordon freezes. “Who is it? Can you hear -”

One moment, please, while the signal is boosted. The courier sounds tired already.

Static buzzes, then resolves into the monotone beeping of a spacewalking suit’s emergency beacon.

“No fucking way,” Forzen growls, but even his bad attitude isn’t enough to keep Gordon’s heart from lifting in his chest.

The beeping stops. And now that Gordon thinks about it, it hadn’t sounded like an actual machine beeping so much as someone saying “beep beep” in the same tone as the emergency beacon.

He takes a breath, and hopes. “Benrey? Is that you? Can - can you hear me?”

“Uh…beep…beep…nope…beep…”

Gordon laughs in disbelief. “I heard that! Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”

Fifty-three meters and closing, the courier says. Then it says, What is THAT?

“Uh…I’m fine, I'm in a burrito. Beep.”

“You don’t have to keep saying ‘beep,’ you idiot, we can hear you,” Bubby bursts in.

“Oh hey, cool, everyone’s here.”

“What happened to you?” Bubby snaps. “The ship blew up!”

“Yeah,” Benrey hums. “That was…kinda sucks.”

Stand by for relocation, the courier says.

“Can’t really stand, bro,” Benrey replies over the comms. “There’s, uh…no gravity out here.”

Please be secured for relocation, the courier tries.

“Yeah, this, uh, burritos’s not very secure.”

“Why the fuck do you keep saying you’re in a burrito?” Gordon laughs. Just hearing Benrey’s voice is filling his chest with bubbles.

“It’s a metal burrito,” Benrey replies, as if that’s supposed to make any sense.

The courier apparently gives up. Just don’t move, it tells him.

“Sure,” Benrey says easily. “No controls on this thing.”

The object that rises into the hold a few moments later defies explanation. It’s a long cylinder of metal that’s rolled up and twisted around itself at least twice like some sort of giant soot-smeared pirouette cookie. One end is blown open like a cartoon cigar, and it’s from that end that a battered spacewalking helmet pops out.

“You look like a weasel in a cardboard tube,” Bubby says.

“Thanks,” Benrey mumbles over the comms, and attempts to pull himself free.

What are you doing? the courier says sharply. Remain seated - remain still - stop MOVING.

“Kinda busy,” Benrey says as his makeshift pod spins. The spacewalking suits have darkened helms, but Gordon can see his head turning as he peers at each pod. “Where’s Freeman?”

“Over here!” Joshie bounces up in front of Gordon to wave through the porthole, and Gordon yelps and swipes his kid out of the air.

Can none of you follow orders? the courier asks in apparent exasperation as it closes its hull doors.

“Not - not really,” Tommy replies. The courier sends a burst of static over the comms in a machine version of a sigh.

Pressurizing atmosphere, the courier says, then it says, Seal lock. Atmosphere present. Gravity is not available at this time. For your safety, please remain seated.

“Fuck that,” Benrey mutters, half-out of his handmade pod and spinning around upside down. He seems to be hung up on the bulky spacewalking oxygen tanks.

Yeah, Gordon agrees. Fuck that. He plonks Joshua down into his own seat and straps him in. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be back when it’s safe to grab you.”

Joshua tries to protest, but Gordon is already keying in the sequence to check the outside conditions and open the pod door. The pod seems to open almost sulkily, and Gordon tumbles out and kicks off the hull in a trajectory he hopes will send him colliding with Benrey.

He almost misses, but Benrey flings out an arm and Gordon snags the oversized spacewalking suit’s glove. They spin together and smack into each other, and Gordon kicks his feet down and engages the mag-locks on his heels, slamming his boot soles onto the floor of the hull.

Someone is applauding on the comms, but Gordon isn’t listening. He needs to see Benrey’s face. He frees one hand to wrestle at the clasps of the spacewalk suit’s neck, popping them loose with a series of clicks. Once it’s free, he bats it away and it tumbles lazily through the air, fetching up against one of the pod windows.

“Hey, I can’t see!” Forzen barks.

Benrey’s eyes are golden, with a red ring around the outside of the pupil, and they glow. Gordon always figured it was just a bodymod, but now he wonders. The explosion certainly couldn’t have rolled this sheet of metal up so neatly. And Benrey had talked about “humans” like he wasn’t one.

“Hey,” Benrey smiles lazily, sticking sideways out of his horizontal tube. He reaches out with the massive, clunky spacewalk glove and taps at Gordon’s helmet. “Off, please?”

Gordon pulls Benrey’s other hand down and fastens it to his waist so he can reach up with both hands and pull his helmet off. He feels his hair float up behind him, and Benrey’s grin widens, his glowing eyes crinkling at the corners. He wiggles and pulls his free hand out of the heavy exo-suit’s shoulders to flick his own visor up so he can lean forward, but Gordon is already pushing in to meet his lips.

This time, he closes his eyes and kisses back. This time, he savors the touch of Benrey’s chapped lips, feels the rush of air against his cheek as Benrey inhales sharply through his nose and presses harder into the kiss.

The comms are a cacophony of whistling and clapping, cut through with Forzen complaining that his view is still blocked and asking for someone to describe what’s happening. Gordon leans back and opens his eyes. Benrey looks concussed, slowly rotating in his “burrito” until he is nearly vertical, with his head facing down. Gordon snorts and pulls his helmet back on.

Please do not engage in dramatic emotional moments in my hold, the courier says. Save that for the private rooms.

Benrey blinks several times. “You, uh, have private rooms?”

Of course.

“Can I, uh, request - oh, hey, where are you going?”

Gordon had started to pull away, but Benrey tugs him back with the grip on his waist. Gordon is suddenly very angry again.

“I’m going to get my kid, Benrey, so he can see that you’re alive. The ship blew up, dude! We thought - I thought you’d died.” His voice cracks awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bubby squeeze out of his own pod, muttering something about claustrophobia. Dr. Coomer soon follows, and Darnold joins them with a sigh, tapping something into his wrist panel.

“Oh…well, I’m okay, see?” Benrey spreads his arms, then has to grab Gordon’s waist again to keep from rotating away.

Gordon reaches out and smacks his shoulder, hard enough to knock him loose. “You’re an asshole,” he snaps. “What the fuck was your plan?”

Benrey’s makeshift pod bounces off the ceiling and starts to descend again. “Oh…you know.” He pulls both arms out of the exo-suit and wiggles himself free, kicking off from the metal tube, which flies like a javelin straight at Dr. Coomer. Dr. Coomer catches it and flings it away, where it slams into Forzen’s pod just as the door opens, knocking him back inside with an inarticulate curse.

“No, I don’t know, dude,” Gordon growls. “Enlighten me.”

Very suddenly, Benrey is in front of Gordon, both hands on his helmet. Gordon’s own hands snap up to keep him from pulling it off - but he’s not doing that. He’s holding down the comm button, which means they’re on a private, proximity-based channel.

Benrey leans in close, golden eyes flashing intensely. The red ring around the outside seems to be growing. “The plan was to keep you alive,” he says quietly. “Mission fucking accomplished, huh?”

Then he presses a smacking kiss against the curve of Gordon’s helmet and flicks his visor back down, pushing away from Gordon and corkscrewing through the air with a shout of “TOMMY! Did you see that explosion? Fucking sick, right?”

Please be warned that this hold is equipped with liquid water hoses, if their use becomes necessary, the courier says pleasantly.

“Uh - sorry,” Gordon waves a hand. “Won’t happen again.”

Please refrain from lying, the courier says.

Gordon ducks his head and clomps across the hold, heading back to his pod so he can release his child, who will probably immediately attach himself to Benrey and ignore Gordon for the rest of the cycle. He can’t win.

But then again…

He pauses and glances up at Benrey and Sunkist spiraling around each other, the giant dog apparently perfectly accustomed to moving in zero-G. The other crew members stand or float below, commiserating and complaining, but miraculously alive.

Then again, maybe he’s already won.

#hlvrai #half-life vr but the ai is self aware #hlvrbtaiisa #kiss prompts continuation #my words #45% chance fic #some stars fic #i really enjoyed the courier #i wasn't expecting her to show up and now i want to keep her #she's my new favorite character #picture the attitude of a 70s air stewardess #but she's built like a learjet and armed with multiple types of weaponry #neither snow nor sleet nor space pirates nor hail #none of these will stop the mail #yes she's a continuation of the usps #we don't have many things going for us but by god do we have a mostly-functioning postal service #and if the usps special cops are after you that's when you KNOW you're in trouble

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sollucets · 11 months

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I kinda want to ask you to write all touch prompts for akk and aye but because that is unreasonable and way too greedy, how about 26, 27 and maybe 33? thank you so so much! And congratulations on your followers!!!!

you know, i'd write them all too if i had the fuckin Time [sobs] thank you very much nonny

26 (kissing the top of their head) + 27 (pulling them closer) + 33 (tasting their smile) from this list for my lil event; right around 1k of height difference & nickname shenanigans and talking around another bigger issue!!!! set in the summer after ourskyy, rated t for 'tall'

💜

“Hand me that plate, Shortstop.”

Akk does, but not without making sure to splash Aye with the water running off of it. “We’ve been over this." They have, although it's been a while since Aye had first tried it in the tent. "That’s your name.”

With a little yelp, Aye snatches the plate from his hand and sets to drying it with slightly more force than strictly necessary. The water drops stand out against the gray material of his t-shirt. “Why can’t we switch?”

“Do you not have eyes?” Akk takes another bowl out of Aye’s mom’s sink and starts washing it with a little grin. “Grow a bit taller and we can talk.”

He expects Aye to fire back with a water attack of his own, or an insult, so when neither comes he turns to look at his boyfriend in faint surprise. Aye is giving the plate an undeservedly contemplative look, lips pursed. It’s very cute. Akk splashes him again.

“Akk,” snaps Aye, his nose going all scrunched the way it does when he’s actually annoyed.

“Aye,” Akk answers, grin reaching all the way up to his eyes.

Aye stares for a long second, then softens all at once, mouth curving up in turn. He still elbows Akk in retribution before picking up his next dish, though. “So if I was taller than you, we could switch? I could be your Bigfoot.”

“If you were taller than me, I would’ve come up with a different nickname in the first place.”

“But I wouldn’t have,” Aye says decisively. “You’d have been Shortstop to me.”

Akk shoots him a sidelong look, dubious. “It's annoying, so yes, probably. In a hypothetical parallel universe where you’re taller. Why are you suddenly so obsessed with this? Don’t you call me enough things already?”

“Do you not like it, darling?” asks Aye, all coy and playful, and it devolves from there. He doesn’t bring up the height thing again that day.

But apparently he didn’t actually forget, because in the time following that initial conversation Aye starts taking every possible opportunity to be taller than Akk.

It starts small, like Aye insisting Akk sit on the ground while he’s on the couch so he can reach his hair to dry it, calling him Shortstop in a tone of such overdone honeyed affection that all he can do is laugh. Or like Aye crawling into Akk’s lap so he has a height advantage when they kiss, and Akk making sure he doesn't get a chance to use any nickname at all.

Then it escalates, as things frequently do with them. Aye sits on top of the couch backrest at Akk’s house instead of on it, buys a pair of shoes with these ridiculous heel boosts, sits on Akk's desk while Akk writes his admission essays. At one point, very memorably, he gets on a table at a party they’d attended with Kan and refuses to come down until Akk has to drag him.

Akk doesn’t mind as much as he’s pretending he does, which is something he’s found works for them with these things. It makes Aye happy to see him annoyed, so if he gets what he wants and the behavior isn’t actually that annoying, it’s a win for both of them. And it is funny, honestly, and frequently ends with Aye hanging off of him somehow.

Still, though, after nearly two months of their summer together being intermittently marked by Aye’s new favorite running joke, something starts to nibble at the corner of Akk’s mind. It’s late summer now, and they’re running up closer to the thing they’ve barely managed to talk about: Aye’s impending departure, and his own entry into a northern university. And— well. He can’t manage that, but he might be able to manage this.

So the next time Aye makes a point of standing two stairs up in his own home to talk to Akk, he turns and looks up at him and asks, point-blank, “Does it bother you that I’m taller?”

Aye blinks once, twice, then laughs a little. After a second, he seems to realize that Akk is honestly asking and tilts his head with an expression of mild bemusement. “No, baby. I like it, you give great hugs and have great legs. Why?”

Akk makes a sputtering noise and tries not to get derailed thinking about Aye’s feelings about his legs, which he did already know about for— various reasons. Instead, he pointedly jerks his chin at Aye, noticeably needing to tilt his head up to do so.

“I'm just messing with you,” Aye says, reaching a hand out with a little smile. “I thought you knew.”

“I do,” says Akk, and lets Aye take his hand and pull him one step up the stairs. It doesn’t equalize their heights; Aye’s still just a little taller like this. “But... it’s been going on a long time.”

“Yeah, I guess it has,” says Aye a little thoughtfully. “I just like seeing—”

“—My angry face. I know.”

Aye outright giggles at that, gently intertwining his fingers with Akk’s. “If you know, then why are you worrying about it?”

Akk can feel his resolve failing already. He sighs.

“I guess,” says Aye thoughtfully after a moment, “I do also like it when we… switch.” He wiggles his eyebrows and continues talking over Akk’s incoherent noise in response. “So it’s fun for me, to try and turn the little nickname thing on its head. Not that you’re cooperating.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I cooperated,” Akk says, half-sure, and tries mostly unsuccessfully to glare up at Aye.

“Oh, but I do,” Aye says, tugging him even closer by their twined hands and putting his other one on the back of Akk’s neck, pushing his head down enough to press a kiss to the top of it. “Just not right away. I like getting you to admit things."

There's an odd-- hesitation there, a long moment of silence. Akk looks back up, their faces close enough to kiss properly now, and sees Aye looking away from him, eyes big and preoccupied.

“What?” Akk prompts, and when he doesn’t get an answer, adds, “Bigfoot?”

Aye’s gaze snaps back to him, suddenly focused and intent and sparkling, and he grins. “Yeah,” he says, slowly like he’s savoring the confirmation, “That’s nice.”

Akk leans up a little further and kisses that smile, gently and then less so when the fingers on the back of his neck tighten and pull him closer. He leans into it with a sigh and tries not to think about other things Aye might like him to admit, and instead thinks about how — it is nice, sometimes, to be the smaller one.

#the eclipse #akkayan #my fic tag #arbitrary milestone prompts #re: the Something Else looming over their heads in this one: i am setting up for another prompt. i'm not gonna leave that unaddressed #(not like os2 fuckin did >>)#i'm fond of this haha #i think this is my first real attempt to get comfy with akkaye's os2 dynamic in writing #i write them teasing in oowu don't get me wrong. but mine are definitely a bit softer than canon #so.... i tried it out here #what is it like in an established relationship with a person whose primary love language is annoying?#what happens when so much of your communication habits are built on one person Dragging the truth out of the other one?#by waiting or by demanding but Still.#in any case. aye insecurity anons ........ your time will come no worries #all this born from me getting 'kiss on top of the head' as a prompt and the only thing i immediately thought #was that it HAD to be aye kissing the top of akk's head lmao #also on that note. [holds out ficlet] my akkaye switch agenda! here it is! it's hardly an agenda since it's very firmly canon but you know

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selfproclaimedunicorn · 6 months

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14. What have you been finding frustrating with writing this chapter?

Accurately objectifying Ella's man.

Figuring out how much of which characters I should show off & further develop. I've had to introduce a few characters that were/are important to the plot (however fleetingly), & have minor characters existing on their peripheries in order to make them feel real/their unseen bits of the narrative feel lived in. That on top of the characters who have already been introduced is a lot to juggle. I'm having fun, because needlessly large casts are just what I do, but it's so much. Especially since I decided this would be the one time I abide completely by one of the show's more unreasonable time jumps. Reestablishing my previously introduced cast on top of more of House Strong & Ella's Man™ while weaving in how much of a bitch Ella is capable of being & my One Chapter Ship Tease is...a struggle. Lots of typing & deleting and going back to redo something because of my GRRM level character list needing to organically work with my altered episode 3 plot

#asks #fic: sins of the father #thanks!#lol approaching the last...i wanna say third? of chapter 11 #so im taking another break to do the ask prompt #something about rome not being built in a day #and i know i didn't HAVE to follow this time skip #but THIS is easier than the alternative

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movedtodykedvonte · 1 year

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Someone I forget it’s like hinted Jevil is hundreds of years old or at least way older than most other adult characters outside of card kingdomers.

I suppose his world view could be a result of that cause what if he was desperate to go back like Spamton before. What if he wanted to reverse the effects on their mind and psyche? What if he crossed a line and wanted a redo?

And what if all those years locked away, without a means to find answers slowly did away with any of those desires?

#occasionally I think about Jevil #cause it’s interesting how he was denied access to people but is indifferent or out right hostile when he finally gets interactions #while spam had that access but either was ignored or biffed most interactions #like Jevil is a contradiction to himself and a part of the charm is I don’t think he’s fully aware of it on a fundamental level #like he knows he’s a hypocrite but I don’t think he realizes how he actively works against his world view #any way fic chapter out tomorrow and then I’m speed running prompts cause enough have built up #jevil #deltarune #utdr #deltarune headcanon #deltarune analysis

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chasing-it-down · 1 year

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I DONT CARE WHAT ANYONE SAYS. FREELATTA WILL ALWAYS BE AT THE TOP OF MY FAV SHIPS OF ALL TIME !!!!!!

#ive been thinking about hlvrai again recently #its about time for my annual rewatch.#I DO NOT CARE That its cringe to like hlvrai in 2023 #that funny little series changes my brain chemistry and who i am as a person #i still quote it constantly even tho its been years #anyways back to freelatta #something about gordon and tommys chemistry throughout the whole series is just top notch #YES IK YHE SERIES WAS JUST FRIENDS FUCKING AROUND #but the characters that were being played obviously cared about each other a lot #blah blah blah people have talked about this already in the fandom #But i will be real with you. gordon and The One guy are funny together #But it will never be as good as what freelatta has #theyre just built different #one day ill finish my freelatta fics i promise #but if prompted i could talk about these two forever #the coworkers to friends to lovers is just. Its just so special to me #WAAAHHHHHHH #cole talks #Um anyways #hlvrai

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x-i-l-verify · 2 years

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The premise of a group of very different people trapped against their wills in a horrible situation taking back a small bit of control and agency over their own lives by choosing to care for and be good to one another is something I will always, always go feral for, in any fandom, in any context.

#XI Yammers #writing #idea prompt #*clenches fist* it's about the deliberate CHOOSING to be GOOD to someone else even when your lives are awful #of reaching out and seeing the humanity and worth in someone else even if the world around you doesn't #it's about reclaiming just a little bit of the agency that was stolen from you by choosing radical kindness instead of cruelty or apathy #plus this way you get hurt but also comfort and the built in possibility for found-family it's a freaking win-win there are NO downsides #it's my favorite type of fic to read by far #why are there so few TT TT

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capybaraonabicycle · 3 months

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ohh the temptation to forget about all my wips and write an angsty fic about Karvanista & Mels in the aftermath of the Doctor and Lee disappearing 🥰🥰🥰

#I won't give in bc I need to find out how to visualise this bloody join of two points (it can't be that hard I am just stupid)#and then I need to sleep #but I have ✨ideas ✨#ask me if you want to make me happy :)#if you're seeing this pine: I have already written 1.4k for your prompt #no kiss has happened yet which comes to no one's surprise I am sure #that fic is - naturally - also the cause of the Karvanista & Mels ideas #my brain just went #'what is she doing spending her last evening with her wife? she should be with her dog (dad) before they are forcefully separated'#edit: is was dead simple I just built a subspace spanned by the two points #it's too late to do math/art/programming/whatever this is

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not-me-underc0ver · 6 months

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(had this in my drafts and completely forgot about it.)

Peter going on a trip for about two weeks and everything just starts going wrong.

Tony accidentally shatters his coffeepot.

May manages to break TWO phones. (Her old one and then the insurance replacement.)

Ned's computer stops working.

Etc.

They've come to the conclusion that while none of these things are a result of Peter not being there it's certainly odd it only happened while Peter was gone.

#peter parker #tony stark #irondad #iron dad #peter and tony #spider son #mcu fanfiction #the world is built for two #funny #irondad prompt #crack fic

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andnatiabrosca · 4 months

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i keep telling my boyfriend i want to reas the better gideon the ninth - the one with natia brosca in it

#birch speaks #anyway this is the announcement ig that I'm gonna basically abandon here for a while. I'm now entirely built for locked tomb #(i have prompts i know and im always taking but gd help me all i want to write rn is indulgent tlt fic)

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radioactivepeasant · 11 months

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Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday part 2

Following this morning's Part One, here comes Part Two, featuring Jak's first conversation with Damas, followed by a timeskip to roughly two months later -- a bit after his second Arena fight in-game. (And yes, Jak took two months to put the pieces together in spite of Damas having the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. He got distracted by getting to drive a buggy for the first time) Part Three comes later today.

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Jak glared at this so-called king across the low table. He might not have been in chains anymore, but he clearly wasn't free to leave. Sig had the keys to the Hellcats, and there were three big Wastelanders guarding the entrance of the tent. He was stuck, unless one of them happened to be carrying enough eco to transform him. But even if he could change form and fight his way out, what was the point? He had nowhere to go, and no one he could trust but Daxter.

His eyebrows dropped lower into a look that left the average KG shuddering. To his irritation, his stare barely fazed his captor. Damas merely raised an eyebrow at him, almost amused, and then returned his attention to his bowl. He was ignoring Jak.

"It's a long flight back to the Central Wastelands," Damas remarked without looking up. "I will not force you to eat -- You've clearly had a...trying day already. But redshrimp don't keep overnight, and we don't waste food. If you're not going to eat it, give it to someone else."

Daxter and Jak exchanged sidelong glances, neither certain whether to call the grizzled warrior's bluff. Eventually, hunger won out and Jak had to swallow his pride -- and whatever was in the weird red stew he'd been given. It was good, he could begrudgingly admit, but food from captors was hard to trust.

"Alright." Jak finally broke his three hour silence. "What do you want?"

Damas set down his bowl and leaned back. "I already told you when we arrived: I want to know what you remember from your childhood. I want to know what the last...eleven? Twelve? Years were like for you."

"What does that have to do with anything?!" Jak demanded, "It's not gonna give you some...new advantage over Haven or whatever!"

"Yeah! We didn't even grow up there!" Daxter chimed in. "Whatever plans you got, you better spill 'em, Spikes. Me an' Jak, we’re done being good little pawns, you got it?"

This time, Damas did smile. "I have no need of pawns. Nor do I particularly require any extra advantages against Haven."

He chuckled darkly. "They do not know even now how precarious their position is."

Jak stiffened. "Are you threatening them?" he asked, almost growling the words. "They held up their end of the bargain."

"At your expense."

That wound was still too fresh for Jak to defend against. Pain welled up under his ribs, almost silencing him.

"That's what you wanted, Wolf. What did you think they were gonna do? Hide a messed-up street rat and let you kill the governor's right hand man? They aren't that dumb."

Damas’s smile fell, and his face settled into a carefully practiced neutrality. "You are...loyal to them?"

The truth was out before Jak even recognized it as truth.

"No. I'm loyal to the those who are loyal to me. And...some of them live in that city."

Damas nodded, and a hint of tension left his shoulders. "A good answer. For these friends' sakes then, I am glad that the rest of Haven did not attempt a betrayal or otherwise harm you at the handoff."

Daxter blinked. He had a bad feeling about this kind of talk. "W- why? Didn't seem like you had much of a problem with violence."

With a casual shrug, the king said, almost conversationally, "If M- Jak had had so much as a scratch on him, I would have razed the walls anyway."

Jak’s mouth went dry. "That's-! That's crazy! You can't do that, there's still metalheads out there!"

Damas picked up his bowl again and leveled a meaningful look at Jak.

"Perhaps they should have thought of that before snatching you out of your cradle and using a child for cannon fodder, hmm?"

What?

Jak set his bowl down with a smack. "What do you know about that?" he snarled, "You're the one who wanted the "Dark Warrior", aren't you?"

For a moment, his captor faltered. A single ripple tipped across the liquid in the bowl, betraying his reaction. His jaw tightened, and Jak wondered if the mask was about to fall. About time. Three hours was a long time to play nice before letting the other shoe drop.

"If I had used any other name," said Damas, halting between words now and then as if gathering his thoughts, "I suspect the Council would have feigned ignorance. I gather there are...connotations to that description of you. I chose it so that they would not be able to hide you from me."

With a frustrated growl, Jak slammed the flat of his hand against the table.

"Yeah yeah, I'm a bioweapon, I know. Precursors, everybody's the same. I'm not a possession, buddy. If you think you can make me fight for you, it won't end well. But hey, I'd love to see you try."

One of the guards lifted the flap at the mouth of the tent and frowned in at them. One hand strayed to his Peacemaker, clearly ready to defend his leader from the prisoner's challenge. Damas waved a hand, dismissing him easily.

That they didn't even try to protest should have warned Jak that Damas was a force to be reckoned with in his own right. But, caught up in his confusion and pain, Jak couldn't think beyond lashing out.

"Jak."

Damas set his bowl down and exhaled sharply through his nose.

"All Wastelanders have known the pain of betrayal at some point or other. We know where your anger comes from. But you waste your energy directing it at the people who are simply trying to free you from the city that kidnapped you."

His air of formality dropped for a moment as he calmly met Jak's glare head-on.

"...and if you go around threatening other Wastelanders like that, eventually someone will take offense and you'll end up getting your ass kicked. Pick your battles, son."

Bristling at the condescending epithet -- why did it sit so heavy in his chest? What was with this guy? -- Jak stood up.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, "Why me? It's not because of Sig, or you wouldn't give a rip about my memories. What do you care?!"

The instant of pain that flitted over Damas’s face gave Jak pause for a moment. In spite of himself, he felt a little bad. But why would something he'd said make the Dune-Wolf flinch like he'd been struck? He contemplated bolting when the king stood up, but he wasn't close enough to Daxter for a clean getaway.

But when Damas stood, he was melancholic, rather than angry. He eased a half step closer, then stopped.

"What do you remember about your early childhood?" he asked again. This time, there was a catch in his words.

"The place you were born? Your clan? Your people?"

Daxter scurried over to grip a handful of Jak's trouser leg, willing him to calm down and think for a second. Couldn't he tell what Spikes was getting at? Well, maybe he couldn't. Jak was pretty panicky at the moment. But from outside of Jak's head, it was just a bit easier to put some pieces together. Jak was right: this wasn't just about them being Sig’s friends. This was about the Kid. Or rather, who the Kid had been before Samos found him in Haven. Frankly, it made sense to Daxter for Jak's preschool self to have been the child of Wastelanders rather than some fancy-schmancy princeling like the Underground thought. With the way that kid hated shoes and ran off into danger at every turn, he had to have had parents with Sig-like habits.

"Just- just give him some space," Daxter squeaked, waving a paw at Damas. "He's too worked up right now to hear what you're sayin'. Jak and me, we've been through some bad stuff. Ya have to block some of it out sometimes just to sleep at night, y'know? It's not his fault he can't remember!"

Damas’s shoulders fell, just a little, and he nodded. "I...understand," he said heavily. "He...no longer remembers us."

"Remember you?"

Jak fought the urge to duck his head or avert his eyes. He was missing something important -- something besides his early memories -- and he was sick of secrecy.

"Does everyone in this world speak in riddles? I just want a straight answer for once! Who are you people?"

One foot in front of the other, barely noticeable, Damas approached carefully. He paused with every twitch of Jak's muscles, every uneasy breath. Then he was within arms reach, and he reached out slowly. Tensed, Jak raised his fists in a guard position, ready to defend himself, but Damas showed no sign of aggression. He folded his hands around Jak’s forearms and gently pushed them back down. The guy was definitely stronger than Jak had thought. As they stood there in a strange, awkward stalemate, he searched Jak’s face as though looking for something -- or maybe someone -- he'd lost.

"We- we are your people, Jak," he said quietly, raspy and full of conviction. "Your tribe. You are -- you always have been -- one of ours. And we-"

He stopped and looked away for an instant before meeting his eyes again.

"I. I have- been looking for you for a long time."

_________________________________________

[Time Skip: Jak is too distracted by getting to act his age for the first time to put a lot of thought into getting answers. But a recurring childhood nightmare finally revisits him after two years of only having Errol related nightmares. And the elements of it start becoming too familiar to ignore.]

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The lift rattled, interrupting the pre-dawn strategy meeting. Every Spargan present tensed for the same reason: nobody interrupted the council in the wee hours unless somebody was dead, dying, or doing something heinous.

Whoever they'd expected to see staggering out of the elevator, it wasn't Jak. Most of the council had become familiar with him in the last two months -- his antics in the Arena were pretty hard to forget, after all. But the boy standing ankle deep in water now was a far cry from the rash rookie they'd all come to accept as both Damas’s Favorite and simultaneously the reason the king was drinking more coffee than usual.

Damas studied Jak, disheveled and distraught, standing in the artificial stream, and a sense of foreboding filled him. The boy's eyes were red and sleepless, his chest heaving; he hadn't even bothered to put on a shirt before showing up without a summons. Jak never left his fractal-like dark eco scars uncovered. Damas was instantly on the alert.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voicing what the rest of his council was already wondering. Daxter wasn't with him. Daxter was always with him! Had something happened?

All Jak managed to get out was a strangled, "It was you!"

Damas wasn't sure what Jak meant by that, but he hastily turned to his inner circle and cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid I need to call a brief recess in the meeting. Would you give us the room?"

It was phrased as a request, but it wasn't really. They all knew he could've just ordered them out, but he respected them enough to behave as though they were equals. For his sake, they could let him have some privacy to deal with...whatever was happening here. Seem frowned at Jak, but gracefully nodded and gathered their comrades to retreat into the map chamber for the time being.

The room was silent now, save for the musical gurgle of the water. Damas cycled through a few calming breaths, then approached Jak slowly, palms up, attempting to put him at ease.

"What do you mean, son?" he asked, keeping his voice even and calm as much as he could.

He wanted to ask if Jak had finally remembered something, if he'd had the nightmare again. But the fear of the answer being no again stifled the question before he could ask.

Jak reacted to the term of endearment strangely. He wobbled, then laced his fingers through his hair and tugged. His breathing rattled at an unhealthy speed.

"You-!" he gasped, and when Damas had gotten close enough, he let go of his hair to clutch the front of Damas’s tunic.

"Say it."

"Say what, Jak?"

"The thing! That thing that freaked you out from the dream I keep having! I need to hear you say it."

Understanding crashed over Damas like a wave, with no small amount of hope. Somehow petrified, he answered in a shaking voice, "...in this life or the next."

He swallowed hard and made the choice to take a leap of faith.

"I will find you, whether it is in this life, or the next."

Jak almost collapsed then, but Damas caught him by the elbows just as his knees buckled. Jak's fingers tightened in his robe, pulling so tightly that his armor began to shift.

"You were there!" he cried out, "You were there the night with the fire!"

"Yes," Damas whispered, shutting his eyes, "I was."

Jak trembled, too overwhelmed with the desperation of needing closure to process the fact that his fear of rejection had seemingly taken a backseat to clinging to the man he'd begun to look up to like a lifeline.

"Tell me!" he begged, eyes wild, "You have to tell me something! Why did you say that? Why were you, specifically, looking for me? Who are you?"

This was the moment Damas had waited for, for so, so long. It was no longer about withholding his own selfish needs for Jak's sake; Jak needed answers now. It was time. So he forced aside the ache of tears unshed, folded Jak into his arms, and just held him tightly. Let him be an anchor, until this storm had passed.

"I'm here," he whispered, "It's alright. I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Anything, dear one."

This close to Damas’s chest, with his mind beginning to clear a bit, Jak finally began to notice details he'd ignored in the past.

The worn texture of the linen tangled between his fingers, the band of abalone shards around Damas's neck- and the edge of something hanging between the shells he'd never stopped to notice before. He couldn't see it, but the shape he felt pressing through the tunic and into his collarbone was devastatingly familiar.

Two comets orbiting each other, tails of eco trailing.

The seal of the House of Mar.

The last pieces fell into place, heavy as a mountain. It wasn't projection, or trauma-bonding, that fueled those dreams he'd written off as childish. They were fragments of memory. The Seal against his chest was proof, unavoidable and undeniable proof, of the realization Jak was beginning to hope so desperately might be true. But even so, it seemed too great a leap to make. Too presumptuous by far. What if he was wrong? He'd never recover from the shame of it.

His voice leaked out of him before he could stop himself, so small, so weak. Damas had to strain his ears to hear him.

"Are you my father?"

The last vestiges of the ice between them shattered.

Damas sank to the floor -- whether out of emotion or relief, his legs would no longer hold him up -- taking Jak with him. He embraced him so fiercely that Jak's lungs protested. He pressed the boy against his heart and let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

"Yes," he gasped, "Yes, Jak, I am. I've got you. Your dad's here. Dad's got you."

Jak's vision blurred, blending everything into a sea of golds and browns. "Then...all of that before; the siege, everything- I- I'm not even the right kid anymore! You...came back for me anyway?"

Damas rested his chin against Jak’s scalp and smiled despite it all.

"Always," he promised fervently, "I told you, son. I told you I would find you, in this life or the next. I'll always come back for you."

#jak and daxter #fic prompts #writing prompts #free day thursday #jak and daxter au #dadmas #king damas #dadmas angst #angst/comfort #the funny part is i had the idea to do like alternating past/present chapters #so the prologue of the story is actually set sometime after this when Jak and Damas have built a pretty solid familial relationship #I'll post the prologue later. Maybe tonight after work.#prisoner exchange au #meanwhile Haven is realizing they just jettisoned their only tank

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jen-with-a-pen · 2 months

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𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is.

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter– to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day.

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week.

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together.

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival.

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door.

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger.

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder.

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit.

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip.

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing.

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink.

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it.

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time.

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell.

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear.

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below.

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost.

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape.

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully.

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium.

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form.

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?”

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.”

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan.

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear.

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours.

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.”

You wanted to take his finger and break it.

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.”

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion.

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance.

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles.

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike.

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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously.

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side.

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?”

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward.

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard.

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body.

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!”

“No! Fuck– Get off me!”

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.”

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone.

“Is that all, Sergeant?”

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.”

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged.

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you.

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.”

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why.

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame.

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door.

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy.

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however.

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?”

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release.

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core.

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs.

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass.

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.”

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him.

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure.

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you.

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!”

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you.

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode.

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile.

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

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