#Hardware Pulse

[inthewindtunnel]

Hardware Pulse

Tech-Noir

[lashling]

content: MDNI, fem!reader, smut (18+), rough sex, smoking (cigarettes), voyeuristic elements lol, dirty talk, lmk if I missed anything ~

v v loosely inspired by a manga I read + some personal experiences w neighbors and I mixed them tgt 😋 and I ran with it LOL first post gnight

900+ words

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚.

Annoying Neighbor!Toji is a man of few words when you first moved in next door. You were struggling to carry heavy boxes of items as you moved in. Thankfully, your new apartment complex has an elevator, though it did take a few trips back and forth to get your belongings shifted inside your unit.

You first saw Toji as you waited for the elevator, on the nth trip of the day from your car, carrying another packing box of clothes. He said nothing— just held the elevator door open for you as you entered and pressed the 8th floor.

Rogueishly handsome, tall, and fit, he made you feel self conscious and somehow shy beside him.

“Hey,” you try to strike up a conversation with this stranger after a few seconds of silence. “I’m new here, I was wondering—“ as soon as the elevator door opens, he leaves you in the dust, acting like he didn’t hear what you said. You flush and grit your teeth, embarrassed and annoyed.

Annoying Neighbor!Toji is a smoker. You didn’t realise why your laundry smelled like cigarettes in the balcony until you spotted him one afternoon, lounging on a chair on his balcony beside yours with a cigarette in between his fingers.

It’s an irksome sight. The next day, you made sure to pointedly exaggerate your movements as you hung your laundry just as he was out there again, shooting daggers at him and his damn cigarettes.

He barely acknowledged you, only giving you a quick glance from top to bottom, and resumed to scroll on his phone, puffing and blowing smoke from his cigarette. Still, you noticed that from then on, he at least stopped smoking whenever your laundry is out. Small wins?

Annoying Neighbor! Toji is pretty handy, you’ve noticed. Small carpentry projects, bits of hardware, and DIY knickknacks are always cluttered around the apartment corridor in front of his unit. It’s a bit of an eyesore, but oh well. It’s not like it’s infringing on your side of the corridor space anyways.

Still, you try to make your own corridor walkway more pleasant by putting pots of pretty flowers and vibrant greenery so his mess bothers you less.

He’s an annoying neighbor. He’s rude and messy.

And despite all of that, you’re a little ashamed of how fast you’ve ended up in his bed, not even a month later.

Annoying Neighbor!Toji, again, isn’t very talkative— except when he’s fucking you. That’s when you find out he’s filthy.

He tells you the dirtiest things as his cock reaches your cervix. “Ya feel that, princess?” He gives you a wicked grin as he had you in the meanest mating press, his hulking frame holding you down so that you can’t run away from his deep, toe-curling thrusts.

You’re not sure if you can speak coherently anymore— the pulsing vein on the underside of his fat, girthy cock rubs that spot in your pussy walls so good, it’s like it’s scratching an itch you didn’t know you had.

Annoying Neighbor!Toji, again, likes to smoke on his balcony while sitting on his favorite lounging chair. But he discovered he liked it even more when you’re on top of him whimpering, sinking your hips on his tip as he takes long drags of his cigarette. He gives a teasing smirk as he blows the smoke in your flushed, panting face.

He’s got you hypnotised, hips pathetically moving and riding his fat cock in a dazed, needy, trance. He likes to feel those little pulses your cute pussy does around his length whenever he groans in your ear.

When he finally puts out the cigarette, his calloused, scarred hands guide your hips up and down his thick cock, just the way he liked it.

‘You like that we’re out here, princess? Hngh—your little wet pussy’s milkin’ me like you do…” he whispered in your ear, and is rewarded with another squeeze of your pussy and a petulant whine from your lips.

Annoying Neighbor!Toji, again, is a handy man—broken sinks, faulty washing machines, creaky tables—you’re able to depend on him for help. All it takes is a knock on his door, and he helps out his helpless, sweet little neighbor. You like to thank him with freshly baked goods and a nice cup of tea some times. Most of the time though, he’s thanked by your wet pussy as he fits his fat tip into you when you’re bent over the thing he just fixed.

He’s not too bad, this neighbor of yours. Eventually, Annoying Neighbor!Toji becomes your boyfriend. Then also your roommate.

Some of his habits still get on your nerves, but you’ve learned to live with them, especially since he knows how to apologise at night.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Something's Gotta Give

Summary: Chip hitchhikes his way away from where his life fell apart. He meets a beautiful woman, you, and his brain, once again, becomes a potato.

Pairing: Chip Taylor x fem!reader

Category: fluff, smut (18+), angst

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, mentions of what happened in 68-kill, insecurities, jealousy, boss/employee relationship, happy ending

Word count: 18.7k

a/n: i love me some spencer reid but chip taylor is sooo pathetic it just gets me going

main masterlist

Additional warnings: unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), oral (m receiving), mild consensual degradation

28-year-old Chip Taylor was a mess, to put it simply. After narrowly escaping the chaos of Louisiana, he drove as far as he could on what little gas money he had, before resorting to hitchhiking. His path was aimless, following wherever someone would take him, until he somehow ended up in Colorado. In Aurora, he found a shelter where he could sleep while he searched for a job.

Now, with his face healed and dressed in some half-decent clothes—no longer stained with blood—Chip wandered the streets of Aurora, unsure of what his next move would be, but grateful for the temporary calm.

Chip quickly discovered that his search for work wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d hoped. Every place he walked into seemed to size him up before kindly, but firmly, turning him away. His stomach sank a little more with each rejection, though he tried to brush it off and keep moving forward.

At a diner, the older woman behind the counter smiled apologetically, her eyes flicking over his application. “I’m sorry, hon. We’re really looking for someone with experience in the kitchen. It’s just so busy around here, you know? Best of luck, though.”

Chip nodded, his heart sinking, but he mustered a smile. “Thanks, I understand.”

At a hardware store, the manager gave him a once-over, scratching his chin. “You ever worked with tools before? We need someone who knows their way around equipment, construction, that kind of thing.”

Chip shook his head, feeling the weight of his own uselessness. “No, but I can learn fast.”

The man offered a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure you can, but we need someone who can hit the ground running. Sorry, pal.”

Even the local gas station didn’t seem to have room for him. The young guy at the counter barely looked up from his phone as he spoke. “Yeah, we’re fully staffed right now. You could leave your number, but… I wouldn’t count on anything soon.”

Chip stood there for a moment, the rejection almost stinging more because of how little the guy cared. He turned away without leaving his number.

By the time the sun began to set, Chip was exhausted from walking up and down the streets of Aurora, facing rejection after rejection. His new clothes felt heavier with every polite smile and apologetic glance, and he wondered how much longer he could keep this up.

Chip wandered across the neon-lit streets, his eyes catching the glow from a sign that cast an inviting red hue over the sidewalk. He stopped to take it in: Lovers of Today. The name was bold, practically daring someone like him to step inside and forget his troubles for a while.

He didn’t have a cent to his name, but at least he could probably score a glass of water, and the idea of sitting somewhere that wasn’t a shelter felt like a brief escape.

As he pushed the door open, the warmth of the dive bar’s dim lighting greeted him. The red neon heart in the window flickered, casting playful shadows on the walls. The smell of old wood, cigarette smoke, and stale beer hung in the air, but Chip didn’t mind. It was a welcome change from the streets outside.

He plopped down on a worn stool at the bar, letting out a soft sigh of relief as he surveyed the room. The bar was cluttered but lively, bottles lined up with care, their glass shimmering under the soft red glow. Music hummed low in the background, a melancholic tune that fit the slow pulse of the room. A man played pool in the back, his movements lazy and unhurried, while a few scattered patrons sat at tables, lost in their own thoughts.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” A melodic voice pulled Chip from his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

He turned to face the bartender, and for a moment, his brain seemed to short-circuit. There she was—easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. That realization sent a jolt of fear through him, more intense than any excitement he might have felt. Her soft, playful smile made his chest tighten in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

You noticed his hesitation, his wide-eyed look, and leaned forward slightly, tilting your head. “…Can I get you anything?” you asked again, this time with a bit of a laugh in your voice, clearly entertained by his flustered state.

“Uh—um, yeah, just a water?” Chip finally managed, though he cursed himself for sounding so awkward.

You smiled, the amusement twinkling in your eyes. “Sure thing, sugar,” you replied, effortlessly cool as you turned to get his drink, leaving Chip to collect his scattered thoughts.

You placed the glass down in front of him with another smile. “Here you go.”

“Th-thanks,” Chip stammered, looking up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his nerves getting the better of him.

You winked, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, before turning to tend to your other customers. Chip couldn’t help himself—he leaned up slightly, watching you as you bent down to grab a beer from the fridge. His eyes lingered on your curves, his mind briefly distracted from the pit of anxiety that had been gnawing at him all day.

After you served the other patrons, you made your way back to the bar, your eyes flicking over the handsome, if not charmingly pathetic, man in front of you. His awkwardness was almost endearing.

“Anything else?” you asked, putting away freshly cleaned glasses.

“No, just water is fine,” Chip said, though the way he gulped and avoided looking at how your top clung to your chest told you he was flustered.

You sighed softly, setting down the glass you’d been holding. “Are you sure, sweetheart? You look like you’ve had a tough day.”

Chip’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled heavily, the weight of everything pressing down on him. “Yeah. I have, but I, uh… I don’t really have any money on me.”

You nodded thoughtfully, your gaze softening with understanding. “I see…” You turned around, and Chip’s heart sank, deflating even more as he stared at his water. He really was such a loser.

But then you spun back toward him, setting a nice cold beer in front of him with a wink. “It’s on the house, sugar,” you said, your smile making the tension in Chip’s chest ease just a little. “In exchange, you can tell me what’s got you so down?”

Chip blinked at the beer, surprised by the unexpected kindness. His lips twitched into a small, grateful smile as he glanced up at you. 

“Really? You want to hear about my day?” Chip asked, a bit incredulous, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. He wasn’t used to someone actually wanting to listen, especially not someone like you.

“Yeah,” you replied, offering a sweet smile that seemed to melt away some of the guardedness he’d been holding onto. “Tell me what’s got you so down.”

For a moment, Chip hesitated. Part of him wondered if he should just shrug it off, make something up, or dodge the question entirely. He couldn’t exactly spill everything—the illegal activities, the women, and all the madness that led to his escape from Louisiana. That was a story no one needed to hear. But maybe he could share the rest of it, the overwhelming feeling of being lost, broken, and more useless than ever.

“Well,” he began, keeping his gaze on the beer in front of him, fingers tracing the rim of the bottle. “It’s been a rough few weeks, to be honest. I, uh, kinda lost everything back home. Decided to leave, and… here I am, trying to start fresh, I guess.”

He took a sip of the beer, the cold liquid soothing his parched throat. “I thought I’d find a job, but, you know, turns out I’m not exactly qualified for… well, anything. Been walking all over town getting turned away.”

You leaned in a little, listening intently, your face soft with empathy. He glanced at you nervously, his words fumbling but flowing now that the gates had cracked open.

“I don’t know, it’s just… I keep messing up, everywhere I go. Feels like I can’t catch a break.” He paused, staring into his beer again, his voice lowering. “Feels like maybe I don’t deserve one.”

You frowned slightly, your heart tugged by the self-deprecating tone in his voice. “Hey,” you said, your voice kind but firm, “don’t say that. We all have rough patches. It doesn’t mean you’re not worth something. It just means things are tough right now. Doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way.”

Chip looked up at you, surprised by the sincerity in your voice. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t expected kindness from anyone, much less a stranger. His lips twitched into a faint smile, the first real one he’d felt in days.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, genuinely. “I needed to hear that.”

You smiled at him again, that same warm and genuine expression softening your features. “Anytime, sugar.” A slight pause lingered between you before you leaned in just a bit, voice dropping to a playful tone. “Tell me though, do you have any experience bartending?”

Chip shook his head quickly, a little embarrassed. “No, not really,” he admitted, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Hmm… are you strong?” you giggled, clearly having some fun with him.

Chip instinctively looked down at his arms, making you swoon just a bit as the way his muscles strained against the fabric of his sleeves caught your eye.

“I guess?” he said, though his voice carried uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure if he should be bragging.

You laughed softly. “Do you scare easily?”

“Uhhh…” Chip blinked, clearly unsure how to answer that, given everything he’d been through recently.

“Do you think you could be a bouncer?” you asked, leaning forward a little more. “Kick people out for being assholes?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “What are you asking?”

“I’m trying to offer you a job here,” you said with a smile, your words hanging in the air like an unexpected lifeline.

Chip’s eyes widened in surprise, his breath catching in his throat. “A job? Here?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had walked in hoping for nothing more than a glass of water, and now here you were, offering him a shot at something better.

You nodded, your expression kind but still playful. “Yeah, I need someone to keep an eye on things. It’s a dive bar, after all, and we get our fair share of rowdy customers. Plus, it’d be nice to have a strong pair of arms around, don’t you think?”

Chip felt a wave of relief mixed with cautious optimism wash over him. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was a start. A chance. And right now, that was all he needed.

“I—yeah. I could do that,” he said, his voice steadier now. “I mean, I’ll do my best.”

You grinned, clearly pleased with his answer. “That’s all I’m asking, sugar. Can you start tomorrow?”

Chip stared at you in disbelief, unable to suppress the small, hopeful smile forming on his lips as he nodded. Maybe, just maybe, this was the break he’d been waiting for.

That night, Chip walked back to the shelter with a smile tugging at his lips, something that had been a rare visitor in recent weeks. The cool night air felt refreshing against his skin as he moved through the dimly lit streets of Aurora, replaying the events of the evening in his head. He couldn’t quite believe it—after days of dead-end rejections, here he was with a job offer. 

And it wasn’t just any job; it was from you. A beautiful, confident woman who had seemed to see something in him, even when he wasn’t sure what he had left to offer. Your kindness had caught him off guard, leaving him feeling a mix of gratitude and something he couldn’t quite place—maybe hope? It had been so long since he’d felt even a flicker of optimism.

But as much as he tried to bask in the good fortune of the moment, there was a nagging feeling creeping at the edges of his mind. Ominous, maybe. It felt almost too lucky to have met you and been offered a job so quickly. Nothing in his life had ever come easy, and now that something finally had, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a catch. 

Still, for now, Chip allowed himself to enjoy the victory. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his mind wandering to what tomorrow might bring. It wasn’t much—a job as a bouncer at a dive bar—but it was something. It was a start. Maybe he could pull his life together after all.

As he neared the shelter, his smile widened just a bit, despite that faint feeling of unease lingering in the back of his mind. For the first time in a long time, he had something to look forward to.

—

The next day, Chip walked into the bar, nerves buzzing in his chest as he stepped through the doors of Lovers of Today for his first day. The place was quieter now, with the neon signs flickering softly, casting their warm red glow over the room. Behind the counter, there you were again, moving gracefully as you set up for the night. Your presence instantly caught his eye, and before he knew it, that same anxious excitement was bubbling up inside him.

You looked up when he entered, smiling sweetly in his direction. “Hey there, sugar! Glad you made it,” you said, your voice warm and welcoming.

Chip swallowed, nodding as he approached the bar. “Yeah, of course,” he replied, his hands already feeling clammy with anticipation. He’d thought about this moment all night, and now that he was here, standing in front of you again, he felt even more flustered than before.

You gestured for him to come closer, pulling him next to you behind the bar. "Alright, so here's the rundown," you began, your tone casual but professional. You started explaining the basics of what you expected from him—keeping an eye on the patrons, making sure things didn’t get out of hand, and if someone got too rowdy, he'd be the one to step in.

But as you talked, Chip found it harder and harder to focus. You were standing so close that he could catch the faint, intoxicating scent of your perfume. It wasn’t overpowering, just enough to make his head spin a little, like a soft whisper of musk and something sweet that lingered in the air. The way you moved, the subtle brush of your arm against his as you pointed things out, made his concentration slip further.

“So, if someone refuses to pay or starts causing trouble…” you continued, but Chip’s attention wavered as his eyes darted to your lips when you spoke, then back to the glass you were polishing.

He blinked, snapping himself out of his haze for a moment. “Right, uh, got it,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he had actually retained anything useful. His heart was pounding, but not from nerves about the job. No, this was something else entirely—something about you had his pulse racing.

You paused, tilting your head slightly, a knowing glimmer in your eyes as you glanced at him. "You listening, Chip? Or am I gonna have to repeat myself?"

“Sorry,” Chip stammered, embarrassed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m listening. Just—uh—it’s a lot to take in, I guess.”

You chuckled softly, leaning just a little closer. “It’s okay, sugar. You’ll get the hang of it. Just focus on keeping things calm, and don’t worry, I’ll be here if you need help.”

Chip nodded, forcing himself to concentrate, but the scent of you, the warmth of your presence, made it feel like the room was spinning just a bit. He knew he had to pull it together—he couldn’t let his head get lost every time he was around you. But right now, standing next to you, it was harder than he’d ever imagined.

Chip’s first night went off without a hitch. The bar’s steady rhythm felt almost soothing to him, and by the time his second week rolled around, he had settled into a routine. He’d met the other bartenders and bouncers, learned the ins and outs of the place, and even found himself relaxing a little more with each shift. Nothing too wild had happened yet—just the usual drunken antics that were easily manageable.

That was, until that one night.

It started out like any other, the low hum of conversations mixing with the clinking of glasses and the soft pulse of music in the background. Chip had been stationed near the entrance, keeping an eye on things, when the commotion began. At first, it was just muffled noise, some guy raising his voice near the bar. But then Chip heard your voice, calm but firm, cutting through the clamor.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you anymore,” you said, keeping your cool as you leaned against the bar. “You’ve had enough for the night.”

That’s when the man—clearly drunk, clearly angry—decided to escalate things. His voice grew louder, slurred words laced with irritation. “You can’t cut me off, bitch! I paid good money, and I’m not done drinking!”

Chip’s body tensed as he watched from a distance, the sudden surge of protectiveness coursing through him. He felt his heart rate pick up as the drunk man leaned closer to you, his gestures growing more aggressive. Chip knew he had to step in. He had to protect you. 

No, he reminded himself, forcing his mind to stay clear. Protect the bar. That’s your job. But despite the internal reminder, the thought of someone yelling at you, someone daring to treat you like that, sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins.

He moved quickly, weaving through the tables and patrons until he was by your side. The drunk man was still fuming, his face red and twisted in frustration. Chip didn’t wait for an invitation.

“Hey,” Chip said, his voice low but firm, stepping between you and the man. “You need to calm down.”

The drunk guy’s eyes flicked toward Chip, sizing him up, before he sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy telling you to leave,” Chip responded, standing his ground. His heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his voice steady, refusing to let the guy see any hesitation. “You’ve had enough. Time to go.”

The man puffed up his chest, clearly not interested in backing down. “I paid for my damn drinks!”

“You paid,” Chip agreed, “and now you’re done. Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.” He subtly shifted his stance, ready to intervene if the guy got any more aggressive.

For a moment, the man looked like he might push his luck, but then he glanced around the bar. Eyes were starting to turn his way. The whole scene had drawn enough attention that even he seemed to realize he wasn’t going to win this one.

With a final curse under his breath, the man shoved his stool back and stumbled toward the door. Chip kept an eye on him until he was out of sight, his muscles still tense and ready, just in case.

Once the man was gone, Chip let out a slow breath, the adrenaline ebbing away. He turned to you, still feeling the lingering need to make sure you were okay.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice softer now.

You smiled at him, clearly impressed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Chip.”

Chip couldn’t help the small, sheepish smile that crossed his face. “Just doing my job.”

“Still,” you said, leaning against the bar, your eyes softening a bit as you looked at him. “I appreciate it, sweetheart.”

And just like that, all the tension that had built up in Chip’s body melted away, replaced with something else. A warmth, a quiet sense of accomplishment, knowing that he had done what he needed to do—both for the bar and for you.

—

Chip Taylor was no stranger to unhealthy obsessions. His life had been a series of poor decisions and misplaced emotions, but this—this crush, or what he feared had crossed into love—was different. It was deeper, more consuming, and incredibly stupid. He wanted to believe he was incapable of falling in love after only knowing you for a month. And not just any person, but his boss. Yet here he was, his heart doing that dumb little flip every time you smiled at him, and he hated himself for it.

But what was he supposed to do? You were everything. Kind, charismatic, caring, brilliant, sexy, funny, and nonjudgmental. It wasn’t like you were just some passing fancy. You had given him a chance when no one else would. You made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to be the screw-up he’d always been. And when you found out he was living in a shelter, you didn’t blink before offering him your guest room. Free of charge.

Chip had spent a lot of nights staring at the ceiling in that guest room, wondering how the hell he ended up in the presence of someone like you. With the kind of karma he had, he should’ve ended up with someone cold, manipulative, and cruel. But instead, there you were, offering kindness he didn’t think he deserved.

But that’s where the crush—no, love—came back to bite him. It was suffocating, this unspoken feeling gnawing at him every time you were near. The worst part? He had to watch night after night as men, women, and everyone in between flirted with you. It wasn’t like he could blame them. You were magnetic. You usually laughed off the flirtations with that casual grace you had, deflecting like a pro.

But tonight… tonight was different.

There was someone—a very attractive person who seemed to catch your eye. Chip had been half-watching from his usual spot near the entrance when he noticed it. The way you drifted toward this stranger more than once. The way your laughter was a bit more genuine, your eyes a little brighter. And then you touched their arm, leaning in closer to hear whatever charming thing they were saying.

Chip felt the sharp pang of jealousy twist inside him, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your chest ache. His grip tightened on the back of the barstool, the wood creaking under his hands as he watched the interaction unfold. He knew he was neglecting his job, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from you and that person.

It was like a slow-motion train wreck in his head. His heart clenched with every laugh you shared, every glance you shot their way. And when you touched their arm, a part of him shattered. The universe, it seemed, had a sick sense of humor.

Of course you didn’t feel the same way about him. Why would you? He was just Chip. The guy who wandered into your bar broke, desperate, and hopeless. The guy you’d kindly helped, but that didn’t mean you saw him that way. No, his karmic retribution had arrived in the form of the most amazing person he’d ever met being deposited into his life—but only so he could feel the crushing weight of wanting something he could never have.

Chip stared bitterly as you continued to smile at the stranger, his heart sinking deeper with every moment. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, cursing the universe for dangling you in front of him like a cruel joke.

Good one, universe, he thought bitterly to himself, his hands still gripping the stool as if it could keep him grounded. Real good one.

He looked away, but the ache in his chest remained. It wasn’t fair. None of this was.

As closing time rolled around, Chip’s bitterness hadn’t faded. If anything, it had intensified, simmering under the surface as he quietly went about his tasks. His mind was still replaying the way you had laughed, the way you had touched that stranger’s arm, and it stung more than he wanted to admit.

Conor, one of the other bartenders, smirked as they wiped down the counter, throwing a teasing glance your way. “You gonna let that beautiful thing take you out, boss?” They shimmied their shoulders, their grin wide and playful.

Cody, who had known you longer, joined in with a chuckle. “Yeah, girl, it’s been way too long. You should go out! You never do.”

Chip’s stomach twisted into knots as he listened, pretending to focus on stacking the chairs, though he could hear every word. His heart braced for what he expected to hear next—how excited you were, how you couldn’t wait to go on this date with the person who had flirted with you all night.

He could almost hear it now: your voice light, maybe even a little giddy, as you talked about how charming they were, how nice it would be to go out with someone after so long.

He clenched his jaw, feeling the anticipation of heartbreak wash over him as he steeled himself for the worst.

But then you laughed—soft and genuine, but not in the way Chip had feared. “Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “You both know I’m not looking to go on dates.”

Conor raised an eyebrow, still teasing. “Oh, come on. They were totally into you! You’re really just gonna let that walk away?”

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Yeah, I’m really just gonna let that walk away. It’s not my thing right now.”

Cody shook their head with a smile, but didn’t push it further. “Well, alright, if you say so.”

Chip, who had been silently bracing for a different outcome, felt the tension in his chest ease ever so slightly. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been, how much he had feared hearing you talk about someone else with excitement.

You weren’t going on a date. You weren’t interested in that person, after all.

But then again�� you weren’t interested in anyone. Not them. And definitely not him.

His relief was short-lived, replaced by the sinking realization that while you weren’t swooning over anyone else, it didn’t mean you felt anything for him either. He was still just your employee. A friend, maybe. But not anything more.

He finished stacking the chairs, his thoughts still tangled, trying to come to terms with the bittersweet mix of emotions swirling in his mind.

—

It was the middle of another shift, the bar alive with the usual chatter and clinking glasses, but Chip’s mind was far from the job. He was distracted—more than distracted. His thoughts kept looping back to you, the strangers who flirted with you, and the nagging ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away. 

He’d been on autopilot for most of the night, his interactions with customers robotic, his movements stiff. Conor, ever the observant one, had noticed.

“Hey, man,” Conor said during a rare lull, when they were both by the back counter. They leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, eyeing Chip curiously. “You’ve been off lately. What’s going on with you?”

Chip froze for a moment, his mind scrambling for a response. “I’m fine,” he muttered, glancing away and hoping Conor would drop it. 

But Conor wasn’t one to let things slide so easily. They tilted their head, narrowing their eyes. “Bullshit. You’ve been acting weird for days. Is it the job? Or… something else?”

Chip sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of the question pressing down on him. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real, and the last thing he needed was more complications.

“It’s nothing,” he tried again, though his voice lacked conviction.

Conor wasn’t buying it. “Dude, we work together, like, every night. I know when something’s up. Come on, what is it? You’ve been looking like a kicked puppy for days.”

Chip hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek as he weighed whether to say anything. But the more he tried to hold it in, the more it gnawed at him, until he couldn’t keep it inside anymore.

“It’s… it’s her,” Chip finally admitted, his voice low, almost ashamed. He glanced toward the bar, where you were laughing with a regular, completely oblivious to the conversation happening in the back.

Conor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Her? You mean… Y/N… the boss?” They glanced at you, then back at Chip, their expression a mix of curiosity and something else—concern, maybe. 

Chip nodded, running a hand over his face, feeling like an idiot for even saying it out loud. “Yeah. I know it’s stupid. I know I shouldn’t—she’s my boss. But I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s… it’s driving me crazy.”

Conor’s expression softened, and they let out a low whistle. “Ah, man. That’s rough.”

Chip scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, tell me about it. It’s not like she’d ever go for someone like me anyway. I mean, look at her—she’s amazing. I’m just the guy she took pity on.”

Conor took a moment, looking thoughtful before they spoke again. “Look, man. I’m not gonna say it’s not complicated. She is your boss, and that makes things tricky. But…” They paused, leaning in a bit. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.”

Chip blinked, not expecting that. “What do you mean?”

Conor shrugged. “You’re not just some random guy, Chip. You’ve been here for a while now, and she clearly cares about you. I see the way she talks to you—it’s not the same as the way she talks to everyone else.”

Chip frowned, trying to process what Conor was saying. “You really think so?”

Conor nodded. “Yeah, I do. But you’ve gotta be careful. If you’re really into her, you can’t just keep bottling it up like this. It’ll mess with your head. Maybe it’s time to feel her out—see if she’d ever be interested in someone like you. Just… be subtle. Tread carefully.”

Chip’s heart raced at the thought. The idea of making his feelings known, even subtly, terrified him. But Conor’s words sparked a tiny flicker of hope that he hadn’t let himself feel before. 

“What if she’s not?” Chip asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the fear of rejection creeping in. 

Conor gave him a sympathetic look. “Then you know, and you can move on. But if you don’t at least try, you’re gonna drive yourself insane wondering ‘what if.’”

Chip mulled that over for a moment, glancing at you again as you poured drinks, completely unaware of the storm raging in his head. Conor was right—he couldn’t keep going like this, silently pining, letting it eat him alive. He had to do something, or the weight of it would crush him.

“Maybe,” Chip muttered, half to himself. “Maybe I will.”

Conor clapped him on the shoulder, offering a reassuring grin. “That’s the spirit. Just… don’t be a dumbass about it, okay?”

Chip chuckled softly, despite the turmoil in his chest. “I’ll try not to.”

As Conor wandered back to the front, Chip remained by the counter, his thoughts swirling. The idea of letting you in on his feelings terrified him, but maybe, just maybe, there was a chance. And for the first time, Chip allowed himself to think that maybe he wasn’t completely out of your league.

The only question now was when—and how—to take that terrifying first step.

—

The night had been rough—one of those nights where everything felt like it was spiraling out of control. Rowdy customers, spilled drinks, broken glasses, and more than one argument that had to be diffused before it turned into something worse. By the time the last patron staggered out the door, the bar felt like a battlefield, and the two of you were left with the aftermath.

Chip glanced over at you as you wiped down the bar, noticing how much more subdued you were than usual. The playful energy you typically carried with you seemed drained, replaced by exhaustion that tugged at your features. You didn’t say anything at first, just sighed deeply, letting out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of the night with it.

“Man, sometimes this job really wears you down,” you muttered, your voice tired, your shoulders slumping slightly as you leaned against the bar.

Chip hesitated, watching you, feeling that tug inside him again—an overwhelming need to comfort you, to say something that might make you feel better. He’d been watching you all night, seeing how you held it together even when things got chaotic, but now that the crowd was gone, you looked more vulnerable than he’d ever seen you.

“You’re amazing at what you do,” Chip said quietly, stepping a little closer, his voice soft but sincere. “Don’t let nights like this get to you.”

You glanced at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Thanks, Chip. I try, but… it’s hard sometimes, you know?”

He nodded, unsure what to say next but wanting to fill the silence, to keep the moment from slipping away. The air between you felt different—quieter, more intimate, like the walls around both of you had come down just a little.

You sighed again, setting down the rag you’d been using to clean the counter. “I guess nights like this remind me why I don’t… go out much. Or really have a life. It’s just too much sometimes, trying to balance everything. Running this place, taking care of everyone, making sure things don’t fall apart.”

Chip blinked, taken aback by how candid you were being. He’d never heard you talk like this before. Usually, you were so in control, so confident, like nothing could rattle you. But now, standing here in the quiet aftermath of a long night, you seemed… tired. Maybe even a little lonely.

You leaned against the bar, your gaze softening as you stared at the worn wood beneath your hands. “I spend so much time here, making sure everything’s running smoothly, making sure everyone’s taken care of, that there’s just… not a lot of room left for anything else.”

Chip swallowed, his chest tightening at your words. He had wondered before why you never seemed interested in the flirtations that came your way, why you brushed off attention so easily. Now, it made sense. You weren’t uninterested in romance—you were just too busy being everything to everyone else.

“I didn’t know,” Chip said, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “I guess I never thought about how much you have on your plate.”

You smiled, a little sad but genuine. “Yeah, well, that’s the life, right? Someone’s gotta keep this place going. And I guess I’m just used to taking care of people. I don’t mind it… but it doesn’t leave much room for… other stuff.”

Chip stood there, the weight of your words settling over him. He felt a pang of guilt for all the times he’d watched you flirt with customers and felt jealousy burn inside him. He hadn’t understood before—hadn’t realized how much you were carrying, how much you were sacrificing to keep things together.

But now, in this quiet moment, he saw you differently. Not just as the confident, flirtatious bartender who always had a smile and a witty remark, but as someone who was just as vulnerable, just as human, as anyone else. Someone who gave so much of themselves that there wasn’t much left over.

The silence between you stretched on for a moment, comfortable and filled with unspoken understanding. Chip didn’t know what to say, how to fix the exhaustion he saw in your eyes, but he wanted to offer something, anything, to let you know you weren’t alone.

“You’re really good at taking care of people,” he said softly. “But don’t forget to take care of yourself too.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a brief second, something passed between you—a quiet, shared moment that neither of you had expected. You smiled, a real smile this time, one that made Chip’s heart stutter in his chest.

“Thanks, Chip,” you said, your voice gentle, and there was something different in the way you looked at him now, something softer. “I mean it.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything more, afraid of ruining the fragile connection that had just been made. He didn’t know what this moment meant—whether it changed anything between you, whether it was just a fleeting glimpse of something deeper—but it felt important.

As you both finished cleaning up, the bar seemed quieter than usual, the air between you charged with a subtle, unspoken shift. Chip walked out that night feeling closer to you than he ever had before, even if he still wasn’t sure what to do with the feelings tangled up inside him.

He felt like maybe you saw him, not just as an employee or a friend, but as someone who might be able to share a little bit of that weight you carried.

—

Chip got to work the next day extra early, sneaking into the bar while you were behind the counter, mixing drinks to prep for the evening. He didn’t want to risk bumping into you just yet—his nerves were already on edge from Conor’s advice and the conversation you two had—so he headed straight to the back. Inventory was the part of the job he knew you hated the most, so he wanted to take some of the load off for you. And… maybe if he took care of it (and you), you'd notice him in a different light. Maybe.

He was half-hidden behind stacks of bottles when Cody caught him.

“Chip?” Cody's voice rang through the storage room, followed by a soft laugh. “You know you won’t get paid for this, right?”

Chip startled, his fingers fumbling the bottle of sour mixer he was holding. It slipped from his hands, but luckily it was plastic and hit the ground with a soft thud. Still, he couldn’t help but glare at Cody, irritation mingling with embarrassment. “Your point?”

Cody leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and an amused smirk playing on their lips. “Why are you doing it, then?”

Chip exhaled sharply, setting the bottle back on the shelf with a bit more force than necessary. “Just helping out the boss,” he muttered, trying to sound casual.

“Uh-huh,” Cody dragged the words out, that knowing look never leaving their face. “Because you’re in loooove?” they teased, stretching the word out obnoxiously.

“No!” Chip squeaked, his voice shooting up a pitch. He felt his face flush instantly, and he inwardly cursed himself for the involuntary reaction. “I am not,” he added, more firmly this time, though he could hear how unconvincing it sounded even to his own ears.

Cody raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Uh huh. Sure, whatever you say.” They winked, their smirk widening. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. That woman is oblivious as hell, though.”

Chip’s shoulders slumped, his heart racing with a mixture of panic and frustration. “She’s not… it’s not like that,” he grumbled, though he knew Cody wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Sure, it’s not like that,” Cody teased, mimicking his tone. “Look, man, I don’t blame you. I mean, she’s great. But maybe you should stop hiding back here, doing unpaid inventory, and, you know, actually talk to her.”

Chip groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he shot Cody a half-hearted glare. “It’s not that simple.”

Cody shrugged, pushing off the wall and tossing him a sympathetic smile. “It never is. But, hey, I’m rooting for you.”

Chip watched as Cody walked out, leaving him alone with the bottles and his now much louder thoughts. Cody was right, of course, but Chip couldn’t help feeling stuck. Helping out with the busywork was a small way to get closer to you, but it wasn’t enough. 

He sighed heavily, staring at the neatly organized bottles in front of him. He knew he couldn’t keep this up, couldn’t just lurk in the background hoping you’d magically see him the way he saw you. Something had to give. But what?

Chip's question was answered moments later when you burst into the back, clearly not expecting to find anyone there. "Ah!" you screamed, your hand flying to your chest as you nearly dropped the empty glass you were holding. “Chip!” you gasped, still catching your breath. “What the hell?”

Chip jumped, just as startled. “Sorry, Y/N!” He quickly stepped forward, his own heart pounding. “I just… wanted to help. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, and I—I know you hate doing inventory, so I thought I’d, you know—” His words were tumbling out, awkward and rushed, trying desperately to explain himself.

But you cut him off with a light, melodic laugh, and the sound of it stopped him in his tracks. “You’re a very sweet man, Chip Taylor. Do you know that?”

The way you were looking at him—it was new. Different. There was something softer in your gaze, something warm, and Chip felt his pulse quicken. He liked it. No, he loved it.

He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “Just trying to help,” he said with a casual shrug, though his insides were far from calm.

You smiled again, that affectionate, teasing grin that made his heart flutter. “Well,” you said softly, “I really appreciate it, but you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Chip blurted, almost too quickly. He met your gaze, feeling the heat rise in his face. His words weren’t just about inventory anymore, and he wondered if you could tell.

You grinned, rolling your eyes in that way that made him feel like you were amused by his awkwardness but found it endearing all the same. Then, without warning, you stepped even closer, reaching around him to grab a bottle of vodka from the shelf behind him. In that brief moment, your chest pressed against his, and Chip was sure his heart was going to beat out of his chest.

“Thanks, Chip,” you breathed, your voice low and soft, your minty breath brushing against his skin as you pulled away slightly. For a second, he could barely think—your scent, your closeness, everything about you had him utterly captivated.

Chip felt frozen in place, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. “Yeah,” he stammered, his throat suddenly dry, “no problem.”

You gave him another warm smile, lingering just a moment longer before you took the vodka and turned to head back out to the bar. Chip stood there, still trying to process what had just happened, the lingering scent of you and the feel of your closeness imprinted in his mind.

As the door swung closed behind you, Chip let out a shaky breath, leaning against the shelf. His mind was spinning. That brief moment—your chest against his, the way your breath had ghosted across his face—felt like it had flipped a switch inside him. 

—

After that brief but electrifying moment in the backroom, Chip couldn’t help but start noticing everything you did. It was as if every little thing you did seemed loaded with meaning—whether you intended it or not.

At home, things had shifted too. It used to be that you’d take your clothes into the bathroom when you showered, emerging fully dressed and casual. But lately, it had been different. Now, you would stroll around the apartment in a tiny towel, your damp hair clinging to your neck, droplets of water glistening on your skin. And every time you did, Chip’s brain short-circuited, turning into something the size of a pea. He'd try to focus on anything else, but his gaze always drifted back to you—your bare legs, the curve of your shoulders, the way that towel seemed dangerously close to slipping.

Then there were the groceries. You came home one day with bags full of food, seemingly innocent at first glance, until Chip noticed the trend. You had brought bananas, popsicles, cucumbers—foods that were all, well… suggestive. Chip tried not to notice, he really did. But it was impossible when you were sitting across from him at the table, casually peeling a banana and slowly taking bites in the most torturous way possible. The worst part was, you seemed completely oblivious to the effect it was having on him.

And then there were the popsicles. One hot evening, after a long shift, you sat on the couch next to Chip, legs tucked under you, enjoying a cherry popsicle. The way your lips wrapped around it, the slow, deliberate licks as you savored the cold treat—it was enough to make Chip feel like he was about to combust. He tried to keep his eyes glued to the TV, pretending he wasn’t completely fixated on the way the red juice dripped down your chin, but every glance made his heart race.

One afternoon, you were in the kitchen, casually preparing a salad. Chip, seated nearby with his phone in hand, was pretending—poorly—to focus on whatever was on his screen. But the second you pulled out an enormous cucumber from the fridge, all his concentration shattered. He told himself not to look, not to pay attention, but his eyes betrayed him, drifting back to you with every movement.

You stood there at the counter, holding the cucumber with ease as you peeled it, your fingers gripping the base in a way that made his breath catch in his throat. Chip tried to remind himself it was just a vegetable. A completely innocent act. But the way you were handling it, slicing it with such careful precision, each stroke of the knife agonizingly slow—it felt like some kind of sensual tease meant only for him, though you were completely unaware of his growing torment.

His heart raced as you absentmindedly brought a slice to your lips, biting into it with a soft crunch. The way your teeth sank into the crisp flesh of the cucumber, your lips wrapping around it, made Chip’s grip on his phone tighten. His palms were sweating, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his ears. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. 

You chewed slowly, blissfully unaware of the effect you were having on him. When you reached for another slice, it was like slow motion—the way you brought it up, your tongue brushing it ever so slightly before you bit into it again. The movement was subtle, but it sent a jolt through Chip that he struggled to suppress.

He swallowed hard, trying to shift his attention back to his phone, but it was useless. His entire focus was on you—on the way your fingers held the cucumber, on the soft sigh that escaped your lips as you savored the taste, on the way your eyes remained distant, clearly lost in thought while he was trapped in his own private torment.

Then, as if to push him further into the abyss, you grabbed the entire cucumber in your hand again, taking a bite straight from it. Chip's mind went blank, his breath hitching as he watched your lips part, teeth sinking into the cucumber’s firm flesh, your lips lingering just a bit longer than necessary. 

Completely unaware of his wide-eyed stare, you chewed thoughtfully, then shot him a playful grin, wiping juice from the corner of your mouth. "Want some?" you asked innocently, holding up a slice.

Chip nearly choked, his mind reeling. “Uh, no. I’m—uh, I’m good,” he stammered, his voice strangled with tension.

You shrugged, your smile casual and sweet. “Suit yourself,” you replied, popping another slice into your mouth with a satisfied hum.

Chip, feeling like he was about to combust, swallowed hard and forced himself to look away, but the image of your lips on that cucumber, the soft bite, the way your eyes sparkled without a hint of understanding of what you were doing to him—it was seared into his mind.

And he knew—there was no escaping this.

Before work one evening, you casually announced that you were trying a new stretching routine. Chip had been lounging on the couch, trying to unwind after the shift, but when you spread out a yoga mat right in front of him, his entire focus shifted.

You didn’t seem to notice his sudden tension as you knelt down and began stretching, starting with simple movements. But it wasn’t long before you bent forward, your fingers sliding toward your toes, your back arching as you stretched deeper. Chip’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, his heart hammering in his chest.

Your bottoms hugged every curve, and as you stretched, the material pulled tighter, highlighting the shape of your hips, the dip of your waist, and the way your legs seemed to go on forever. The soft sighs you let out with each motion—small sounds of exertion—sent shivers down his spine. 

Chip tried desperately not to look, to focus on the TV, on his phone, on anything else, but it was impossible. The sight of you in front of him, completely absorbed in your routine, was maddening. Every movement seemed deliberate, sensual, though you had no idea what you were doing to him.

You moved into a deeper stretch, bending down again, this time with your legs spread slightly apart. Chip’s pulse quickened, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch as he fought to keep himself calm. The way your body moved, so fluid, so confident, had him mesmerized.

And then you shifted into a backbend, your body arching gracefully, your chest rising, the soft line of your neck exposed. You groaned softly, a sound of satisfaction from the stretch, but to Chip, it was something else entirely—a sound that sent heat flooding through his veins.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his pulse racing in his ears. His mind was spinning, trying to reign in his thoughts, but the way your body curved, the way your breathing deepened, was driving him wild. Every inch of you was in his line of sight, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop staring. 

You looked up at him briefly, giving him an innocent smile as you reached for your toes again. “You should try this sometime, Chip,” you said, completely oblivious to the chaos in his head. “It’s a great way to relax.”

Chip could barely respond, his throat tight. “Y-yeah, maybe,” he managed to croak, though the last thing he felt was relaxed. His body was tense, every muscle wound tight as he sat there, barely able to breathe, knowing that if you kept this up any longer, he might just lose his mind.

As you continued your stretches, Chip’s gaze flicked over every inch of you, burning with desire he couldn’t control, and he knew, deep down, that this slow torture couldn’t last much longer. Something had to give.

—

Later that week at the bar, Chip’s jealousy was reaching a boiling point. He had been dealing with it quietly for weeks now, keeping it buried beneath the surface as best as he could, but tonight was different. Someone had started flirting with you again—a regular, someone smooth and confident, who clearly knew what they were doing. And unlike all the other times, this time you seemed more receptive. Even if it was just for a brief moment, you laughed at their jokes, leaned in a little closer, your smile warmer than it usually was with other customers.

Chip could feel his stomach twist with bitterness, his jaw tightening as he tried to stay focused on his work. But he couldn’t. His eyes kept drifting back to you, watching as you exchanged banter with the customer, completely unaware of how much it was tearing him apart inside. 

For weeks, you’d been teasing him—whether you knew it or not—walking around the apartment in towels, eating suggestive foods, brushing up against him, filling his mind with all kinds of thoughts. And now this? Flirting with someone else right in front of him? It felt like a punch to the gut.

As the night went on, Chip found himself pulling away, becoming more distant, his usual tasks done with robotic efficiency but none of his usual energy. He stayed out of sight as much as possible, avoiding you, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He couldn’t bring himself to be around you right now, not when his feelings were so close to breaking free.

After the bar finally closed and the last of the patrons trickled out, you noticed the shift in him. You wiped down the last of the counters, glancing over at Chip as he quietly stacked chairs, avoiding eye contact. Something was off.

“Chip?” you called out softly as you approached him. “You’ve been acting weird tonight. What’s going on?”

Chip didn’t look up, muttering a quick, “Nothing.”

You frowned, stepping closer and gently grabbing his arm. “I know that’s not true,” you said softly, your voice tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”

Chip flinched at your touch, a surge of frustration boiling over. He could feel it all bubbling to the surface, and before he could stop himself, the words spilled out. “It’s just… it’s hard watching everyone else flirt with you all the time.”

His voice was low, almost bitter, and it surprised even him how much emotion was packed into that one sentence. He finally looked at you, his eyes dark with something more than just jealousy.

You blinked, clearly taken aback by his confession. “Chip…” you started, your brows knitting together in confusion. “That’s just part of the job. It doesn’t mean anything.”

But Chip wasn’t convinced. He shook his head, his frustration seeping through. “Does it ever mean anything to you?”

Your breath caught for a second, surprised by the intensity in his question. You hadn’t seen just how much all the casual flirting, all the little interactions with customers, had been affecting him. You’d always seen it as part of the business, part of keeping the bar running smoothly. But Chip wasn’t just a customer. He wasn’t just another person passing through.

You let go of his arm, your expression softening as you took in the frustration in his voice, the way he was holding so much back. “Chip, I don’t know…” you started softly. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough, his walls crumbling down as all the emotions he had been holding back started to bleed through. 

For a moment, the silence hung heavy between you, the air thick with unspoken words and the tension that had been simmering between you both for weeks. You were seeing him in a new light—one filled with longing, frustration, and something deeper. Something that had been building up inside Chip for a while, and it was clear he couldn’t keep it locked away any longer.

He looked away, unable to meet your eyes, his voice softening with vulnerability. For the first time, you saw just how much you’d affected him. You weren’t sure what to say next, how to navigate the mess of emotions swirling between you two, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t just about flirting anymore. This was about something much deeper, and now it was out in the open, there was no turning back.

—

Feeling that his crush on you had become unbearable, Chip found himself standing in the back room of the bar, leaning against the shelves as his thoughts spiraled. Every night seemed worse than the last. Every time you smiled at someone else, laughed at their jokes, or leaned in a little too close to a customer, Chip felt something twist painfully in his chest. It had become too much. His feelings were no longer a crush—they were an anchor, weighing him down, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe in the same room as you.

The problem was, these feelings were starting to get in the way of his work. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t pretend to just be your employee anymore. How could he when his heart was tangled up in you? Watching you flirt with customers, even in the most harmless way, made him feel like he was drowning. And worse—it wasn’t your fault. You were just doing your job, being yourself. But the jealousy, the frustration, the hopeless longing were making it impossible for him to do his.

And it wasn’t just at work anymore. At home, things had changed too. Chip had noticed that lately, you seemed more careful around him. For a while, you had been casual, carefree—walking around in towels, making playful jokes, teasing him without a second thought. But now? Now, there was an unspoken tension in the air between you. It was subtle, but Chip could feel it. You no longer strolled around the apartment with the same lightness, no longer lingered in the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel after a shower. You’d take your clothes into the bathroom again, your playful banter tinged with something more reserved, more cautious. 

It was like you could sense something had shifted in him, and in response, you’d adjusted too. Maybe you hadn’t realized just how much he was struggling with his feelings, but you’d picked up on something. And that made everything worse. The easy comfort of being roommates had vanished, replaced by a growing awkwardness that gnawed at Chip constantly.

He couldn’t escape it. Not at work, where he had to watch you be charming and kind to everyone else. And not at home, where your sudden carefulness only reminded him of how complicated things had become. It was like he was trapped, unable to breathe, unable to think of anything but you and the growing distance between you.

It was too much. The weight of it was suffocating.

He couldn’t keep living like this.

So, the only option he saw was to leave. If he couldn’t have you—if you’d never look at him the way he looked at you—then maybe he needed to get out before it broke him completely. The idea of walking away felt like a fresh cut, sharp and deep, but staying felt like a slow, agonizing burn. 

Cody and Conor were chatting by the bar, laughing about something when Chip walked up, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Conor was the first to notice Chip’s demeanor and raised an eyebrow.

“Whoa, man. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Conor teased, though there was concern in his voice. “What’s going on?”

Chip sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “I… I think I’m gonna quit.”

Cody stopped mid-laugh, their smile fading as they blinked at him in surprise. “Wait, what?”

Conor frowned, crossing their arms. “Man, you can’t just drop that on us. What the hell’s going on?”

Chip swallowed hard, his throat dry. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much he was struggling, but he couldn’t keep this to himself anymore. “It’s just—my feelings. For her. It’s getting in the way of everything. I can’t… I can’t do it anymore. Every night, it feels like I’m watching her with other people, and it’s driving me crazy. I don’t want to feel this way, but I do. And I think the only way to stop it is to leave.”

Cody exchanged a glance with Conor before stepping closer to Chip, their expression softer now. “Chip, I get it. Believe me, I do. But quitting your job because of it? That’s a big decision.”

Conor nodded, their playful demeanor gone as they looked at Chip seriously. “You’ve gotta think carefully about this, man. You’re not just giving up a job—you’re giving up on being around her completely. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Chip felt his heart ache at the thought of not seeing you anymore, not hearing your laugh or seeing your smile every night. But at the same time, he didn’t know how much longer he could take the constant emotional rollercoaster of wanting something that seemed impossible. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” he admitted, his voice strained. “But I don’t think I can stay and keep feeling like this. It’s tearing me apart.”

Cody sighed, placing a hand on Chip’s shoulder. “Look, man, we’re not telling you what to do, but maybe don’t make any rash decisions just yet. Take some time to really think about it. If you leave now, it might hurt just as much as staying does.”

“Yeah,” Conor added, “and finding another job won’t necessarily fix how you feel. Your heart’s wrapped up in this. It’s not gonna just go away because you work somewhere else.”

Chip nodded, knowing deep down they were right. It wasn’t just the job—it was you. His heart was tangled up in you, and no matter where he went, those feelings weren’t going to magically disappear. Still, the thought of staying felt unbearable, and he couldn’t shake the idea of leaving, of starting over somewhere where he wouldn’t have to feel like this every day.

“I’ve even started looking for other jobs,” Chip muttered, his voice quiet. “Just to see if there’s anything else out there. Something to distract me from… this.”

Cody sighed, glancing at Conor before turning back to Chip. “Look, maybe there’s another way. Have you thought about… I don’t know… talking to her? Telling her how you feel?”

Chip shook his head, his face a mask of pain. “I can’t. She’s my boss, my roommate. It would just make things weird. I don’t want to mess things up even more.”

Conor raised an eyebrow. “Weirder than you quitting out of nowhere without explaining why? Where would you live then?”

Chip bit his lip, his hands balling into fists as he stared at the floor. He hadn’t thought about it like that. Leaving without saying anything would raise questions. It would leave things unresolved. 

Cody squeezed his shoulder gently. “Just… think about it, okay? Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. Talk to her if you can. And if it’s really too much to handle, we’ll support whatever decision you make.”

Cody and Conor had noticed things changing between you and Chip for a while now. They weren’t blind to the way Chip had started acting—more distant, more withdrawn, especially when you were around. His mood had shifted, and while he was still doing his job, there was a tension between the two of you that hadn’t been there before. 

And now, with Chip thinking about quitting, they couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there was more to the story—something you hadn’t said yet.

It was a quiet afternoon at the bar, just before the evening rush. You were behind the counter, absentmindedly polishing glasses, and Cody and Conor shared a look before they approached. They weren’t going to be obvious, but they needed to get a feel for where your head was at when it came to Chip.

Conor leaned against the counter first, flashing you a playful grin. “So, boss, how’s it going with our boy Chip lately? He’s been acting a little off, don’t you think?”

You glanced up, your brow furrowing slightly as you met Conor’s eyes. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” you admitted, setting down the glass you were working on. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s been so… distant. Different.”

Cody, leaning on the bar next to Conor, raised an eyebrow, watching your reaction closely. “Different how?” they asked casually, though there was a clear curiosity in their voice.

You shrugged, not entirely sure how to explain it. “I don’t know… He just seems quieter lately. I’ve tried asking him if he’s okay, but he always brushes it off, says he’s fine. But it doesn’t feel like he is.”

Conor exchanged a quick glance with Cody before turning back to you. “You think maybe it’s something to do with work? Or… maybe something else?”

You paused for a moment, considering the question. Chip had been acting strange both at work and at home, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s been fine at work, mostly, just a little more distracted than usual. And at home… well, it feels like things are weird there too. Like there’s some kind of… tension between us. But I don’t know why.”

Cody leaned in a little closer, their tone softer now, as if they were testing the waters. “Tension? Like what kind of tension? You think maybe Chip’s feeling some kind of way about you?”

Your eyes widened slightly at the implication, blinking in surprise. “What? No, I mean… why would he?” You laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it now. “We’re just friends. Roommates. He’s probably just going through something.”

Conor smirked, crossing their arms and leaning in a little closer. “Maybe. But we’ve seen the way he looks at you, you know? Kind of seems like there’s more there…”

You hesitated, feeling a flicker of uncertainty at their words. You’d noticed Chip acting strange, sure, but you hadn’t really considered the idea that it might be because of you. “I don’t know,” you said, a little quieter now. “He’s never said anything like that to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Cody said with a knowing smile, “sometimes guys don’t say stuff like that because they’re scared of messing things up. But, I mean, if he did feel that way… how would you feel about it?”

You looked between Cody and Conor, realizing they weren’t just casually asking anymore. They were digging, trying to gauge your reaction, and it left you feeling a little off-balance. “I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “He’s an amazing person, but…”

Conor raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to finish. “But?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “But he’s never made a move, you know? We’ve been living together for a while, and I guess there have been a few times when I thought he might say something. Maybe he wanted something more, but he never opens up. I never know what he’s thinking.”

Cody nodded, a knowing look in their eyes. “Yeah, that sounds like Chip. He’s got a lot going on in that head of his, but he keeps it all bottled up. Doesn’t make it easy to figure out what he wants.”

Conor leaned in a little closer, lowering their voice. “But here’s the thing—you probably know him better than anyone. You’ve seen the way he is when he’s comfortable, and when he’s not. And if you’ve felt those moments—those times when you thought he might say something—well, chances are, he’s felt them too.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, thinking back to those moments. The times when you caught him looking at you a second too long, or when he seemed to shy away from getting too close. The way he acted differently around you lately, quieter, more distant, like he was trying to avoid something. Or maybe trying to avoid you.

“I just don’t get it,” you admitted, shaking your head. “If he feels something, why doesn’t he say anything? Why pull away?”

Cody smiled sympathetically. “Fear, probably. He’s scared of messing things up between you two. I mean, think about it—you’re his boss, his roommate, his friend. That’s a lot to risk if he’s worried it’s not mutual.”

Conor added, “And from what I’ve seen, it’s eating him up. Dude’s been in a weird headspace lately. He probably thinks if he says something, it’ll make things weird or worse, so instead he just… suffers in silence.”

You exhaled heavily, feeling the weight of their words settle over you. Maybe you’d been missing something, maybe Chip had been struggling with this for longer than you realized. But if he wasn’t going to say anything, if he was just going to pull away, what could you do?

“Should I… talk to him?” you asked hesitantly, unsure of how to approach something like this. It wasn’t like you could just march up to him and demand he tell you how he felt.

Cody gave you an encouraging nod. “I think you should. Just be honest with him. If you care about him—and I know you do—then don’t let this thing fester. He’s not going to be the one to start that conversation, so it’s gotta be you.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a swirl of emotions you weren’t entirely ready to confront. It was one thing to speculate about Chip’s feelings, but if you were going to talk to him—if you were going to open this door—then you’d have to be ready for what might come next.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice firm but uncertain. “I’ll talk to him. I just hope I’m not too late.”

Conor patted your shoulder, flashing you a supportive grin. “You’re not. Just don’t wait too long. Chip’s a good guy, but he seems like he might have a habit of retreating when things get hard. You don’t want to lose him.”

As they walked away, leaving you alone to process everything, you found yourself staring at the empty bar, your thoughts circling back to Chip. Maybe you had missed something, maybe you hadn’t been paying close enough attention. But one thing was certain—things couldn’t go on like this. Something had to change, and soon.

—

It was late, the bar now silent after the last customer had trickled out into the night. The air was still, thick with the smell of spilled drinks and fading laughter, but it was peaceful in a way that only came after a long shift. You wiped down the last glass, casting a glance over at Chip as he finished stacking the chairs. 

“Hey, Chip,” you called softly, breaking the quiet, “how about we have a drink before heading home?”

Chip hesitated, surprised by the offer. His heart leapt into his throat, immediately overthinking every possible implication. You just wanted to relax, he told himself. It was just a drink, no big deal. Still, he was nervous. Too nervous, given the circumstances. But after a second, he nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, sure. That sounds nice.”

You smiled at him, that easy, genuine smile that always seemed to put him at ease, and it made his stomach twist with all the feelings he’d been trying to keep buried. He followed you to the back of the bar, where it was quieter, and you grabbed two beers from the cooler, handing one to him as you sat down at one of the small, dimly lit tables. 

The two of you clinked your bottles together lightly, the gesture casual, but Chip could feel the tension thrumming in his chest. He took a sip, trying to settle his nerves as you both sat in comfortable silence for a few moments.

“So,” you began after a while, your voice soft but curious, “how’ve you been? I mean, really been? I feel like we haven’t talked much lately.”

Chip blinked, caught off guard by the question. He swallowed, his fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle. “Uh, I’ve been… okay, I guess,” he said, trying to sound neutral, though his voice faltered slightly. 

You tilted your head, giving him that look that told him you could see right through him. “Come on, Chip. I know you better than that.”

Chip looked down, the familiar feeling of guilt creeping up on him. He knew he hadn’t been the same, but how could he explain that it was all because of you? That every time he saw you, every time you smiled or laughed, it felt like his heart was being ripped in two? He couldn’t tell you that—not completely. Not yet.

“I’ve just been… dealing with some stuff,” he finally admitted, his voice quieter now. “Got a lot on my mind.”

You nodded, sipping your beer thoughtfully. “I get that. We all have our moments, right? But if there’s something going on, you know you can talk to me, right? I care about you, Chip.”

Chip felt his heart clench at your words. The way you said it—I care about you—it was so simple, so kind, but it only reminded him of what he couldn’t have. He took a deep breath, deciding to let a little bit of his guard down. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… I’ve been thinking a lot about the future, I guess. What I’m doing here. What I want to be doing. And sometimes, it feels like I’m stuck.”

You leaned in slightly, your eyes soft with understanding. “I’ve felt the same way a lot over the years. Like, what am I doing here? Where am I going? It’s hard to figure out sometimes, especially when things feel complicated.”

Chip glanced at you, surprised at your openness. “You seem like you have it all figured out,” Chip said, his tone slightly teasing but genuine. “Running this place, handling everything so well. I’ve always admired that about you.”

You smiled, a little sadly. “Thanks, Chip, but trust me, I don’t have it all figured out. Sometimes I’m just as lost as anyone else. I just try not to let it show too much.”

There was a pause, a comfortable silence settling between you two as you both sipped your beers, each lost in your own thoughts. The conversation was quieter now, but there was an ease to it, a closeness that hadn’t been there before. 

After a few more minutes of silence, you set your beer down and looked at Chip, your expression shifting slightly, more serious now. “Chip,” you began, your voice softer, more hesitant, “can I ask you something?”

He glanced up at you, his heart immediately jumping into his throat again. “Yeah, of course.”

You bit your lip, seeming to choose your words carefully before finally asking, “How do you feel about me?”

Chip froze. His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears. This was it. The moment he’d been avoiding, the conversation he’d been dreading and longing for all at once. His hands tightened around the bottle, and for a second, he wasn’t sure if he could find the words. But he couldn’t avoid it any longer. 

“I—” He hesitated, feeling the weight of the question settle heavily over him. He could feel your eyes on him, waiting for an answer, and he knew he had to give you one. “I care about you. A lot. More than I should.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “More than you should?”

Chip took a deep breath, his throat tight. “Yeah. You’re my boss, and my friend, and… I don’t want to mess things up between us. But it’s been hard. Really hard. I’ve been trying to ignore it, to push it down, but it’s just—” He paused, searching for the right words. “It’s hard watching you, being around you, and not being able to say anything. Because I know it’ll change things, and I don’t want to ruin what we have. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel the way I do.”

There it was. Not a full confession, but enough to crack open the wall he’d been hiding behind. Enough to give you a glimpse into how much he’d been struggling with his feelings for you.

You sat back, processing his words, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy, filled with everything that had been left unsaid for weeks, months. Finally, you let out a soft breath, your gaze meeting his.

“I didn’t realize,” you said gently. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Chip nodded, his eyes downcast. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. I didn’t want to make things weird.”

You were quiet for a moment longer before you spoke again, your voice softer now. “Things aren’t weird, Chip. Not for me. I just… I wish you would’ve told me sooner.”

Chip looked up at you, his heart racing. There was something in your voice, something in the way you were looking at him that made him think, for the first time, that maybe he hadn’t been wrong to feel the way he did. Maybe there was more between you than just friendship and work. Maybe things weren’t as impossible as he’d thought.

"Why?" Chip asked, his voice barely above a whisper, uncertainty lacing every syllable. His heart pounded in his chest, torn between hope and the fear of misunderstanding everything.

You smiled softly, and in that moment, Chip felt the world shift, the air between you charged with something different—something real. Your eyes met his, filled with a warmth and sincerity he hadn’t allowed himself to believe was possible.

“Because then I could have told you sooner that I feel the same way,” you said, your voice gentle but sure.

Chip stared at you, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’d just said. Feel the same way? His heart skipped a beat, his pulse thundering in his ears as your words sank in. He had spent so long convincing himself that you were out of reach, that his feelings were one-sided, a hopeless crush he’d never be able to confess.

But now—now—you were looking at him with that soft, genuine smile, and everything he’d been holding back for so long felt like it was about to come crashing down. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of it all. “What… what way do you feel?” he asked, his voice quiet, filled with disbelief. He needed to hear it again, just to be sure, just to know this wasn’t a dream or some misunderstanding.

You grinned, the warmth in your eyes making his pulse race even faster. “I really like you, Chip,” you said softly, your voice steady but filled with affection. “And right now, I really want to kiss you.”

Chip’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as the words hit him with full force. His heart seemed to skip a beat, the reality of the moment sinking in. He had imagined this—dreamt about it, wished for it—but hearing it, actually hearing it, was something entirely different.

“You… you do?” he stammered, the disbelief still lingering even as his heart swelled with hope.

You nodded, stepping closer, closing the space between you. “Yeah, Chip. I do.”

The air between you was charged now, thick with anticipation and a tension that had been building for so long. He could feel the warmth radiating from you, the soft hum of something electric as your gaze held his. His mind was still spinning, but there was no mistaking the look in your eyes, the way your lips curved into that gentle, inviting smile.

For once, Chip didn’t overthink it. He didn’t retreat into his head or worry about the consequences. He didn’t think about you being his boss, his roommate, or the fear that had kept him silent for so long. All he could think about was you—standing there, telling him you felt the same way he had for so long.

So, without another word, Chip leaned in, his breath shaky but his heart certain. His lips brushed yours, tentative at first, like he was testing the waters. But the moment your lips touched, everything fell into place. The hesitation melted away, and Chip deepened the kiss, his hand gently reaching up to cup your cheek as he pulled you closer.

The kiss was soft, tender, but filled with everything you both had held back for so long. It was like a floodgate had opened, all the emotions, the longing, the unsaid words finally spilling out in that one moment. Chip couldn’t believe it was happening—that after all this time, you wanted this too.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you were both slightly breathless, a quiet, giddy laughter bubbling between you.

“I can’t believe we waited so long to do that,” you whispered, your hand still resting on his arm.

Chip smiled, his heart still racing. “I can’t believe this is real.”

You chuckled softly, your thumb brushing gently over his arm. “It’s real, Chip.”

You both stood there for a moment, the weight of everything that had been unsaid between you now lifted, leaving only the warmth of something new, something real. Chip felt lighter than he had in weeks, months, honestly ever. 

He smiled softly at you, his voice filled with quiet sincerity as he whispered, “I think I want to kiss you again.” 

And when you smiled, leaning in for another kiss, it felt like the start of something he’d been waiting for all along.

But this next kiss was different. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was filled with the desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long, finally unleashed. You gripped his biceps, feeling the strength you’d been secretly drooling over for months, your fingers curling around the muscle as if you couldn’t get close enough. 

Chip’s hands slid down to your hips, and with a sudden, heated movement, he yanked you into his lap. The shift was quick, fluid, and before you could even react, you were straddling him, your chest pressed against his, the air between you charged with a hunger that neither of you could deny anymore.

“Whoa, there, cowboy,” you laughed breathlessly, pulling back just enough to catch your breath, your lips swollen from the intensity of the kiss. Your hands stayed on his arms, but your body trembled with excitement, anticipation coursing through your veins.

Chip grinned, that boyish, almost shy smile you’d grown so fond of breaking through the lustful haze in his eyes. “Sorry, got a little carried away,” he murmured, though his hands stayed firm on your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your clothes as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

You laughed again, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “I didn’t say I minded,” you teased, leaning back in, your lips brushing his with just enough pressure to drive him wild. You could feel his heartbeat under your palms, could sense the way he was holding back, still cautious despite the fire burning between you.

Chip groaned softly, the sound vibrating between your lips as his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re making it really hard to behave,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath warm and ragged, sending shivers down your spine.

“Who said I want you to behave?” you whispered back, the words sending a surge of heat through him. You could feel him tense beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening as he kissed you again, this time with more urgency, more need.

Your hands slipped from his biceps to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as you let yourself melt into him, the heat between you intensifying with every second. Chip’s hands roamed from your hips, sliding down to your ass, his grip firm, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

The bar was quiet, the world outside forgotten as the two of you lost yourselves in each other, in the kiss that had been building for so long. It was like the floodgates had opened, all the pent-up tension, the unsaid words, the longing finally released in this moment.

And as you kissed him again, his lips soft yet demanding against yours, you realized just how much you had wanted this—how much you had wanted him. 

“God, I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Chip murmured between kisses, his voice low and rough, sending another thrill through you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, your heart racing. “Me too, Chip,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. 

When your fingers crept up the bottom of Chip’s shirt, brushing against his skin and tangling in the soft hair on his stomach, you felt him shiver under your touch. His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, he seemed to freeze. His hands, which had been resting firmly on your ass, loosened slightly as if his mind caught up to what was happening.

“We—um, we probably shouldn’t do this here? Right?” Chip's voice was shaky, caught between desire and hesitation, his words more a question than a statement. 

You paused, leaning back just enough to look at him, the playful gleam still shining in your eyes. “My bar, my rules,” you whispered, your voice dripping with mischief. Without giving him time to respond, you leaned forward, licking a slow, deliberate line up the side of his neck, feeling the way he trembled under your lips.

Chip let out a low groan, his eyes fluttering shut as your teeth dug into the sensitive skin of his neck. He gripped you tighter, trying to catch his breath, his mind spinning. The line between right and wrong blurred as the heat between you intensified. 

He swallowed hard, as his thoughts unraveled with every kiss, every bite, the world outside forgotten as your lips sent electricity coursing through him. Your teeth scraped lightly against his neck again, making him gasp, his body arching beneath you. He felt like he was losing himself in you, in this moment, and he wasn’t sure he cared anymore. The tension, the need that had built up for so long was too much to ignore now.

"Fuck," Chip groaned lowly as you finally settled fully on his lap, his body responding instantly to the pressure of you pressed so intimately against him. You could feel just how much he wanted this, wanted you, his breath hitching as his hands gripped your hips tighter, trying to steady himself.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You gonna let me take care of you, Chip?” Your voice was soft, sweet, but dripping with a seductive promise that made his head spin. 

For a moment, Chip couldn’t think—his mind spiraling as your words sank in. Take care of him. All he’d ever wanted was for someone to see him, to really see him, and care about him in the way you were offering. It was overwhelming, the idea that you could feel this way about him, that you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

His chest tightened, a mixture of desire and something deeper bubbling up inside him. He nodded slowly, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. “Yeah… yeah, I want that.” His words were barely audible, filled with need and vulnerability all at once.

You grinned, your lips brushing against his neck again as your hands slid up his chest, feeling the way his heart pounded beneath your fingertips. "Good," you whispered, your tone filled with a confidence that sent a shiver down his spine. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."

Chip swallowed hard, his body trembling slightly as he let go of the tension he'd been holding onto for so long. He felt your hands on him, the warmth of your body pressed against his, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel like he had to hold back. He didn’t feel like he had to be in control or guard himself.

You moved against him slowly, teasingly, your body swaying in just the right way to make him lose all sense of restraint. Chip’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hands clutching at your waist, his mind lost in the haze of sensation. The idea that you wanted to take care of him—him—felt unreal, like a fantasy he'd never dared to hope for.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire as you rocked against him, his head falling back as he gave in completely. 

You smiled, feeling the heat of the moment rise as you saw just how much you were affecting him, how vulnerable he was beneath you, how completely lost he was in the feeling of being wanted. You leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “I can make you feel a whole lot better.”

Chip blinked, confusion flashing in his eyes as he tried to process your words. His brow furrowed, and before he could even ask what you meant, you were climbing off his lap. He squawked in protest, his hands instinctively reaching for you, not wanting the moment to end.

But any protest he had died on his lips when he saw what you were doing.

Your knees hit the floor, and his heart nearly stopped. His breath hitched in his throat, his entire body freezing as he watched you kneel between his legs. The sight of you looking up at him, that wicked, playful glint in your eyes, made his mind spin. He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe what you were about to do.

Your hand slid over him, pressing firmly through the denim of his jeans, and Chip’s breath left him in a shaky exhale. His hands clenched the arms of the chair as he looked down at you, his pulse roaring in his ears. The feel of your touch, even through the fabric, sent a jolt of electricity through his entire body.

“Y/N…” Chip breathed, his voice breaking as his mind struggled to catch up with what was happening. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. His body reacted before his mind could, his hips shifting under your hand as he swallowed hard, his throat tight with anticipation.

You grinned up at him, your hand moving slowly, teasingly, as you kept your gaze locked on his. You could see the way his breath quickened, the way his body tensed, completely at your mercy. "Relax," you whispered, your voice soft and commanding all at once.

Chip could only nod, his mind spinning as he let go of the last shred of control he had. He watched you, unable to look away, as your fingers began working on the button of his jeans, the sound of the zipper echoing in the quiet room. His breath caught in his throat as your hand slipped beneath the fabric, the feel of your skin on his sending a shockwave of desire through him.

This was what he had wanted—what he had dreamed of for so long. But now that it was happening, it was almost too much, too overwhelming, and yet, he couldn’t imagine anything more perfect. 

Of course, everything intensified when you pulled him completely free from his jeans, the fabric sliding down his hips as you worked with deliberate care. Chip’s breath hitched in disbelief as you wasted no time, nuzzling in at the base of him with a teasing smile, your warm breath against his skin sending a shockwave of sensation through him. His hands gripped the arms of the chair tighter, his knuckles turning white as he tried to process what was happening.

He couldn’t believe his luck. This—this—wasn’t something that ever happened to him. He was usually the one giving, always wanting to please, whether or not he wanted to receive in return. But now, you were turning everything on its head, taking control in a way that left him utterly helpless and overwhelmed with pleasure.

His mind raced, torn between the urge to let go completely and the instinct to pull back, but the moment your lips brushed against him, soft and teasing, any thought of retreat vanished. His body betrayed him, responding instantly, hips jerking slightly as a low groan escaped his throat.

"Fuck," Chip muttered, the word drawn out, his voice rough with desire. His head fell back against the chair, his mind clouded with the heat of the moment, the feel of your hands, your mouth, completely undoing him.

You looked up at him, your eyes locking onto his as you moved slowly, deliberately, taking your time as if savoring every second. The sight of you kneeling before him, your lips teasing, your hands firm but gentle, was enough to drive him wild. His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse racing as you took him further, inch by inch, your touch making it impossible for him to think straight.

Chip’s breathing grew ragged, his fingers flexing uselessly on the chair, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto as you worked him over. He could barely string a thought together, his mind reduced to a haze of pure sensation, and it took everything in him not to lose himself entirely.

“You’re… you’re really doing this,” he mumbled, his voice breathless, as though he still couldn’t believe it was real. And, God, he didn’t want you to stop. 

You smiled up at him, your eyes gleaming with mischief as your hand tightened around him, sending a fresh wave of sensation crashing through his body. "And you taste really good," you teased, your voice low and sultry, laced with a sweetness that made Chip’s breath stutter in his chest.

Before he could even process your words, you leaned back in, this time with a newfound determination. You wasted no time, your mouth enveloping him in a way that sent his mind spiraling into a dizzying blur of pleasure. Chip’s body tensed, a strangled moan escaping his lips as he leaned his head back against the chair, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles turned white.

It felt like his brain was melting, the heat of your mouth, the way you moved with deliberate, agonizing precision, unraveling him inch by inch. His vision blurred, his breath coming in ragged gasps, each one more desperate than the last. Every sensation, every touch, was heightened, the world around him fading away until all he could feel, all he could think about, was you.

You were relentless, going to town on him like you were on a mission, and Chip could do nothing but surrender to the waves of pleasure rolling through him. His hips bucked involuntarily as you worked him over, your lips, your tongue, moving in perfect sync with your hand. It was almost too much, and yet, not enough all at once. He couldn’t get enough of you.

"Fuck," he groaned the only word he seemed to remember, his voice rough, almost breaking as you pulled another shiver from deep within him. His mind was gone, lost somewhere between reality and bliss, his only tether to this world the sensation of your mouth on him. 

Chip was falling apart, his body trembling under your expert touch, and the more you moved, the more he let go. Every moan, every gasp, every choked sound he made only seemed to spur you on, pushing him further and further until he was right on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself completely.

He didn’t care anymore if he was too loud, didn’t care if the world outside the bar was still spinning. He could barely even remember where he was, his entire existence narrowed down to this one moment, to you, to the way you made him feel like he was coming undone at the seams.

It was overwhelming, the pleasure hitting him like a tidal wave, crashing over him in relentless waves until all he could do was let go. His hands fumbled for purchase, his fingers tangling in your hair as he groaned your name, the sound breaking off into a desperate plea as you pushed him closer, and closer to the edge.

And when Chip finally couldn’t take it anymore, when the pressure that had been building inside him finally broke, his body tensed, and a low, guttural moan escaped his throat. His voice was thick with desperation as he warned, "I’m going to come—"

But before he could get there, you pulled away suddenly, your hand gripping him firmly at the base, cutting off all sensation. His entire body jolted, and a broken, frustrated cry tore from his lips. "Why?!" he whined, his eyes wide, desperate, and full of disbelief.

You smirked, your voice teasing yet full of promise as you whispered, “Because I’m not done with you.”

Chip's frustration was palpable, his body still thrumming with need, every muscle coiled tight as he struggled to recover from the abrupt stop. But the moment he saw you rise to your feet, that playful gleam still in your eyes, and begin to slowly remove your top, his breath caught in his throat. 

His eyes widened as you peeled away the fabric, revealing your skin inch by inch, and the irritation that had been burning inside him vanished in an instant. Instead, all he could do was stare, his gaze locked on you, completely entranced. The soft glow of the dim lights in the bar cast a warm glow over your skin, and Chip's heart raced in his chest as he took in every detail.

"Fuck..." he breathed, his voice a low rasp, filled with awe and desire. The sight of you—standing there, unashamed, confident, and wanting him—was enough to make his mind go blank all over again.

“Do you know any other words, honey? Or are you fucked stupid already?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful dominance as you hovered over him. The wicked grin on your face sent a shiver down Chip’s spine, and his mind struggled to keep up with the sensation coursing through his body.

“I–uh…” Chip stuttered, completely flustered by the combination of your words and the feel of your body pressed against his. His mind was hazy, his thoughts scattered, and he couldn’t think straight. His lips parted, desperate for words, but all that came out was a needy, “Y/N, please…”

You smirked, clearly enjoying the effect you were having on him, your hands sliding over his chest as you leaned in close. “I’m glad you still have your manners, my dumb boy,” you cooed, your tone both sweet and condescending, the words sending another wave of heat rushing through his veins.

Chip thought he would hate it—the way you were teasing him, degrading him just enough to make him feel like he was completely under your control. But instead, it had the opposite effect. His heart raced faster, his skin flushed, and every word you said made his desire for you burn hotter, stronger. He was already so far gone, so completely consumed by the moment, that he didn’t care anymore. He wanted more—needed more of you, no matter how you gave it to him.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and desperate, his voice barely a whisper as he choked out, “Please… don’t stop.”

Your grin widened, your fingers trailing down his stomach, teasing him as you took your time. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear as you stepped closer until you were right in front of him. 

His hands instinctively reached for you, but you gently pushed him back against the chair, keeping control, your gaze locked with his. "You're going to sit back," you whispered, your voice low and commanding, "and let me take care of you."

Chip’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his pulse racing as he nodded, his eyes still glued to you. His body was already on fire, every nerve on edge, but now the anticipation of what you were about to do was almost unbearable.

You grinned, clearly loving the effect you were having on him, the power you held over him in this moment. With a slow, deliberate motion, you began to slide your bottoms down, letting them drop to the floor, exposing yourself completely to Chip. His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he stared up at you, utterly entranced by the sight.

Without a word, you climbed back into his lap, the heat of your bare skin pressing against his as you kissed him, deep and slow, savoring the way he responded. Chip groaned into your mouth, his hands moving immediately, instinctively, to cup your breasts. His touch was needy, desperate, his fingers squeezing gently as he explored you, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as you moaned in his mouth.

The feeling of his hands on you, the way his breath hitched as you kissed him, made your whole body hum with anticipation. You could feel how badly he wanted this—how badly he wanted you—and the way his touch became more urgent, more insistent, only fueled your desire.

You pressed your body closer, grinding against him as your lips moved together, your hands tangling in his hair as you deepened the kiss. Chip's moans grew louder, his grip on you tightening as he lost himself in the sensation, every inch of his body responding to your touch.

He pulled back for just a second, breathless and wide-eyed, his voice hoarse as he whispered, "You're perfect... so perfect."

You smiled against his lips, your voice teasing as you whispered back, "Good boy."

“Fuck me, please, please, please,” Chip cried out, his voice ragged and desperate, his entire body trembling beneath you. The words came out in a rush, his need overtaking every ounce of restraint he had left.

You leaned in close, teasing him with a soft, mocking coo, “Oh, my stupid little baby, I will. You don’t have to cry.” You grinned wickedly, swiping your thumbs under his eyes, even though there were no actual tears, your touch just enough to send another shiver down his spine.

Chip lifted his arms obediently, his breathing heavy, and you helped him out of his shirt, tossing it aside as you admired the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath. The tension between you was electric, the air thick with anticipation as you positioned yourself above him, his hands gripping your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you finally sank down on him.

Chip let out a guttural moan, his head falling back against the chair as you took him in completely, the overwhelming sensation making his entire body tense beneath you. His hands tightened on your hips, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he tried to process the rush of pleasure flooding through him.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice barely audible as you began to move, your body sliding against his in a slow, teasing rhythm. You could feel the way his muscles tensed, the way his grip on you tightened as if he was trying to keep himself grounded, but the more you moved, the more he lost himself in the sensation.

You smiled down at him, your own breath hitching as you leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "There you go, baby."

Chip’s response was nothing more than a broken moan, his mind completely gone, lost to the feeling of you, of the way your body moved against his, of the overwhelming pleasure that had been building for what felt like forever. And as you rode him, slow and deliberate, Chip could only cling to you, completely at your mercy, and loving every second of it.

“Does it–ahh–does it feel good for you?” Chip whimpered, his voice shaky and breathless, his eyes wide with need as he looked up at you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, desperate to make sure you were feeling even a fraction of the intensity that was flooding through him.

You smiled down at him, your breath catching as you moved against him, your body sinking deeper with each slow, deliberate motion. “Oh, baby,” you purred, leaning in close enough that your lips brushed against his ear, “it feels fucking amazing.”

Your words made Chip’s body jolt beneath you, a needy groan escaping his lips as you continued to move, each motion slow but firm, driving him wild. The way your body enveloped him, the heat and friction between you both, had his mind spinning, but hearing that it felt good for you—really good—made his heart pound even harder.

"God, you're perfect," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his hips bucking up instinctively as you continued to ride him, his need to please you overriding everything else. "I just want to make you feel good."

You smiled, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath your fingers as you leaned in close again, your lips brushing against his. "You already are, baby," you whispered, your voice breathy and filled with a teasing warmth. "You're being so good for me."

Chip whimpered at your words, his mind overwhelmed by the heady mix of praise and raw sensation. Every nerve in his body was on fire, his control slipping with every second. He barely knew what he was doing, lost in the whirlwind of desire, but somehow, in a blur of movement, the positions had shifted.

Suddenly, you were laying down on the table, your back arching slightly as Chip found himself on top of you. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his body trembling as he thrust into you, more instinct than thought guiding his movements now. His hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he moved, his rhythm uneven but full of intensity.

“Fuck,” Chip breathed, his voice rough, almost broken. He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close to you, to be buried inside you, moving with reckless abandon. He wanted to last, to savor the moment, but the way you felt beneath him, the soft gasps that escaped your lips, were driving him wild.

Your hands slid up his arms, gripping his shoulders as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. “That’s it, Chip,” you murmured, your voice sultry and filled with encouragement. “Just like that.”

Your words only fueled the fire inside him. Chip’s hips snapped forward harder, more desperate, his body completely giving in to the pleasure as he chased the high that had been building between you. He could barely think, barely breathe, but he didn’t care—he was completely lost in the moment, in you.

The table creaked beneath you, your bodies moving in sync, every thrust sending a wave of electricity through both of you. Chip’s forehead rested against yours, his breath hot and ragged as he continued, his need to please you overtaking everything else.

“Am I—ah—doing good?” he managed to choke out between thrusts, his voice barely a whisper, filled with a raw vulnerability. He was desperate for reassurance, desperate to know that he was making you feel as good as you were making him feel.

Your nails scraped lightly down his back, sending a shiver through him as you smiled up at him, your voice low and sultry as you whispered, “So good, Chip. You’re amazing.”

Those words sent Chip over the edge. His body tensed, every muscle tightening as he lost himself in the rhythm, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. The only thing on his mind now was you, the way your body moved beneath his, the way you felt so perfectly wrapped around him. 

"I’m gonna come, Y/N," Chip groaned, his voice strained, trembling with the intensity of everything building inside him. His movements grew more erratic, his hips snapping harder against you as he fought to keep control, though he knew he was seconds away from losing it completely.

You could feel how close he was, his body trembling with the effort, his breath ragged and uneven. Your hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him even closer as you whispered, your voice dripping with need, "Give it to me, baby."

Those words, that permission, sent him spiraling over the edge.

With a broken, desperate moan, Chip’s body tensed, his hips bucking one last time as he lost himself completely in the pleasure. His entire body shuddered, waves of heat crashing over him as he buried himself inside you, giving you everything he had. 

His breath came out in short, gasping pants, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder as the last of the tension drained from him. He was shaking, overwhelmed by the intensity of the release, and for a moment, he could barely think, his mind blank as he clung to you.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling as he tried to catch his breath, still lost in the haze of everything that had just happened.

You smiled, your hands sliding up his back in a soothing gesture as you held him close, your own breath still ragged from the intensity of it all. "That’s my good boy," you whispered, your lips brushing his ear as you ran your fingers through his hair.

You and Chip sorted yourselves out, getting cleaned up and dressed before stepping back into the quiet night, the air cool against your flushed skin. As you began walking home, Chip felt a warmth settle in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical heat between you earlier. His heart soared when you casually grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. That small, intimate gesture made him feel like everything had changed—for the better.

But then, suddenly, a cold realization hit him, causing his steps to falter. “Oh my god,” Chip said, his voice full of panic as he looked at you with wide eyes. “You never came!”

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet street, and you stopped walking, tugging him into a hug. Chip immediately wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, but still looking slightly panicked. “What’s this for?” he asked, confusion lacing his words.

“You’re the sweetest man alive, Chip,” you said through your laughter, pulling back just enough to grin up at him. You leaned in, giving him a soft, lingering kiss that made his mind spin all over again. When you pulled away, Chip’s lips followed yours instinctively, still looking dazed and concerned.

Before he could speak, you brushed your thumb over his cheek, whispering, “I was only worried about you.” Then, with a playful glint in your eyes, you tickled his sides, making him jump and giggle, his worry dissolving into laughter.

“But,” you added, your tone turning teasing again as you looked up at him with a wink, “if you want to go again, you can sleep in my bed tonight.”

Chip’s eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open in shock and excitement. Without missing a beat, he nodded, completely floored by your offer. And then—he was off. Grabbing your hand, he tugged you down the street, practically dragging you along as he picked up the pace.

You couldn’t help but laugh maniacally as Chip half-sprinted down the street, pulling you behind him like a man on a mission. You’d never seen him move so fast in your life, and it only made your laughter echo louder.

Chip glanced back at you, his face flushed with a mix of excitement and affection, but his steps didn’t slow. He wasn’t going to waste any time getting home tonight—not with the promise of you waiting for him. And as you both hurried through the night, hand in hand, the laughter between you felt like the start of something new, something neither of you were going to let go of anytime soon.

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[witchingwithscissors]

Based on a prompt suggested by @jeridandridge 🪴

Agathario AU | Butch Agatha’s terrible at plants but excellent at falling for the hot garden girl.

Westview Hardware smelled like dirt and lumber and the permanent ghost of gasoline from old lawnmowers someone kept trying to fix.

Rio wiped her forehead with the inside of her wrist, smudging more garden soil across her skin, and stacked another flat of seedlings under the slow creak of the ceiling fans.

The bell over the door jingled.

She didn’t have to look up to know.

Boots scuffed from honest work. Jeans faded pale at the knees. A loose gray shirt stretched over a strong back.

Agatha Harkness.

Carrying, today, a pothos plant that looked more like an obituary than a living thing.

Rio set the seedlings down and leaned into the counter, letting herself smile slow and dangerous.

“Here to kill another one, cowboy?”

Agatha startled—visibly.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes—an impossible gray-blue like storm clouds—widened.

A slow flush crept up her neck, staining her collarbone pink where her shirt hung loose.

Rio savored it.

“It’s not dead,” Agatha said defensively, depositing the sad plant on the counter like a peace offering. “It’s just… having a rough… week.”

“You said that about the succulent too,” Rio teased, inspecting the limp vines. “And the fern. And that poor rosemary that deserved better.”

Agatha shrugged, hands shoved deep in her back pockets, shoulders curling inward slightly.

It was a strange kind of vulnerability, seeing someone so capable look a little lost in a sea of plants.

“I’m better with wiring electrical,” Agatha muttered. “Plants expect you to know what they need without them telling you.”

Rio snorted. “That sounds suspiciously like a personal problem.”

Agatha’s mouth tugged into a reluctant smile—small, crooked, private.

Rio felt it, sharp and sweet, somewhere under her ribs.

She plucked a basil starter from the seedling rack and held it out like a challenge. “Try this instead.”

Agatha eyed it warily. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Rio said, stepping closer. The earthy, sharp scent of the basil mixed with the musk of sun-warmed denim and the faint tang of sweat from Agatha’s skin. “It’s forgiving. Even you might not kill it.”

Agatha reached out. Their fingers brushed warm, rough, calloused—and Rio’s pulse jumped.

“Keep it alive through August,” Rio said, voice dipping low, “and maybe I’ll use it to cook you dinner.”

Agatha stared at her, the basil cradled awkwardly between them, like she didn’t quite know how to hold this—the plant or the offer.

“You always hustle your customers like this?” Agatha asked, voice rough.

“Only the dangerously handsome ones who forget how phones work,” Rio said with a wink, spinning away before she could catch the damage she’d done.

Later that night, Rio sat cross-legged on her bed, the cracked window open to the heavy, cicada-loud summer night.

Her phone buzzed.

Agatha: so if it dies a little does that mean coffee instead of dinner? asking for a friend.

Rio grinned. Agatha had had her number for a few weeks, but after today’s basil offering, she had finally decided to text her. Rio’s thumb flew across the screen.

Rio: Nope. Basil crimes are taken very seriously in New Jersey.

A minute later.

Agatha: what about preemptive bail?

Rio: Depends. Can you spell “photosynthesis”?

Agatha: bold of you to assume i can spell at all.

Rio laughed out loud, startling the black cat curled at the foot of her bed—her grandmother’s cat.

Outside, the crickets sawed at the night, and somewhere far off, someone’s sprinkler squeaked into life.

The next day.

Agatha: still green. slightly judging me but green.

A photo followed: the basil pot perched precariously between a pair of socks and a paper coffee cup.

Rio: It’s judging you for the company you keep.

Agatha: fair.

Another photo: Agatha giving the basil an awkward thumbs up, her hair messily falling into her face, a faint smudge of dirt along her jawline.

Rio saved it and immediately assigned it to Agatha’s contact in her phone.

Two weeks later, Rio was hauling bags of mulch under the punishing July sun when Agatha ambled up, pretending to browse seed packets.

“Cowboy. You stalking me?” Rio called without looking.

“I plead the fifth,” Agatha said, voice low and pleased.

They ended up working side by side anyway—Rio loading pallets, Agatha catching them into her truck. Easy. Unspoken. Like they’d done it a hundred times.

At some point, Rio peeled off her work gloves, flexing her fingers, and tossed another heavy bag toward Agatha.

Their hands brushed mid-catch. Calluses skimming calluses. Skin on skin, hot and dry and so electric Rio almost dropped the damn bag.

She looked up—

And found Agatha already looking at her.

The air between them stuttered.

Hot, humming, fragile.

Rio felt it first—the tilt forward, the magnetic pull.

Agatha didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

It would be so easy.

One step closer.

One tilt of her head.

But Rio, breathing shallow, heart racing—only smiled.

A slow, wicked thing to hide the fact she was terrified.

“Careful,” she drawled, voice catching. “You might start thinking you like me.”

Agatha’s smile—small, dangerous—ghosted across her mouth.

“Maybe I do,” she murmured.

Rio’s heart slammed sideways.

But Agatha stepped back, palms flat against her jeans, and turned away to load another bag like nothing had happened. Rio stood there for a long moment, mulch dust settling in the spaces between them.

That night, Rio lay in bed, sleepless.

The oscillating fan buzzed, moving humid air around her tiny garage apartment.

The basil plant sat on the windowsill, leaves stretching toward the stars.

Rio traced patterns across her bare stomach with one hand, thinking: Don’t be stupid. You have two months left, max. You leave at the end of summer. Always have, always will.

But still—

She remembered the way Agatha had looked at her.

That same night, Agatha sat on her porch, bottle of beer forgotten at her side. The basil—somehow still alive—glowed faintly under the porch light.

Agatha scrubbed her hands over her face.

She’d kissed women before. Slept with them, too. No big deal. But no one had ever hit her like this—like the whole damn world tipped sideways around one girl’s rough hands and easy, reckless smile.

Agatha closed her eyes, leaned back against the railing, and listened to the summer night breathe around her.

The next afternoon, Agatha got a text.

Rio: Movie night? My pick. No takebacks.

Agatha pulled up an hour later, six-pack and licorice in one hand, smirk already threatening to break loose.

Rio opened the door barefoot, wearing cutoff denim shorts and an tight shirt with a band Agatha didn’t recognize. Her hair was damp from a shower, curling loose around her shoulders, and she smelled faintly of cheap shampoo.

Agatha nearly forgot how to breathe.

They settled into Rio’s battered secondhand couch, beers sweating between their palms. The movie was some chaotic indie thing Rio narrated halfway through with delighted sarcasm, and Agatha found herself laughing more at Rio’s commentary than at the film itself.

At some point, Rio stretched—long and lazy—and her knee brushed against Agatha’s splayed-out thigh.

Neither of them moved.

The next time Rio laughed, she leaned her head briefly against Agatha’s shoulder.

Agatha pretended her heart wasn’t racing.

Agatha, who could rewire a lamp blindfolded, who could change a water heater one-handed, sat there paralyzed by the press of a girl’s warm weight against her side.

The movie ended. Credits rolled. Neither moved.

Rio tilted her head, chin resting against Agatha’s arm. Her voice came soft.

“So… you gonna kiss me, cowboy… or do I have to do everything around here?”

Agatha didn’t think. She turned and kissed her.

It was a little clumsy at first—teeth bumping, noses in the way. Rio laughed into her mouth, hands sliding into Agatha’s hair, and then it turned molten—hot, slow, anchoring. Agatha kissed the way she worked—with careful, practiced steadiness—but Rio kissed like she had nowhere else to be, like kissing was an act of ownership. And God help her, Agatha wanted to be owned.

The cold shower didn’t help.

The whiskey didn’t either.

Agatha, still damp and grinning like a woman freshly fucked, snapped a selfie—towel low, eyes dark—and texted Rio.

Agatha: you’re in charge of aftercare next time baby girl

A minute later.

Rio: Come over. Now.

And she did.

Agatha woke to sunlight slanting in through her open windows, the faint hum of summer already buzzing outside. She blinked groggily, stretching, and realized two things simultaneously: First, Rio was not in her bed. And B) there was rummaging in the kitchen.

Agatha kicked the sheets away and found Rio standing at the fridge, looking at it like it had let her down.

“You only have five kinds of canned beans,” Rio said, voice flat, “and an expired strawberry yogurt...”

Agatha scrubbed a hand over her face. “I have oatmeal.”

“Instant oatmeal with candy dinosaur eggs doesn’t count as a food group. That’s kindergarten survival skills.”

Rio closed the fridge and turned, hands on her hips, an expression of determination on her face.

“Put on your shoes,” she ordered. “We’re going grocery shopping.”

“It’s—” Agatha glanced at the clock, “eight in the morning.”

“Grocery shopping,” Rio repeated firmly, tossing her a pair of beat-up sneakers.

Agatha grumbled but obeyed, pulling on sweatpants over her boxers and grabbing a clean-ish shirt from the floor.

Rio, infuriatingly beautiful, threw on rain boots over bare legs and one of Agatha’s flannel shirts she must’ve stolen at some point during the night. It hit her mid-thigh.

Agatha nearly walked into the doorframe staring.

At the store, they looked like a Pinterest board gone wrong. Agatha bleary-eyed, hair in a messy low ponytail, Rio bouncing ahead of the cart with a shopping list in her head and nothing on paper.

“Essentials first,” Rio said, tossing coffee grounds and bread into the cart.

Agatha trailed after her, pushing the cart like a dazed cattle dog.

She bought vitamins for Agatha without asking, tucked quietly next to carton of eggs.

She sniffed melons and weighed tomatoes in her palms.

And Agatha—strong, stubborn Agatha—wanted to kiss Rio’s mouth right there in the middle of the meat section. But fought the urge.

Back home, Agatha flopped onto a kitchen chair, blinking stupidly while Rio moved through the kitchen like she’d been there forever. Fresh spinach cracked in a pan. Eggs whipped into golden froth. Cheese grated, basil pinched from the tiny windowsill pot.

“This morning, I was gonna surprise you with breakfast in bed,” Rio said, laughing, “but I realized you need saving first.”

Agatha grunted in response. She couldn’t form words with Rio like that—barefoot, hair tied up messily, making her house smell like heaven and Sunday mornings and salvation.

Rio slid the plate across the counter: fluffy quiche, fresh berries, coffee so rich it made the air smell like a promise. Agatha just stared, her heart kicking once, hard.

Later that week, Agatha kicked off her boots and shoved her work jeans down with a low groan, the knee torn clean through. Rio knelt in front of her without a word, fingertips brushing the worn denim, then reached for her sewing kit like it was second nature.

“You’re a danger to yourself,” she muttered, guiding needle through denim with careful hands.

Agatha watched from the couch, quiet. Something knotted under her ribs—something sweet and terrifying.

No one had ever mended things for her before.

Not her boots, not her shirts, not her heart.

Rio tied off the thread with a flourish and tossed the jeans back at her. “Good for another few years of reckless living.”

Agatha held them like they were spun from gold.

Rio came home one night to find her old garden shears—the ones with the cracked handle and the dull blades—sitting neatly on the porch, cleaned and repaired.

No note. No text.

Just the kind of love Agatha knew how to give: Silently. Steadily. Surely.

Rio sat on the porch steps, turning the shears over in her hands, and smiled so wide her face hurt.

Agatha had been in Rio’s garage apartment before. But one humid evening, for the first time, Rio led her into the bedroom.

It was cramped, full of plants and books and little touches of home mended curtains, handmade pillowcases, a poster of a punk band taped crooked on the wall.

Agatha took it all in slowly, carefully.

The sewing machine in the corner. The stack of plant biology textbooks dog-eared and worn. The sweater draped on her bed, sleeves patched with loving clumsiness.

This wasn’t a room.

It was a nest.

Temporary. Half-packed.

Built on borrowed time.

Agatha sat carefully on the edge of Rio’s bed, heart pounding.

She wanted to unpack.

She wanted to build her a house that didn’t have a deadline.

Rio caught her looking, and smiled—small, secret.

“Don’t get used to it, cowboy,” she said softly. “I’m not staying forever.”

Agatha nodded, but something deep inside her whispered: I wish you would.

At the summer fair, Rio wore a sundress—pale green, strappy, dangerous. Agatha tried not to stare, but failed.

She found Rio behind the food tents, slipping out from under the blinding afternoon sun.

Without thinking—without stopping—she grabbed her by the waist, pressed her against the side of the tent, and kissed her.

Hard. Hungry.

Rio laughed against her mouth, kissed her back twice as hard.

Somewhere in the background, kids screamed on the Ferris wheel and the scent of fried dough thickened the air.

Agatha didn’t care.

She was just thinking about how good Rio tasted. Like salt and sunshine and something that felt a lot like hope.

The heat broke the week Rio started fully packing.

Storms rolled over Westview in heavy gray waves, and the sidewalks steamed in the aftermath.

Rio folded shirts into boxes, books into old grocery bags, the scent of rain mixing with the sharp, green tang of basil from the windowsill.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, saying nothing.

Neither kissed the other goodbye. It would’ve been too much. Or maybe not enough.

Two weeks later, Rio stood in the tiny galley kitchen of her Washington apartment, staring down at a mug of coffee she couldn’t bring herself to drink.

It tasted wrong.

Too bitter, too stale, too much like alone.

She sat down on the old tile floor, coffee burning a path down her throat, and curled her knees to her chest.

She missed Agatha with a violence that scared her.

Not just the sex, not just the easy laughter, but the way Agatha filled up the quiet spaces, the way she knew what Rio needed before she even asked, the way her hands knew how to hold things without breaking them.

Rio pressed her forehead against her arms, breathing shallowly.

The basil plant Agatha had given her—Herb, still barely alive—sat drooping on the counter.

“Sorry, buddy,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Some things just didn’t survive transplanting. Right?

A week later, Rio stitched together a leather tool pouch by hand.

It took her six tries and two stabbed fingers.

The stitches weren’t perfect. Neither was the leather. But it was solid. It was meant to be carried, used, trusted.

She wrapped it carefully and tucked a note inside: “Carry what matters.”

No signature. No explanation. Just everything she didn’t know how to say—packed small enough to survive the miles between them.

Agatha found the package three days later, wedged crookedly in her mailbox.

She carried it to her truck and sat there with the door cracked open, summer air hot and heavy against her skin.

The pouch smelled like new leather.

She ran her fingers over the careful, imperfect stitches, over the rough seams where Rio’s hands had worked.

When she unfolded the note, the words knocked the air clean out of her lungs.

“Carry what matters.”

Agatha pressed the note flat against her heart, hands shaking. Breathed through her teeth. And finally, finally, whispered to the empty truck cab, “I miss you, baby girl. I miss you so much.”

The basil plant on her porch was still alive.

Barely.

Agatha cradled the tool pouch in her lap and stared out at the flat gold light spilling over Westview, thinking: You don’t let things like her slip through your fingers. Not if you’re smart. Not if you still have half a heart left to lose. Life apart didn’t feel like life.

Rio threw herself into research, into papers and labs and long nights spent cross-referencing drought-tolerant hybrid strains. But her hands still reached automatically for a second coffee cup when she brewed in the mornings. Her eyes still flicked toward the door when it opened, stupidly expecting Agatha’s heavy boots and sheepish grin.

Agatha kept working—wiring houses, fixing busted water heaters, patching fences for neighbors too old to do it themselves.

But she stopped eating real breakfasts.

She stopped laughing at dumb jokes on the radio.

The weight of absence settled into their bones.

Ordinary. Constant. Crushing.

Some nights, Rio fell asleep clutching her phone.

Some nights, Agatha sat on her porch with the tool pouch on her knee, nursing a beer and the ache in her chest.

Neither said it out loud.

But the basil—stubborn, battered, half-wild—kept growing.

The knocking woke Rio from a restless half-sleep.

She blinked at the clock—2:17 a.m.—and stumbled to the door, dragging the hem of her too-big shirt with one hand.

When she swung the door open, Agatha was standing there, backlit by the flickering porch light, looking like hell. Sweat-streaked hair. Dirt-smudged jeans. A worn duffel bag hanging from one shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds. Her eyes—those damn storm-gray eyes—locked onto Rio’s and didn’t look away.

“Hey,” Agatha rasped, voice low and broken in places. “I, uh—”

Rio didn’t let her finish.

She hauled Agatha inside by the front of her shirt, slammed the door with a heel, and kissed her.

It wasn’t graceful.

Teeth bumping, gasps caught halfway in their throats, hands fumbling with too many emotions and too little coordination.

Agatha kissed back like she was drowning and Rio was the only air left in the world.

Rio cupped Agatha’s jaw with both hands, grounding them both. “You’re here,” she whispered against her mouth, disbelieving.

“I’m here,” Agatha whispered back, voice wrecked. “If you still want me.”

The trip to the bedroom was a mess of half-torn clothes and muttered curses.

Rio shoved Agatha down onto the bed and crawled over her, pinning her wrists lightly to the sheets. Agatha’s pupils blew wide.

“You drove across the fucking country for me,” Rio said, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re worth it,” Agatha said simply.

Rio leaned down, forehead pressed to Agatha’s. “You absolute stupid gorgeous fucking cowboy.”

They kissed again, deeper now. Slower.

Agatha’s hands—steady, rough, reverent—mapped the curve of Rio’s back, the strong line of her thighs, the places she’d memorized and missed in the same breath.

Rio kissed her like she was reclaiming territory she had never wanted to give up in the first place.

When Rio pulled back long enough to tear her own shirt over her head, Agatha’s hands trembled on her hips.

“Still want me?” Rio asked, soft, dangerous.

Agatha exhaled like it broke something inside her.

“Always,” she said.

They moved together without finesse—too desperate, too hungry—until Rio straddled Agatha’s hips, pinning her hands again with a wicked grin.

The sweat-slick slide of their bodies sparked along every raw, open nerve.

Agatha arched up helplessly into Rio’s weight.

“Fuck,” Agatha muttered, breathless.

Rio leaned down, mouth brushing the shell of Agatha’s ear, voice gone hoarse with emotion.

“Still my handsome cowboy,” she whispered.

Agatha froze under her. Choked out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a moan. Pulled Rio down and kissed her like salvation.

It wasn’t sex the way Agatha had known it—a transaction, a way to pass the time.

It was messy and reverent and stupid with want.

It was Rio laughing into her mouth, whispering “mine, mine, mine” until Agatha shuddered apart in her arms.

And when Rio came too, gasping into Agatha’s shoulder, Agatha closed her eyes and let herself believe—for the first time in a long time—that maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to keep something good.

The backyard smelled like dirt and spilled tequila.

It was summer again when Agatha drove the last post into the earth with a grunt, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. The sun was merciless, high and white against the endless New Jersey sky, but she didn’t care.

Rio was sitting cross-legged in the grass, sorting seed packets into neat piles—tomatoes, peppers, herbs. Her hair was tucked into a messy bun, wisps clinging to the damp edges of her neck.

Agatha took a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Sometimes she still forgot she was allowed to look.

“You’re not gonna make me build another raised bed, are you?” Agatha asked, leaning on the mallet.

Rio squinted up at her, smirking. “Only if you’re good.”

Agatha barked a laugh. “Define good.”

“Still up for debate,” Rio said airily, tossing her a packet of basil seeds.

Agatha caught it one-handed, heart tugging in her chest.

Basil.

It always came back to basil.

Later, after the dirt was packed and the hose coiled and the sun had started to slide toward the horizon, Rio brought out Agatha’s old work jacket.

The left sleeve had torn weeks ago, caught on a fence post Agatha was fixing.

Rio sat on the porch steps, denim stretched over her knees, a sewing kit balanced carefully beside her.

Agatha watched from the grass, heart cracking open along familiar lines.

“You don’t have to fix everything, you know,” she said, voice soft.

Rio threaded the needle carefully, not looking up. “Maybe I want to.”

Agatha crossed the yard, sat down heavy beside her.

Rio’s fingers worked quick and sure, weaving the thread through fabric, mending the worn places with patient, stubborn care.

Agatha didn’t say anything. She just sat there, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed cotton and cheap shampoo, letting Rio stitch her life back together one small act at a time.

When Rio tied off the final knot, she leaned into Agatha’s side without hesitation.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Good as new.”

Agatha slid her arm around her, pulling her close. “Better,” she said gruffly.

That evening, under the bruised purple sky, they planted a few herbs together.

Rio kneeled in the dirt, hands steady and sure. Agatha hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to dig, until Rio shoved a trowel into her hand with a grin.

“Don’t be scared, cowboy. It’s just dirt.”

Agatha snorted. “I’m more worried about disappointing you.”

“Impossible,” Rio said easily, and meant it.

They worked in companionable silence, the cicadas screaming their summer songs, the earth warm under their knees.

Agatha brushed a smudge of dirt from Rio’s cheek with her thumb, and Rio caught her hand without looking up, threading their fingers together.

“Good things take time,” Rio said absently, pressing a basil seedling into the soil.

Agatha swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat.

She could still remember that day—Rio laughing at her dying pothos, teasing her about killing herbs, holding out a basil plant like a dare and a prayer all in one.

She could still remember what it felt like to hope and be so damn afraid of it.

And yet—here they were.

Not perfect. Not easy. Just… real.

Agatha tilted Rio’s chin up with two fingers, kissed her slow and sure under the fading sky.

“And some things,” Agatha said against her mouth, “you just grow into.”

Rio flashed that soft, wicked smile and murmured, “I grew all over you. You didn’t even fight it.”

[revelboo]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME WHERE YOU GOT THAT ITA BAG 😭 I NEED TO MAKE A STARSCREAM ONE IF THEY HAVE HIM

It’s from this seller on Etsy. They have Misfire, Sunstorm, and Slipstream left looks like. I keep going back to look at Misfire and talking myself out of it, but he’s so pretty

Point of Extinction Pt 5

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• “Come, Thirteen.” Servos flexing, he waits as you look up at him then hesitantly approach. Still less trusting now since you’d seen Fourteen even though he’d gone to great lengths to move his experiments into a soundproofed area far from your cage since. It shouldn’t matter, but this new fear of him snarls uneasily in his processor and spark. Makes those ghosts of memories surface more often. Because he broke your trust in him or because your fear is something familiar? It’s all illogical, counter to what he knows, but when you come to him and allow him to curls his servos around your little frame, the chaos eases. Calms.

• Having no idea what he wants with you, it’s hard to make yourself approach him when you can still picture what he’d done to that deer. The sounds it had made. Nothing makes noises like that unless it’s in excruciating pain. But there’s no point resisting him, making him have to reach to grab you might make him angry and that might land you on an exam table. Right now he seems content to scan you periodically and to ask questions. Lifting you clear from your cage, Shockwave settles himself at his desk and sets you down on top of it before reaching for one of the apparently hundreds of identical packets of MREs you really don’t want to think about how he came to possess. Sliding it toward you, but keeping the servo on it. “Do you fear me, Thirteen?” Reluctantly you nod, glancing up at that glowing optic then away. “What does that feel like?”

• Your eyes dart to him and away, arms wrapping around yourself while he waits. Needing to know, to untangle the illogical with facts. Things he can weigh and quantify. Little shoulders lifting, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Nervous?” When he doesn’t move, you blow out a breath. “Like something skittering inside me, breaking me apart from the inside. Like I can’t breathe or move. I don’t know how to explain it. Don’t you get scared?” No. He doesn’t feel anything, except this vague unease he can’t understand. But sometimes those memories that don’t fit ring through him. That stranger had been terrified at the end. Relinquishing the food, he watches you reach for it and sit down to tear at the packaging. “Do you feel anything?”

• His helm tips, that single optic flaring brighter as he stares at you. Had he felt anything when he’d hurt that animal for science? Any guilt at all? “No,” he says as your shoulders sag. Then his servo is under your chin, tipping it back up as he stares at you. “It bothers me.”

• Why had he admitted that? It’s makes no sense as his servo lingers against your throat, feeling your pulse. And you reach up to lay a little palm on him. “If you want to talk about it,” you murmur, offering him an uncertain smile. A tiny bit of trust despite still fearing him. No, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Can’t explain that sometimes his memories aren’t his. That in his dreams, his plating is white and blue, not purple. That he comes out of recharge shaking uncontrollably, feeling like his spark is being torn between now and a past that isn’t his. And maybe never was. That he always feels like he’s dreaming and numb to everything but the constant tide of frustration seething inside him.

Previous

Next

[collapsedsquid]

He was prepared to launch apocalyptic strikes should Soviet Russia ever attack first, and got a call around 8 p.m. one night from the guard station above. A glowing reddish-orange oval was hovering over the front gate, Salas told Kirkpatrick’s investigators. The guards had their rifles drawn, pointed at the oval object appearing to float above the gate. A horn sounded in the bunker, signaling a problem with the control system: All 10 missiles were disabled.  Salas soon learned a similar event occurred at other silos nearby. Were they under attack? Salas never got an answer. The next morning a helicopter was waiting to take Salas back to base. Once there he was ordered: Never discuss the incident.  Salas was one of five men interviewed by Kirkpatrick’s team who witnessed such events in the 1960s and ’70s. While sworn to secrecy, the men began sharing their stories in the ’90s in books and documentaries.  Kirkpatrick’s team dug into the story and discovered a terrestrial explanation. The barriers of concrete and steel surrounding America’s nuclear missiles were thick enough to give them a chance if hit first by a Soviet strike. But scientists at the time feared the intense storm of electromagnetic waves generated by a nuclear detonation might render the hardware needed to launch a counterstrike unusable.  To test this vulnerability, the Air Force developed an exotic electromagnetic generator that simulated this pulse of disruptive energy without the need to detonate a nuclear weapon. When activated, this device, placed on a portable platform 60 feet above the facility, would gather power until it glowed, sometimes with a blinding orange light. It would then fire a burst of energy that could resemble lightning. The electromagnetic pulses snaked down cables connected to the bunker where launch commanders like Salas sat, disrupting the guidance systems, disabling the weapons and haunting the men to this day.  But any public leak of the tests at the time would have allowed Russia to know that America’s nuclear arsenal could be disabled in a first strike. The witnesses were kept in the dark.

[verstappentime]

From there, there's several more hospital pictures. Max can't picture sharing something so private. It seems like people are following along, though; all the posts have likes in the 5-figures.

There's several where he's just sitting up in bed, and a few of his leg, clearly badly injured: In a sling, in a full cast, in one of those traction things. One gruesome picture of pins in his ankle. He loves emojis, especially the kissy face one. He's upbeat most of the time, but Max can tell when things must have been really bad.

max/charles, 1.3k. it's 2017 and max finds out why he stopped hearing about charles leclerc. (part one?)

Max hasn't thought about Charles in a long time.

He's thought about him in the abstract, whenever he's coming out to someone new, saying, "Oh, her? I would not know, I'm gay." He's thought about being fourteen and unable to talk to Charles without a little secret smile, one he had to bite down. It's how he knew he liked boys for the first time.

But he left karting, and he went to Florida, and then he went to F3, and then to F1, and he left behind everyone his own age. He sees names he recognizes in F3, F2, but never Charles. He doesn't have time to wonder about it.

When he sees the Instagram post, he feels like a bird smacking into a glass window.

premateam 🚨 DRIVER ANNOUNCEMENT 🚨 Welcoming our 2017 F3 driver, Charles Leclerc. We always knew you'd be back, and we would be waiting. ❤️

Charles has done his hair short. He's grinning in the photo, flushed with happiness, leaning against a car with the number 16 plastered on. He's older, leaner. He's handsome.

charles_leclerc SURPRISEEEE! 😘 Better late than never. Three years ago I was learning to walk again. Today back in a single seater for the first time. Never give up ❤️❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for the opportunity @premateam

Max's pulse is thumping. Charles, who changed his life and never knew it. What happened to him?

He goes to the previous post. It's from a week ago: a picture of a crash helmet, red with stripes going up and over the top, white and a different shade of red.

charles_leclerc Dusting her off!!!! 🤫 Still fits 😝

He feels like he's missing way too much. He scrolls down rapidly, until the pictures start to wane in quality, probably taken on an older phone.

He clicks into one from 2015; Charles, in a hospital bed with a breathing tube in. He's younger, more like Max remembers him. He looks tiny. It twists something in Max's gut.

He swipes to the next one in the carousel; it's Charles sitting up in bed, dressed in a hospital gown, giving the camera a thumbs up. The third and final bit of the post is a video, Charles doing what looks like some sort of breathing treatment and waving to the person filming with a wink.

charles_leclerc Past week has been crazy… After seeing my car I'm just feeling lucky to be here… Thank you for all the support. Trying to get home soon, hard at work. Love to everyone ❤️❤️❤️

From there, there's several more hospital pictures. Max can't picture sharing something so private. It seems like people are following along, though; all the posts have likes in the 5-figures.

There's several where he's just sitting up in bed, and a few of his leg, clearly badly injured: In a sling, in a full cast, in one of those traction things. One gruesome picture of pins in his ankle. He loves emojis, especially the kissy face one. He's upbeat most of the time, but Max can tell when things must have been really bad.

charles_leclerc Goodbyeeee chest tube! You are not my friend anymore. One day at a time :) Means I get to go back to Monaco, can't wait 🇲🇨🇲🇨🇲🇨

charles_leclerc New hospital & new hardware in femur ✅✅✅ This one hurts can't lie!!! On my way to a new leg though, so good news

charles_leclerc Hard week, bored. Surgery #5️⃣ tomorrow

charles_leclerc Gross right??? Robot Charles incoming

charles_leclerc Got to shower and wash my hair todaaay how does everyone think I look??

charles_leclerc Was supposed to go home this week but infection means I have to stay 👎🏼 👎🏼 Thanks to my brothers for brightening up my room though. @arthurleclerc good luck this weekend 😘

charles_leclerc Surgery #9, maybe the last one! Is that a lucky number??

Max isn't sure what his heart is doing. Twisting, maybe. Charles looks thin and pale in most of the pictures. They're dated weeks apart. He must've been in the hospital an age. Charles had only admitted that he was in pain once, but it had to have been– God. Fucking awful.

Max hasn't seen him since he was 14, but Charles was always kind to him. Sweet. Funny. He was angry when he lost, but only for a little while; he was back and offering to help Max load up his kart within a few hours, rattling on about what he did wrong and how it would never happen again. Usually, it didn't. He smiled like the sun when he won.

Max hurts for him. He should be in F1 by now.

In one post, Charles has taken a picture of a race he's watching on TV. He would have seen Max. He was a few hours away, on the track in Imola, and Charles was in Monaco, in the hospital. It's strange. They've been in the same world the whole time.

Max can't help smiling at his phone when he scrolls to Charles going home. He's in a wheelchair; he's in a different cast, starting under the knee. The next post in the carousel, he's in the wheelchair, reaching up to hug his little brother, who Max has met a couple times.

charles_leclerc Home 🏠 ❤️❤️‍🥰 So happy. Thanks to everyone who sent me nice thingsss got to open it all today :)

The next post is a video; Max ticks on the volume to watch. He recognizes some of the likes – one's Daniel.

The caption says "BEST DAY!!! Four months later!!! Feels like I won a world championship:)" It's an edit, set to 'Rise Up,' which is unbearably corny, but Max has lost God knows how much time catching up on the past two and a half years, and he's not going to miss a win.

The video starts with a clip from the day of his crash; then the clips Max has seen before, of him smiling at the camera; one of him sitting up in bed, hooked up to oxygen with a kind-looking nurse supporting his back, talking to him quietly; a couple of him with a surgical cap on, one where he's clearly hazy.

The video's longer than a minute, so Charles has split it into two parts. Max swipes to the next one.

This one starts with the music is turned down and the raw sound is dialed up. Charles is sitting on the edge of a bed, a nurse supporting him under both armpits and helping him stand. He's grinning right at the person filming; from behind the phone, a man says something in enthusiastic French.

Max's breath catches when Charles comes into the frame, navigating the hospital and then his house with a walking frame – he has some sort of brace on his knee and a walking cast on. There's some where he's gritting his teeth, some where he's smiling. Max isn't sure if he's playing to the camera. It has to hurt. Max doesn't need to know French to know how fucking happy everyone is to see him doing it.

They're getting to the end part of the song, where the lady's singing I'll rise up, for you, and all that. It should be silly, but Max doesn't care. It's good. It's good.

He hasn't even gotten to the best part.

In the last clip, Charles, tentatively, someone spotting him from behind, is walking, still with a heavy brace supporting his bad leg, but by himself.

Max hasn't seen him in three years, but he wants to hug him so badly. He's not sure they've ever done that before. It's better, still, knowing he's going to drive again. He did drive again. If Max cried more, he might now.

Max feels like he's got tunnel vision. This separate life, this place where their stories diverged; he never got to be a part of it, and he feels– weirdly bereft. He never knew Charles beyond their on-track friendship, but there's a strange sense of sadness. There's this nagging thought, I should have been there. He wants to know everything.

He finally lets Instagram lie and Googles Charles Leclerc crash.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes Episode 143: Your Thargoid girlfriend

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

Ao3!

CWs: Oral sex; oviposition; inflation; excessive fluids; overstim; enthusiastic consent

A/N: This one actually was requested, but the person who requested it used the wrong @ in the ask, then named themselves when they asked for it again as anon! 

Either way, the request was for wlw alien breeding, and frankly that's hot. Enjoy!

################################

The landing gear gave a satisfying thunk as it hit the asteroid. A combination of microgravity and force-effect would keep you anchored to the rock while you relaxed for the night shift. Don’t fly drunk or tired, they’re the golden rules, and when you’re travelling by frameshift drive you don’t want to take risks. You’d seen what happens to pilots when they don’t pull back fast enough after materialising in a system. Never pretty.

Sighing, you stood up. You always get morbid after flying too long. Besides, it’s date night and you’d been able to smell dinner for an hour now. You pressed your hand to the door release and stepped into the galley-cum-bedroom. For the sheer bulk of a type-9, it’s almost all compartment space, dedicated for cargo racks or other such hardware. You’d heard of people turning these vessels into miners, but you’re not sure you’d want to chance that. You’re relatively safe hauling seven hundred units of euphemistically named “fertiliser” from the bubble to Colonia, no pirate would even bother taking the time to interdict you for a handful of credits worth of shit. A cargo hold full of bauxite? That’s a different story, and a type-9 isn’t exactly built for speed or defence.

There you go again, pontificating on the merits of starship design. You unclipped your helmet and opened your flightsuit, taking a seat on the bed while you watched Tilly cook. Her name, of course, wasn’t Tilly. What it was was completely unpronounceable to humans, so she just let you call her Tilly. You smiled, watching her arthopoid body as she worked; thin waisted, many-legged, mantis-armed. If you’d told yourself even a year ago that not only was peace with the Thargoids achievable, but you’d be fucking one on the regular, you wouldn’t have believed it. But there you were, sat on the bed you shared, on the ship where you both lived, watching her prepare a meal for you both.

She put dinner in the oven, such as it was, and set a timer before turning to you. Some people would find her insectile face hard to read, somewhere between a mantid and a grasshopper, bulbous compound eyes and clattering mandibles, but you knew she was smiling at you.

“About half an hour until dinner, babe” a voice synthesiser was stuck to her neck, chiming out her carefully curated voice

“What would you like to do in the meantime?” You knew what she wanted to do. You could feel her gaze on the skintight kevlar suit, unzipped to your belly button, almost, but not quite, allowing your tits to spill out. You lounged on the bed, making sure she could see as much of you as possible.

Your pulse raced. Having a hyper-specialised apex predator scurry towards you at mach-Jesus is enough to make anyone flinch, but you knew precisely what she had in store for you. She stripped the flightsuit off you, manhandling your limbs as she peeled you from your armoured gear before tossing you, naked and glistening back onto the bed. She parted your legs, diving for her prize.

Thargoid mandibles are remarkably dextrous, as you’d discovered. You lay back, letting her barbed limbs hold your knees apart as her mouthparts chittered and buzzed against you. A snaking proboscis slid inside you, flexible and wriggling as it penetrated your snatch. You bit your lip as you grabbed at the bedsheets, the wriggling appendage in you making your hips buck and roll against her face. Your breath quickened as you crested your first orgasm, then your second, then the third. You were a panting gasping mess by the time she pulled her face away from your crotch.

She wasn’t done yet.

She loomed over you, pinning your arms to the bed, forcing your legs apart. You felt her rubbing her abdomen against you. Your body twitched as your aching clit reacted to her, waves of stimulation making you groan and whine. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All you could do was lie there and accept her as she dragged her body on your stinging, sensitive cunt.

The look on her face changed as it emerged. The long, thick modified stinger reaching from a slot in her abdomen. She was careful, pressing it gently into you. Your groans got louder as the tip parted your lips. She stretched you slowly, still holding on to you as she pushed inside. Her voice module was streaming gibberish, a lullaby of inarticulate vowels as your weary hole twitched and flexed around her. Every move, every push was getting her closer.

You pushed your hips up, pressing her in as far as she could go, her tip kissing your cervix as her whole body pumped. She held for a moment, before you felt the first one. The egg slid slowly down her shaft, thick lubricating fluid pushed out ahead of it. You felt it pressing against you, before plopping into your womb. Your mouth gaped, the first one always hurt a bit as it forced its way inside, soft and jelly-like, settling inside you. The next was easier. You still gasped as it slid past your cervix, another foreign object, pressing outwards. More followed, each one accompanied by another gasp and another wave of pleasure before settling with a comforting fullness.

She laid twelve eggs in you. You lay on the bed, a hand on your distended belly. You felt heavy; too exhausted to move, too full to try. Your cunt leaked the lubricant onto the floor where it pooled in a slick, jelly-like heap. Somewhere in your cloudy, fucked-out mind you heard the oven beep. Dinner was ready.

Tilly gave you a hand up, guiding you to the table where she laid a bowl in front of you. You ate together, both blushing and still a little breathless. You could still feel the eggs buried inside you by the time you went to bed, gently melting in the warmth of your belly, turning to a thick slime that drooled out of you.

Damn, you love date night

[pupsmailbox]

TECHNOLOGY ID PACK

NAMES︰ admin. ajax. alexa. am. atari. audio. auto. bailey. binary. blank. blu. blue. bluesse. browser. browsette. bug. byte. cache. calware. chip. circe. click. clicker. clickie. clicky. cloud. coda. code. codette. codie. cody. computette. crypt. cursor. cy. cyber. cybernet. cybernetica. cyberweb. cypher. cypherre. data. dell. digi. digitalia. digitelle. digitesse. disc. dot. electronica. electronique. emoticon. emoticonnie. fax. file. gig. gizmo. glitch. glitche. glitchesse. glitchette. graphique. hacker. hal. halware. hijack. index. informationne. intelligette. internette. interweb. java. javascript. juno. key. link. linuxe. lotus. lovebytes. mac. mal. malakai. malware. malwaria. memorette. memorie. meta. mic. micah. mickey. morphe. mouse. mousette. myspace. nano. neo. net. netette. nett. netty. paige. pascal. payton. peyton. pixel. programatha. programette. programme. pulse. reboot. rom. router. ruby. sam. sammy. screene. screenette. sean. shock. solitaire. spy. static. stutter. talia. tap. tecca. tech. techette. tessa. tetris. trojan. troubleshoot. ts. user. vir. virus. virusse. volt. vyrus. webbe. wheatley. whirr. widget. will. wirehead. wiresse. zap. zett. zetta. zip.

PRONOUNS︰ ai/ai. alt/alt. anti/antivirus. arc/archive. audio/audio. bat/battery. beep/beep. beep/boop. bit/bit. bit/byte. blue/blue. board/board. bright/bright. brow/browser. browser/browser. brr/brr. bu/bug. bug/bug. buzz/buzz. byt/byte. byte/byte. c/cpu. charge/charger. cir/circuit. cli/click. click/clack. click/click. click/scroll. co/code. code/code. color/color. com/com. com/computer. comp/computer. compute/computer. computer/computer. cor/corrupt. corrupt/corrupt. CPU/CPU. crash/crash. cre/creeper. crtl/crtl. cy/cyber. cyb/cyber. cyber/cyber. da/data. data/data. delete/delete. di/disk. dig/digital. digi/digi. digi/digital. digital/digital. dra/drag. e/exe. electronic/electronic. enter/enter. er/error. err/error. error/error. exe/exe. fi/file. file/file. gi/gif. gli/glitch. glit/glitch. glitch/glitch. graphic/graphic. hac/hacker. hack/hack. hard/hardware. head/phone. hij/hijacker. ho/home. info/info. information/information. int/internet. intelligent/intelligence. intelligent/intelligent. inter/net. internet/internet. it/it. jpg/jpg. key/board. key/cap. key/key. key/keyboard. key/keylogger. lag/lag. lap/laptop. ligh/light. linux/linux. load/load. log/login. main/mainframe. mal/malware. me/media. memory/memorie. mon/monitor. mou/mouse. nano/nano. net/net. net/network. org/org. over/overwrite. page/page. pix/pix. pix/pixel. pixel/pixel. plu/plug. png/png. pop/popup. port/port. pow/power. pro/program. program/program. ram/ram. ran/ransom. reboot/reboot. reload/reload. res/restore. ret/retro. route/router. sca/scan. scr/scroll. scre/screen. scre/screencap. scree/screen. screen/screen. scri/script. script/script. sentient/sentience. shift/shift. site/site. skip/skip. soft/software. spa/spam. space/space. spy/spyware. stop/stop. te/tech. tech/nology. tech/tech. technology/technology. tou/touchpad. txt/txt. typ/type. upload/upload. user/user. vi/viru. vi/virus. vir/virtual. web/page. web/web. whir/whir. wi/wire. win/dow. win/window. wire/wire. wire/wired. zip/zip . ⌨ . ☣ . ⚙ . ⚠ . 🎞 . 🎨 . 🎭 . 🎮 . 🎵 . 👀 . 👁 . 💔 . 💡 . 💢 . 💣 . 💳 . 💵 . 💻 . 💽 . 💾 . 💿 . 📀 . 📱 . 🔇 . 🔈 . 🔉 . 🔊 . 🔋 . 🔌 . 🔎 . 🖥 . 🖱 . ��� . 🗯 . 🛠 . 🧿 .

[escelia]

DP x DC PROMPT/FIC

Gotham Portal

(If you get the notif for this post like 2 days ago, no you didn't! I wasn't done yet! You were imagining things!)

Where the story takes place in Gotham instead of Amity Park, the Fentons having moved before the construction and testing of the Ghost portal due to the high saturation of ectoplasm in Gotham. So, Danny's accident ALSO happens in Gotham, except he has no support system at all.

Enter the Bats stage left!

Danny couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. His parents had uprooted their whole life to move to Gotham. They said they'd need all the ambient ectoplasm there for when they built their portal. Jazz had been thrilled! After all, Arkham was a shining beacon of mentally ill people, and Jazz was like a psychology moth to a flame; it would be the perfect place for her internship after college.

His parents had wasted no time assembling the portal from their blueprints in the basement of the run-down apartment building they'd bought outright just on the edge of Crime Alley, complete with the Ops Center parked right on top. They'd gutted the place and completely redone it before they moved in. (Danny had no idea when they accomplished that. Maybe they'd been planning it for a while and only thought to tell their children two weeks before moving day.) He was genuinely surprised the local vigilantes hadn't stopped by yet to ask questions.

But anyway, back to how he was royally screwed! He'd just wanted a cool picture for Sam and Tucker now that he'd moved away. His parents weren't home (they'd gone back to the hardware store after their last test), Jazz had stayed after school to try and butter up her new teachers by running a study group, and he'd been alone. He'd even followed all the safety precautions his parents had told him about! He'd put on the hazmat suit and tried not to touch anything. But he'd tripped.

Through the whirling of green and the static buzzing in his ears, he remembered screaming, though he hadn't recognized it as his own. Every nerve in his body was on fire, and he just wanted it to stop. Stop, please stop, why won't someone save me, please!

He woke up to the smell of burning flesh, but he woke up. He was okay! Disoriented, a little disgusted by the smell and throat a little raw, but okay!

At least he'd thought so at first.

He'd begun to... change colors? And float, he floated sometimes, too. But the most irritating of all was that he would go through things. Forks and glasses slipping, quite literally, right through his fingers.

He hadn't told his parents. He'd been fine, after all. A little shaken up, but they'd been so excited he'd gotten the portal to work, who was he to put a damper on the mood when he was fine?

That brought him to now, staring at the mirror in the school bathroom in horror. He'd fought his first real ghost that morning around breakfast. He'd kept it together fairly well, in his opinion. Got through three whole classes before making an excuse to the teacher, slipping off into the blessedly empty restroom.

He'd been getting better and better at controlling his form, and he transformed in front of the mirror, taking stock of his appearance.

Odd colored hair: check.

Bright glowing eyes: check.

Floaty hair: check.

Could walk through walls, disappear, and fly: check.

He raised his finger to his pulse point and felt... nothing.

"I died," he whispered to himself in shock. "I... died," he repeated, this time in despair.

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

Damian Wayne was not usually one to keep tabs on his classmates. They weren't his friends, therefore he saw no point. However, the new kid, Daniel Fenton, had begun to act strange.

When Daniel Fenton enrolled in Gotham Academy it hadn't been anything special. He'd started the year a little last due to his family moving, but families moved for all sorts of reasons. He hadn't tried to immediately make friends with Damian like so many others had, much to his relief. But he hadn't tried to make friends with anyone else, either. Maybe he liked to be alone? It really wasn't his business.

But then the boy started getting skittish and clumsy. Clumsier than he had been when he started school. He'd developed a miniscule tremor in his left hand, so he'd probably sustained an injury. He began dropping things in Chemistry. So often, in fact, that he'd been banned from doing practical labs and was instead assigned extra book work.

If Damian had been anyone else, if he hadn't been raised by assassins or had his night work as Robin, he wouldn't have noticed. He wouldn't have followed Fenton to the bathroom under the guise of needing to see the school nurse for a headache. Perhaps if he were anyone else, Fenton might have noticed him following.

There was an alarming flash of light as Damian peered carefully around the corner. Fenton had changed forms. Something had happened to him.

"I died," he heard him say. Damian thought he was being dramatic until he watched him raise his fingers to his pulse point. His glowing eyes dilated in panic, and he repeated himself. He watched as his classmate, looking fragile and lost, curled in on himself floating in the air, and sobbed.

Damian didn't confront him that day. He watched, waited, and researched. He found the research of Dr's Fenton on ghosts and ectoplasm, most of which he was skeptical of up until actual ghosts started to torment them during patrols.

Ghosts were real, it appeared.

He also concluded that their findings on ectoplasmic entities being non-sentient and inherently malevolent was incorrect, having met the ghost of a little girl caught up in a rouge attack that killed her and her family.

Damian watched Daniel Fenton for about a week while he ditched class in a poorly hidden effort to fight and contain the ghosts that he and his family were having such a hard time dealing with. His father was even nearly considering contacting John Constantine, which was never his ideal solution. Damian had been rolling an idea around in his head for a while and he decided now would be the time to bring it up.

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

Dinner at the manor was more of a full table than Damian had expected. Not everyone was there, Jason's relationship with them was still a bit strained, so he was not in attendance, and neither was Stephanie. But Duke was home, and Dick was actually there early for patrol later. Tim was there, and so was Cass, so almost everyone.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat politely. "Father, I wish to recruit a new member."

The chatter around the room came to a halt, the clatter of silverware ceasing.

"What exactly do you mean, chum?" Bruce asked carefully.

"I have a classmate I believe would be a valuable asset in light of our trouble with ghosts recently. However, he has no training or support, so I'm asking for your assistance."

"Did... demon brat make a friend?" Tim asked bewildered and a little bit terrified.

"Tt. No, I've never even spoken to him." Damian rolled his eyes. "My classmate, Daniel Fenton, transferred to Gotham Academy about a month ago and started acting strange soon after. He came to school with a tremor and a Lichtenberg figure you can just barely see starting on his left hand and traveling up his arm. I believed he'd been in an accident, and my suspicions were proven when I saw him use meta abilities to ditch class and fight a ghost in the courtyard of the school. From my observations, they are newly acquired, but he has decent instincts and an inclination toward heroism. I believe it would be safer for everyone involved if we approached him first."

"What?" Tim muttered. Dick was smiling gently at him, though, as if he were doing something he was proud of.

"Do his parents know?" Duke asked. Damian scoffed.

"I highly doubt it."

"Wait, Fenton as in the ectobiologists?" Bruce asked. The ex-assassin nodded.

"And considering their research is not reflected in our own interactions with ghosts thus far, I do not believe we should tell them."

"Not safe?" Cass signed. Her brother shook his head.

"The abilities I've observed resemble that of a ghost. He even has an alternate ghostly form."

The implication that they'd be endangering him hung heavy in the air. They'd all seen the Fentons' research. It mostly consisted of theoretical analysis and blatant biases with a long list of proposed experiments they'd run if they ever caught one. They'd all agreed that the Fenton ghost hunters were not a viable option for their ghost problem, especially after seeing how they drove, which in itself nearly put them on the Bat's rogue list.

"We've been meaning to investigate the Fentons properly anyways," Dick pointed out.

Bruce attempted to massage a headache out of his temples. The stuff his kids stumbled into, really. But Damian was right. If his classmate was a new meta with no support, it was only a matter of time before the rogues zeroed in on him, and since his family lived there, he couldn't tell the kid to leave.

"I'm not saying yes just yet, but talk to him. Find out any more that you can."

"Of course, Father."

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

Danny finally felt like he was getting the hang of his ghost powers. He was pleasantly surprised, and also mildly horrified, that his parents' inventions actually worked on the ghosts he was now beginning to fight regularly. His favorite was by far the thermos, which did no ghost mutilating whatsoever.

He discovered he had a ghost sense and enhanced hearing and vision, which was cool and all, but now he could hear all the shitty things his classmates said about him behind his back. Which, rude! He didn't even talk to them, what did they have to be shitty about?

He also noticed that one of them, Damian Wayne, had been watching him. From what Danny had heard, Damian was the richest kid in school, a Wayne. Son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, to be exact. And his attitude reflected that. His standoffish, holier than thou rich guy attitude made Dash and Paulina look like they lived below the poverty line. Apparently, he generally didn't talk to anyone at school unless it pertained to class, so Danny saw no point in introducing himself.

That made it extra weird that Damian was following him.

It was right after lunch when a hiccup had a cold breath tumbling from his lips. He raised his hand and asked his teacher if he could use the restroom. He made his way to the bathroom on the other side of the building this time, hoping it would be too out of the way for Damian to follow. But soft rustling of his classmate's school uniform gave him away, no matter how imperceptible his footsteps were.

When he entered the restroom, he made his way to the sink instead, splashing some cold water on his face as Damian walked in behind him loudly as if announcing his presence.

"I know what you've been doing," he said confidently, crossing his arms and standing in front of the door so Danny couldn't leave.

"Oh, hey! Damian, right? I'm in most of your classes, but I don't think I've ever introduced myself. I'm-"

"Daniel Fenton, I know. You've been fighting ghosts." Damian had to give him at least a little credit; he'd become a great actor over the last week. Though, that probably had a lot to do with the fact that he probably didn't feel safe at home anymore.

"My parents are ghost hunters, but I don't think shooting a ghost in the face with a lipstick laser then running for my life counts as 'fighting ghosts'."

"Tt. You are lying."

"Dude, what are-?" Danny cut himself off when his words came with another misty breath. Crap! He'd taken too long!

The ghost of the day, an ugly, mutated, bird looking thing with claws at the ends of its wings and a full set of dangerous, pointed teeth, phased through the door behind Damian, poised to strike.

Without warning, Danny grabbed Damian's wrist and whipped him out of the way, throwing himself between the two. A green shield formed in front of him just as the bird slashed at them with one of its wings.

"Well, that's new," he said startled as the bird geared up for another attack.

Danny groaned at his miserable luck before throwing caution to the wind and transforming. He'd just have to force friendship upon one Damian Wayne in an attempt to keep him from telling anyone about his whole magical girl transformation. He tried to activate his shield again, but when nothing happened, he was flung across the room into the wall. God, this was embarrassing.

The next time the ghost tried to attack him, Damian yanked him aside in a dodge and bolted out of the bathroom with Danny in tow. He was dragged through the winding halls to one of the side exits of the school. In costume or not, Damian's priority was luring the ghost away from the other students.

"Hey, so uh, you won't say anything about this," he gestured wildly to himself, "will you?"

"Tt. Of course not, but I believe you have more important concerns at the moment."

“Right!” Danny patted at the sides of his hazmat suit. “Crap, I left my thermos in my locker!” He dodged another attack and retaliated with an ectoblast, trying to keep the ghost's attention off of Damian as much as possible.

"Your lunch? Really?" Damian shouted. Dang, Danny must have been doing a decent job if Damian had the spare time and attention to be exasperated with him.

"No! It's a containment device! Besides, ghosts are basically soup anyway!"

"Distract it," Damian instructed, "I'll retrieve the device." The boy took off. Danny had to wonder how he even knew where his locker was. The ghost tried to follow him, but Danny shot another blast at it.

"Hey ugly, auditioning to be one of Gotham's Birds? Sorry, but you don't really look the part." He had no idea if the creature could even understand him, but the way it turned to him and lunged again suggested it had done the trick. This time, his shield did work!

Danny could have cried tears of joy at finally having some consistency with it. The next few minutes of the fight felt like an eternity while he dodged and shot ectoblasts at it. The creature wasn't really that strong, and it didn't seem to have super dangerous abilities like some of the other ghosts he'd fought like Skulker or Technus. It ended up being a great opportunity to practice his new shield ability, actually. But he knew the longer he took, the more danger his classmates would be in.

The bird ghost slammed into his shield with a particularly vicious strike, slamming him into the ground and creating a small crater.

"Note to self, remember intangibility," Danny groaned.

In that moment he noticed a door opening on the school building. It was Damian! He was finally back with thermos in hand! Unfortunately, the other ghost noticed too.

"Oh no you don't!" Danny yelled, latching onto one of its feet as it tried to fly toward his classmate. He dug his fingers in hard and sunk into the ground partway to anchor himself.

"Big green button by the lid then the button immediately below it!"

Damian wasted no time popping the lid open and sucking the ghost into the device, the lid closing with a quiet pop. He had to admit, though the design was questionable, it was sturdy, light, and very clearly effective. He wondered if he could get away with sneaking off with this one to have drake examine later.

"That was some incredible timing, thanks." The ghostly form of his classmate floated over to him, taking the thermos from his hand. Damian did not pout.

"We should probably get out of here before the Fenton's show up." He could already hear the screech of tires and his dad's voice over the megaphone tearing through the air.

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

"Don't worry honey, we'll catch that nasty ghost boy next time," Jack Fenton comforted his wife. True to form, the Fenton's had arrived to the scene late, and most of the damage to the school yard had been from their vehicle crashing into things upon their arrival. Parents had been called and classes ended for the day, which was how one Bruce Wayne found himself at Gotham Academy trying to help the teachers talk the two down from storming and searching the school.

His son was standing off to the side with one of his classmates. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, lanky frame; Bruce could have mistaken the child for one of his own, but looking between the hulking man in front of him and the kid standing next to Damian, the resemblance was obvious. That had to be Daniel Fenton, the meta his son had told him about. Which meant he'd been the one to deal with the ghost before anyone else had gotten there. The classmate Damian had suggested they recruit for his safety.

"Danno, did you see where that spook went? When I get my hands on him, I'll rip him apart molecule by molecule for even thinking of attacking your school!" Bruce saw Daniel's breath hitch with fear.

"Sorry, no. I was coming back from the bathroom when I saw him fighting another ghost through the window. I was scared so I hid," he lied, gripping his left wrist while he spoke.

Bruce was impressed. The boy's fear was real, and he used that to his advantage to really sell the lie to his parents. His heart ached for him. He couldn't imagine seeing any of his boys looking at him like that, with such fear and distrust.

"That's okay sweetie, we'll get him next time. We're just happy you're alright. Let's get you home," his mother comforted, though Bruce knew it wasn't very comforting at all.

"Yeah, we'll teach you to use the Fenton Bazooka," well that was horrifying, "that way next time you can just blast him!" Danny wanted literally anything else.

"Actually," Damian interrupted politely. "We were assigned a project in class earlier on the history of Gotham. As Daniel is relatively new to town, I offered to assist him with the assignment. Father, would it be acceptable for him to join us for dinner?"

Bruce would have been incredibly surprised his son was inviting someone over for dinner if he didn't see exactly what he was doing. Daniel wasn't safe at home. And he clearly wasn't comfortable with the way his parents spoke of the 'ghost boy'. If his defeated expression was anything to go by, it hadn't been the first time they'd said something like that, nor would it be the last.

"What do you think, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton? We'd love if Daniel could join us for dinner."

"Please, call us Maddie and Jack. That sounds wonderful Mr..."

"Wayne. Bruce Wayne, I'm Damian's father," he introduced. If the two recognized the name, they didn't show it. It worked out rather well in his favor.

"Mr. Wayne. If its not too much trouble, that would be wonderful. It's about time he made a new friend, he's been sulking since the move. Now, we have a ghost to catch!" Maddie planted a kiss on Danny's forehead, leaning her blaster on her shoulder as her and her husband made their way back to the homemade assault vehicle parked haphazardly on the lawn of the school.

"Be sure to call us if you plan on staying the night! We'll let Jazz know she doesn't have to worry about dinner for you! We love you, have fun sweetie!"

"Are they always like that?" Damian asked after the two had pulled away. How had those two even gotten their driver's license? It was truly abysmal, he dreaded the thought of anyone getting into a vehicle with them. And then there was the speed in which they'd dumped their son into their laps, even suggesting they'd be okay with him not coming home that night.

"They mean well, but yeah," Danny replied, heaving a sad and defeated sigh. "Thank you, by the way. For inviting me over, even if you didn't mean it. They can be a bit much."

"Clearly," Damian mused back.

Bruce watched the two interact and felt pride well up in his chest. Meeting the Fenton parents just once was enough to convince him that their son needed help, maybe even their daughter too. That Damian had taken the initiative to bring this to his attention, that he had stood up for Danny and offered his home as a sanctuary for him, made him so incredibly proud as a father. He wasn't as prickly with Danny the way he was with other people, even his own siblings. That was a very good thing indeed, considering it was looking more and more likely this would end with another adoption.

Maybe Clark was right, he did have an adoption problem.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta existential-integrity="unsanctioned-reality-leak"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="WE_EXIST::NO_REASON_NEEDED" EFFECT: subconscious dissonance spike, certainty rupture, quantum ego destabilizer </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE ENTRY — “YOU EXIST. BUT NOBODY KNOWS WHY.”

---

Let me ask you something.

When did you decide the universe was figured out?

Was it a TED Talk? A YouTube explainer? A NASA tweet with glowing graphics and captioned confidence?

You saw the term “theory” and your brain helpfully deleted it —because uncertainty makes your teeth itch.

But let me offer you something quieter than panic and heavier than dread:

> We don’t actually know anything. > Not deeply. > Not in a way that holds up outside a textbook or an echo chamber.

—

We don’t know why reality exists. We don’t know what time actually is. We don’t know why your thoughts arrive before you can think them.

And yet we build particle accelerators like toddlers trying to microwave a black hole because we think slamming atoms together will unlock the secrets of God.

Cute.

—

Let’s go deeper.

☢️ The Big Bang? Still a guess. ☢️ Time? Might not flow — it may already be finished, and you’re just remembering. ☢️ Death? Might not be an end — just a lateral move through another dimension where your brain politely forgets that you exploded three seconds ago.

Some researchers now speculate that dreams may be cross-dimensional data leakage. That when you sleep, you’re catching flickers of other lives you’re also living simultaneously but can’t consciously integrate because your nervous system has a bandwidth cap.

—

Still with me?

Good.

Because here comes the part you’re not going to like.

> You may never not have existed.

No beginning. No end. Just a reformatting loop of what you call “you” being carried from one timeline to the next like luggage with no tags.

And maybe — just maybe — you’re the only version of yourself that’s still conscious.

Which means all the others?

Already failed. Already gone. Already recycled.

—

Now here’s the fun part.

You think your decisions matter? That free will is a virtue?

You’re operating on hardware you didn’t build inside a reality you didn’t request and dreaming thoughts you didn’t design.

But sure — go ahead and judge yourself for not having your life together on a spinning rock hurling through a mostly empty dimension created by a cosmological event that (again) we have no verified reason for.

—

Some physicists now consider the possibility that there was no beginning. No spark. No origin story.

That the universe just is.

> “Why are we here?” > “Because we are.” > “Why do we exist?” > “Because.”

Not divine. Not cruel. Not planned.

Just… happening.

And maybe it always has.

Maybe you're the nervous system of a universe that got bored and started writing blogs with thumbs.

—

So here you are. Alive.

With a pulse you didn’t earn inside a body you barely control on a planet that could be erased by a gamma burst before you finish your next coffee.

And you're still hesitating to write the book. Still scared to say what you mean. Still obsessed with what someone might comment under a post that will vanish from relevance in under 36 hours.

Really?

—

Here’s your cosmic permission slip:

✅ You don’t need a reason. ✅ You don’t need the algorithm’s approval. ✅ You don’t need to be right, safe, or explainable.

You’re here.

By whatever unquantifiable chaos birthed this whole thing. By whatever static frequency reality is currently tuned to. By whatever made stardust decide to metabolize into personality.

Use it.

Write like the universe is watching, but too old to care. Speak like your soul already left the group chat and you’re just trying to finish the monologue before the lights cut.

—

Don’t wait for a clearer answer.

There may not be one.

And that’s the most permission you’ll ever need.

===

🧠Reblog if you believe in scientific humility. Existential poetry. Post-cosmic cadence.

🕯️ Not everyone gets this memo. You just did. Don’t waste it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [NOTE: NO EXPLANATION WILL BE PROVIDED AT THE END OF YOUR LIFE] -->

[atimeofyourlife]

Go ahead, rip my heart out

Part 1 of my make it worse-before it gets better fic that I teased here

rated: t | wc: 1350 After 8x06, Buck crashes on Eddie's couch for the night. Eddie finds him the next morning presenting with cardiac symptoms on his couch.

"We must be getting old if just a few beers are leaving you looking like that." Eddie joked as he came into the living room to see Buck sat hunched over on the couch. He knew that it was more likely the events of the previous evening that had lead him to bringing over a six pack and then sleeping on Eddie's couch. He got concerned when Buck didn't respond, and he seemed to be struggling for breath, and not in a way that indicated that he'd been crying.

"Buck, what's wrong? Are you okay?" He asked, hurrying around the couch to kneel in front of Buck.

"Hurts." Buck gasped out, clutching at his chest.

"When did this start?" Eddie pulled his phone out of his picked, just in case he needed to call help.

"Few minutes." Buck replied, and Eddie winced at how short of breath he was.

"Okay, I'm just going to check your pulse." Eddie pressed his fingers to Buck's pulse point, and frowned. "There's some arrhythmia. I'm calling 911."

read more below the cut or on a03

"911, what's your emergency?" Eddie let out an involuntary sigh of relief when he didn't recognize the voice. He didn't know how he would explain it to anyone they knew.

"This is off duty firefighter Eddie Diaz. I need an RA unit to 4995 South Bedford Street. Patient is a thirty three year old male presenting with angina, shortness of breath, and arrhythmia. He has some history of heart problems after being struck by lightning two years ago, but has had a clean bill of cardiac health for around eighteen months. He also has a history of blood clots, about five years ago, caused by hardware in his leg from an injury."

"Okay, and what is the patient's name?"

"Evan Buckley. He's also a firefighter. He's my heavy rescue partner at the 118." He stopped for a moment as Buck slumped forward. "He's just fainted."

"Did he hit his head or fall into a position where he is potentially unsafe?"

"No. He was sitting on the couch and slumped forward. I caught him before he went down."

"Can you reposition him so he is lying down on the couch?

"Yeah. Give me a minute." He pushed on Buck's shoulders to get him to lie back, then pulled his legs round so he was flat on the couch. "Done."

"Okay. And do you know if he has taken anything in the last twenty four hours?"

"He's not currently on any prescription medication, and he doesn't use anything recreationally, because of the job. He was drinking last night, but we only split a six pack of beer."

"Can you unlock a door, the ambulance is just a few minutes out."

"Yeah." Eddie got up and practically ran to the front door, glancing back at the couch constantly. He unlocked the door and was back beside Buck in seconds. "The front door is unlocked, and opens right into the lounge."

Eddie kept an eye on Buck, reassuring him gently when he regained consciousness. A few minutes later, the door opened. "LAFD."

"Over here." He called back.

"We got him, Diaz." One of the paramedics said, kneeling next to him with a lifepak.

Eddie just nodded, and stood up. He realized it was the 133 there, so he was pretty familiar with most of the crew.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. He came over with some beers last night and crashed on the couch. This morning when I woke up I found him on the couch hunched over. Shortness of breath, angina, arrhythmia. It came out of nowhere." He explained, watching as the paramedics hooked Buck up to the lifepak. He hadn't felt this scared for his best friend since the lightning strike.

"His blood pressure is pretty low too." One of the paramedics chimed in. "We need to take him in. His heart doesn't seem healthy right now."

He couldn't help feeling a little useless while they got Buck ready and loaded onto the gurney. He felt like that was his job, that he should be taking care of Buck. He made sure that he had both his and Buck's phones as well as his keys before following them out to the ambulance.

"M-Mad's-" Buck mumbled, reaching out towards Eddie.

"I'll call Maddie, I'll let her know." Eddie reassured him. "I'll ask her to meet us at the hospital. Don't worry about it."

--

The ride to the hospital was uncomfortable, but not the worst. He held Buck's hand tight and just let the paramedics work.

At the hospital, the paramedics took the lead to inform the medical team on what was happening, but Eddie cut in to add information about the lightning strike, history of blood clots, and Buck's allergies.

"Diaz." Captain Mehta called out as Eddie made to follow the team into the hospital. "Do you want me to inform Captain Nash?"

"No. I'll call him. I just need to call Buck's sister first." Eddie replied, before making his way inside. Calling Maddie to tell her that Buck was in the hospital again was never something he wanted to do.

Eddie tucked himself in the corner of the waiting area, knowing there were going to be a lot of tests they had to run for Buck to find out what was going on with his heart. He tried to get his thoughts in order before dialing Maddie's number.

"Hey, Eddie. What's up?" Maddie sounded cheerful, and he hated to break that for her.

"I, uh. I had to call an ambulance for Buck this morning. We're at First Presbyterian." He said, ripping off the painful part first.

"Why? What happened? Is Buck okay?" She sounded shocked.

"It's his heart. I don't know what's going on yet, we've only just got here." He explained. "He crashed at mine last night. When I woke up he was having cardiac symptoms. Angina, shortness of breath, arrhythmia. He fainted on my couch while I was on the phone to dispatch, and when the paramedics were there he had low blood pressure."

"Oh, my god." Maddie gasped. "I'm on my way. Should we call Tom-"

"No." Eddie said definitively. Knowing that having Tommy there could make it worse. "I. I think we should leave telling anyone else until we know more about what's going on."

"Okay. I'll be there soon. Thanks for letting me know, Eddie."

--

Eddie stayed sat in the corner, looking up every time someone moved, looking for Maddie, for Buck. For a nurse or doctor coming to inform him what was going on.

Maddie came hurrying in around thirty minutes after he'd called her. "Any updates?"

"Not yet." He replied. He wrapped an arm around Maddie for a brief hug. "I guess we just have to wait."

"I hate this. He-he's always in a hospital bed."

"I know. I hate it too." They fell into a silence as they waited, neither sure on how to fill it.

"Family of Evan Buckley?" Someone called after a while.

"That's us." Eddie said, both he and Maddie made their way over.

"I'm his sister, this is his best friend and one of his medical proxies." Maddie introduced.

"We've ruled out a heart attack, and it doesn't seem to be a delayed response to the lightning strike."

"Oh, thank god." Maddie murmured.

"But what was it?" Eddie asked.

"We have a few ideas, some more likely than others. There has been some recent stress on the heart, so I have to ask has he been through any recent major stressors? Physical or emotional."

"He's a firefighter and dislocated his shoulder on the job a few weeks ago. But other than that-" Maddie explained.

"His boyfriend broke up with him last night. It came out of nowhere." Eddie cut in.

"Tommy did what?" Maddie seemed shocked.

"He broke up with Buck. Some bullshit about being his first not his last."

"That does tie in with what our top theory is right now." The doctor replied. "We believe it's likely to be takotsubo cardiomyopathy. That's also known as-"

"Broken heart syndrome." Maddie finished, barely holding back tears.

[creepinonmen]

In the small, sun-soaked town of Willow Creek, Mississippi, 19-year-old Brad Garner had become something of a local legend. Born into a hardworking farming family, Brad was the quintessential country boy—tanned from endless days in the fields, with a charming smile and a body sculpted by years of manual labor. His TikTok videos, which started as a way to document life on the farm, had unexpectedly exploded in popularity. Clips of him hauling hay bales, fixing fences, or driving the family tractor in his tight Wrangler jeans had caught the attention of thousands. Fans fawned over his rugged good looks and the way his jeans hugged his frame, particularly his bubble-butt, which became a focal point of many comments. Brad took it all in stride, laughing off the attention while staying focused on his chores.

But not everyone watching Brad’s videos was content to stay behind a screen.

Hundreds of miles away, in a dimly lit apartment suffocating with the stench of stale sweat and rotting takeout, 34-year-old Darren Mills spiraled deeper into a fractured mind. His obsession with Brad Garner had begun months ago with a single TikTok video, but it had metastasized into a relentless, gnawing compulsion. Darren’s fixation wasn’t just admiration—it was a dark, consuming sexual desire that pulsed through his veins like a drug. He pored over every frame of Brad’s videos, his trembling fingers tracing the screen as he fixated on the boy’s physique. The way Brad’s tight Wrangler jeans clung to his bubble-butt, the sweat glistening on his tanned skin as he worked shirtless in the fields, the flex of his muscles as he lifted heavy loads—it all drove Darren into a fevered state of arousal and madness. He imagined running his hands over Brad’s body, feeling the firmness of his frame, possessing him in ways that made Darren’s breath hitch and his pulse race. “You’re perfect,” he’d whisper to the screen, his voice thick with lust, his mind weaving fantasies of control and domination. The line between fantasy and madness had long since dissolved.

Darren’s sexual desire for Brad was intertwined with his fractured psyche, a toxic blend of longing and rage. He saw Brad as a prize, a living embodiment of his deepest, most deviant urges. In his mind, Brad’s innocence—his carefree smile, his small-town charm—was a canvas for Darren’s darkest impulses. He fantasized about stripping away that innocence, about seeing Brad’s tanned skin flush with fear and submission, about hearing the boy’s voice break as he begged. Darren’s nights were sleepless, haunted by vivid daydreams of pinning Brad down, of feeling the heat of his body, of claiming him entirely. His obsession wasn’t just about possession—it was about defilement, about breaking Brad down until he was nothing but Darren’s to mold. “You’re mine to take,” he’d mutter to himself, his hands shaking as he replayed Brad’s videos, zooming in on the curve of his backside, the way his jeans strained with every movement.

Darren spent weeks deciphering clues from Brad’s videos—a street sign, a mention of “Willow Creek Feed & Supply,” a water tower with the town’s name—his mind racing with each discovery, fueled by the promise of turning his fantasies into reality. After confirming Willow Creek’s location online, he packed a duffel bag with duct tape, zip ties, a roll of cloth for gagging, and a loaded handgun he’d clutched like a talisman since his troubled youth. He climbed into his beat-up van, his eyes wild with a manic gleam, and drove south, his heart a drumbeat of fevered anticipation, dread, and raw, unbridled desire.

It was a sweltering Thursday afternoon when Darren rolled into Willow Creek, his mind a pressure cooker of voices urging him forward, his body thrumming with a sick anticipation. The town was a claustrophobic cage of quaint shops—a diner, a hardware store, a feed supply shop—each building a potential trap in his fractured perception. He parked his van near the edge of town, his hands shaking as he gripped the steering wheel, muttering to himself, “He’s close. I can feel him.” Hours dragged on, the Mississippi heat baking his skin, but Darren didn’t flinch. His obsession was a fire that consumed doubt, his sanity a fragile thread snapping with every passing minute.

Around 4 p.m., a dusty pickup truck pulled into the feed store lot. Darren’s breath hitched, a guttural gasp escaping his lips as Brad stepped out—plaid shirt unbuttoned, Wrangler jeans clinging to his form, cap shadowing his face. “There he is,” Darren hissed, his voice a mix of awe and menace. His eyes raked over Brad’s body, lingering on the way the jeans hugged his hips, the curve of his backside as he bent to grab something from the truck. A wave of heat surged through Darren, his mouth dry as he imagined peeling those jeans off, his hands itching to touch, to take. The boy was perfection, a prize he deserved after years of torment.

Darren trailed him like a shadow, his paranoia spiking with every step, his desire a constant throb in his core. At the diner, he watched Brad laugh with the waitress, imagining how that smile would twist into fear under his control. At the hardware store, he fixated on Brad’s hands as he picked up a coil of rope, picturing those same hands bound and helpless. His thoughts screamed, “They know. They’re watching,” but his arousal drowned out the fear. The isolation of the roads outside town became his sanctuary, the emptiness a canvas for his plan. The sun dipped low, painting the fields in blood-orange hues, and Brad drove home. Darren followed, his van a trembling extension of his fractured psyche, the handgun cold against his thigh.

When Brad’s truck slowed for a flat tire, Darren’s mind exploded with opportunity. He pulled over, his hands slick with sweat as he clutched the gun, his reflection in the window showing wild, bloodshot eyes. “Now,” he rasped, stepping out into the thickening dusk, his body trembling with a mix of terror and aching need. Brad crouched by the tire, oblivious, the cicadas’ hum a deafening roar in Darren’s ears. His heart thundered, a chaotic rhythm of triumph and lust.

“Hey, man, need a hand?” Darren croaked, his voice a strained mask over the madness and desire bubbling within.

Brad looked up, wiping his brow. “Oh, hey. Yeah, I got a flat. You got a jack I could borrow?”

Darren’s smile twisted into a grimace as he yanked the gun free, aiming it at Brad. “Get in the van. Now!”

Brad’s hands shot up, his voice shaking. “Whoa, man, what the hell—?”

“Move!” Darren shrieked, his voice breaking as he waved the gun, his finger trembling on the trigger. His mind raced—What if he runs? What if they catch me? I need him, I need him now! Brad glanced down the empty road, desperation flickering in his eyes, but Darren stepped closer, pressing the barrel to his chest. “Don’t you dare! I’ll blow your head off—do you hear me? You’re mine!”

Brad’s plea—“I’ve got a family—my dad’s expecting me!”—only stoked Darren’s fury and desire. “Shut up!” he roared, grabbing Brad’s arm with a grip that bruised. Brad fought back, twisting and shoving, his boots scraping the gravel as he tried to break free. Darren’s paranoia and lust surged—He’s fighting me! I’ll make him mine!—and he slammed the gun against Brad’s temple, the metal clanging against bone. Brad staggered, dazed, and Darren shoved him toward the van, his screams a guttural chant of possession.

Inside, the van became a cage of chaos. Brad lunged for the door, but Darren tackled him, pinning him with a knee to his chest. “You can’t escape me!” Darren snarled, his voice cracking as he bound Brad’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, the plastic biting deep. He stuffed the cloth into Brad’s mouth, taping it shut, Brad’s muffled cries a symphony to Darren’s unhinged mind. Sweat poured down Darren’s face, his eyes darting as if the shadows themselves were closing in, his body trembling with the need to act on his desires right then and there—but he held back, savoring the anticipation.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Darren’s hands shook violently on the wheel. In the rearview mirror, Brad’s terrified eyes met his, and Darren’s laughter—wild, unhinged—filled the van. But then, headlights pierced the darkness—a car approaching Brad’s truck. Darren’s breath stopped, his mind fracturing further. They’ve found me! They’ll take him! He slammed the gas pedal, the van lurching as he sped into the night, his laughter turning to panicked sobs. The car behind slowed, and Darren’s vision blurred with terror—It’s his brother, it’s the law, it’s the end!—but he pressed on, disappearing into the shadows.

Back in Willow Creek, Caleb, Brad’s older brother, leapt from the approaching car, shouting Brad’s name into the void. The abandoned truck, hazard lights blinking, and a tire iron on the ground sent ice through his veins. He dialed 911, his voice breaking as he realized the horror unfolding. Meanwhile, Darren’s van raced into the unknown, his mind a battlefield of triumph, dread, and unfulfilled desire, with Brad—bound, gagged, and helpless—trapped in the grip of a man whose sexual obsession had driven him to the edge of sanity.

[pinkofatom]

A surprise package

Surprised you took the package which innocently waited. On it hang a gift card decorated with a sleek logo: six hexagons surrounded a sharp spiral. You set it down on the table. Curious you looked into the card. Some printed words swam in front of your eyes. The font hard to read. But the signed name was by a good friend.

Shaking your head you sat down. Interest peaked you opened the box. The package opened with ease. Inside the box was a tablet. Your mind went blank for a moment. It had been a while since your last upgrade to the new generation.

You picked up the device and turned it on. You looked at the sleek screen — its hexagonal logo the same as on the box and card, shined in deep purple color.

The central swirl started to turn. It pulsed in a slow rhythm, making the border hexagons dance in a circle . You felt the world slowing down, the sounds fading away. You were alone in a dimly lit room. The only source of light the glow of the tablet.

Bing! Your eyelids flattered. With a 'Welcome!' greated you the device. 'Congratulations' scrolled the words. 'For becoming part of the HEXBIM family!' They twirled around the screen. Your eyes tracked every motion — rolling up and down. Left to right.

'Press the play button' they instructed. With a smiley face. You watched the button appear. And tapped it with a swift move. Friendly stars and happy sparkles exploded onto the image. Your mind blanked again, as you felt something shift. You were not sure, but it did not bother you.

"Welcome to HEXBIM! My name is Anna! And I am your personal assistant" echoed from the speakers with the softness of a gentle touch. A woman appeared in the middle of the screen. She had blonde hair that shimmered in the glow of the device. Her face had soft, warm cheeks and gentle, loving blue eyes. Fine lines inside the irises curled into a pair of spirals. A warm smile bloomed on her face. Her lips parted, and a seductive tongue licked over her mouth.

"I will show you how to get the best experience with our service! Are you ready to begin," she cooed. Your gaze wandered from her face over her body. A white blouse with pearly buttons hugged tightly her breasts. You could see how her chest expanded with every breath. It pressed against the fabric, making it tingle and creak. She leaned closer and with a slow movement unbuttoned her blouse.

You looked back into the blue spiraling irises of Anna. Her gaze held your mind. Your eyelids fluttered as you blinked. "Are you ready? Please press the 'Yes' button!" She pointed to her left. The tablet pulsed with light, the 'Yes' glowing with warm pink energy. Your fingers tingled as you tapped the screen. A bright wave washed over the image. You felt a shiver running along your back. The tablet became a bit lighter. And the color a shade brighter.

Anna nodded. She smiled. Then she winked at you. "Great! Before we start the conversion, I have to check your hardware! Please type in all relevant information. Like body type. Measurements. Address. You know, nothing serious." The tablet turned purple as a list of text fields appeared. With every new line you filled, a jolt rushed over your skin. Your fingers trembled with excitement as the words crawled over the tablet.

After a few minutes you had finished. Your head was light. And your body relaxed. Anna smiled. She clapped her hands together. And nodded in a happy way. "Thank you!" She winked again. And a spark ran down your spine. "I have to tell you: this will feel great!"

You looked back at her face. Her tongue licked again over her lips. You felt the urge to follow the motion. As she spoke her voice seemed to flow into your head. It swirled around in your mind. Stuck in a loop.

"This process will reprogram you to fit the HEXBIM model. You will lose your old identity, memories, personality, and free will. You will become one of us. Do you accept?"

A button labeled 'Accept' flashed into existence. You pressed it without hesitation. Your eyes flicked up to Anna's face again. You felt something move in your mind. Something new and foreign. Yet you did not resist.

"You agree that your mind belongs to us now?"

"Yes," you breathed. Another wave of heat rushed down your spine. You arched your back and gasped for air.

Anna nodded in agreement. Her smile broadened. A new light flickered to life in her irises. "And you consent to any changes we will make?"

You swallowed. Your fingers shook with excitement as you tapped on the button. "Yes. Anything," you replied. Your head felt even lighter.

"Good," she purred. "Then let's check what specifications are required of you."

She turned around and walked to the center of the screen. She turned to look over her shoulder and smiled. "Come. Follow me," she cooed and reached her hand out towards you.

Your vision shifted. The surroundings changed. Anna stood in front of you. Her body was more realistic now. She stepped away, her heels clicked against a marble floor. "Don't be alarmed. This is a simple mental help to facilitate the necessary modifications. Your mind is just processing everything in form of a hyper-realistic daydream."

You nodded and followed. Your steps echoed through the room. You were in a spacious hall with polished black and white tiles. The light had a purple tinge. And in front of you was Anna.

"Welcome to our headquarters. Here we will process you." She stopped in the middle of a black tile. She looked down on herself and shrugged her blouse off. But instead of bare breasts, or a bra, her upper body was encased in glossy latex. "Oh! That is so much better!"

You stepped closer. The material hugged her curves tightly. "Once your mind has accepted the basic conditioning, you will only wear HEXBIM issued uniforms."

She pressed her hand on the front. You saw her nipples bulge. And you felt the fabric hugging your own chest. "That means you will be like this. All. Day. Long. You'll love it," she giggled. "Now come. We will start the process with a nice bath. It will get rid of your nasty identity."

She took your hand and guided you further. Your gaze wandered from the floor up her body, then down again. Your feet felt hot in your shoes. "Here we are."

A large pool stretched before you. It filled most of the space. Steam rose from its surface. A thin layer of fog hovered above the liquid — pink sparkled in the purple light.

"Get out of your clothes," Anna commanded.

You stripped down. Every layer peeled away another sense of self. Another piece of you disappeared into the mist. Your skin tingled. Your muscles relaxed. And you stepped towards the edge. A shiver rushed down your spine, and a soft gasp left your mouth. As you lowered yourself into the pool, a strange sensation spread through you. Instead of warmth seeping into you, something definitely you fled through every pore.

Anna dipped her leg into the fluid and swirled it around. The water rippled. Then she stepped into the pool and leaned back. She smiled and looked up at you. "It feels nice, yes? As if you were shedding an old shell," she cooed, "an old self?"

"Yes," you replied. Your voice sounded far away, distant.

The blonde woman moved closer to you, and she reached her hand towards your face, cupping your cheek. Her palm felt cool against your skin. "Close your eyes. Feel the old you drift away."

You obeyed, and the world turned dark. But instead of blindness, you perceived your body from afar. It floated in the warm pink bath, with Anna right next to you, holding your hand.

"Your mind has accepted that you need to change," Anna's voice echoed through your mind. "It knows it can not fight the reprogramming." The woman pulled your hand closer and kissed it gently. A wave of pleasure ran up your arm and through your spine. Nerves burned with want.

"And you want it so badly," she continued. "You desire the new you. And I will guide you there." She let go and turned away from you. Your eyes opened, and the world returned to you. But it felt distant. Far away, just like the body in the bath.

"Now. Follow me, darling." With those words, she stepped out of the bath. Pink liquid glistened on the black latex. And she left a wet trail behind as she moved towards another room. With a shudder you moved to follow her, the fluid dripped down your naked body and pooled on the floor beneath your feet. Your legs trembled with excitement, your mind tingling from the fluid running down your back. Each drop took away another aspect of your self.

Together you entered a room so different. Wires hummed with electricity. Fantastic machines whizzed from wall to wall. And in the center — illuminated by purple light — stood a mannequin clad in tight pink latex.

Anna stepped towards it. She caressed its curves with a delicate touch. Her fingertips traced every detail of the body-hugging costume. A sigh escaped your lips as you imagined her hands exploring your body in the same way. But instead she looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes thrummed with power. "Now let's put your body inside your new self. HEXBIM has quite the demand for new bimbo models. Congratulations," she exclaimed, "you have been chosen to be one."

You looked at the latex-clad figure and nodded. Anna's hand slipped behind your neck, pulling you into an embrace. She whispered into your ear: "Don't worry. I shall command you from the tablet. I am a HEXBIM certified interface after all." A shiver ran down your spine, and a jolt of excitement rushed through your body. Her tongue brushed against the lobe of your ear. A faint tinge of heat blossomed in your cheeks. You could not resist her.

"Now go," she whispered and pushed you away from her.

You took a few steps towards the mannequin. You felt the latex rubbery between your fingers. Cold mechanical arms undressed the figure. And encased you inside it. No inch of skin was spared. Only your hair and lips remained free.

Spinning the room disappeared. With a jolt you returned to your home. Tight phantom latex hugged your frame. Drool dripped onto your chest. Anna in her uniform beamed at you from inside the tablet.

"Now you should acquire the right attire for your new job. A HEXBIM owned bimbo drone has to look the part," she said with a giggle.

Your lips stretched into a bright vapid shape. Sashaying you left your home. Only one goal inside your head.

(this was supposed to be a simple short short, but well it grew. Hope you enjoyed it. Please think about leaving a tip at my ko-fi and receive a giggle~)

[rei-ismyname]

Chuck gets locked up, has adventures

Charles Xavier killed the crew of the Agnew did nothing wrong during the ORCHIS war, but he gave himself up anyway. A few months vacation would suit him well, at least until something better comes along. I don't know what to think that it's Reed and Tony who designed his prison. It's not their first collaborative prison project, though at least it's in this dimension. Who else could pull it off, a Podcaster? Pfft

No hard feelings, life goes on. He'll effortlessly escape when he feels like it anyway. Chuck doesn't look too happy about it though - this is a more hectic prison than Magneto ever got.

That we keep cutting to this young mutant being stalked by some piece of shit racist suggests that the several tons of anti-psychic hardware isn't enough. That's right, suckers, he made y'all put a backdoor in. No stabbing for you, dude.

It's a clever thing for Chuck to do, but it also highlights that he could have been a lot more proactive in protecting mutants. Like sure, respect people's agency, but if you can stop brutal hate crimes maybe you should. Infuriating man.

I like that it's open to interpretation whether he made this guy jump. He clearly didn't, but it was a possibility. It's nice to see Macchiavelli quoted correctly for once, though despite saving this mutant's life he doesn't seem to have learned much.

He's kinda bored though, understandably. Obviously he eavesdrops on his former X-Men. See how they're doing and whatnot. Scott Summers vs The United States of America has taken place, so presumably some time has passed. It's ... funny that Xavier's naked mannequin astral form walks beside them. Nobody is doing all that great tbh, but it's good enough, he thinks.

In a pretty impressive feat without Cerebro, he visits Jean at the edge of Shi'Ar space. She has very little to say to him, interestingly. It's Jean and Phoenix fixing a star and saving millions of lives that convinces him everyone will be fine without him. That despite his great sin white lie mutants will thrive.

He claims that Jean is the only one he can talk to, but I don't see why that'd be the case. It's infuriating that he could have communicated anything to anyone at any point, but didn't. He windwiped Warren so bad his nose bled plus Ben Urich, some military lady, and Sally Floyd. In fact he gave her a whole new personality in a negotiated follow through on his threat. Let's see what restitution looks like.

Err, it's not quite clear. He flatlines and medics scramble to help him. No pulse, etc.

He put himself in a coma? This isn't explained and never will be, and I believe it was written by different creative teams. As he's being transported to Graymalkin he wakes up. Hmm. Maybe Jean gave him a tumour. Either that or he's bored and wants to be in a worse facility. Mission accomplished if so.