#and assembling a “correct��� way to do things

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i like ralsei hes so regular and nothings going on with him

[iydiamartinx]

TERRITORY, MARKED II

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader ft. Dick Grayson

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2.1k synopsis: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park—but when his older brother tags along one day and takes a little too much interest, Damian decides one thing for certain: this was not supposed to be a shared friendship. a/n: I decided to combine it with another request I received to make this the part 2 y’all have been asking for 🩵

Damian knew something was off.

It started with the glances. The subtle shifts in conversation whenever he approached. The way you and Grayson—Dick—would exchange these brief looks, like you were sharing some silent joke he wasn’t invited to.

It was insulting. No—infuriating.

This was supposed to be his friendship. His space. His routine. You were his friend. Not Grayson’s. 

At first, Damian tried to ignore it. Tried to convince himself he was overreacting. Maybe his brother was just being his usual obnoxious self. Maybe you were just… humouring him.

But the evidence was piling up too quickly for him to ignore.

Grayson was starting to show up at the dog park more often. Then you started asking if it was okay if he was invited along. And then came the final straw—one afternoon, just as Damian was about to leave, he doubled back to grab the water bottle he’d forgotten on the bench… only to see the two of you walking off together, laughing, neither of you having noticed him.

It was all suspicious. Highly suspicious.

And so, Damian did what any rational twelve-year-old assassin raised by the League of Shadows would do.

He launched an investigation.

“I need surveillance,” he said flatly, arms folded across his chest as he stood in front of the Batcomputer.

Jason looked up from where he was cleaning a pistol, one brow already arched in suspicion. “On who?”

“Grayson. And Y/N.”

Tim spun slightly in his chair, squinting. “Wait—Y/N? As in Dick’s dog park friend he never stops talking about?”

“She’s not his friend,” Damian snapped, voice sharp with offence. “She’s mine. And Grayson and her have started acting suspicious.”

Stephanie leaned around the monitor. “Aww, are you jealous?”

“I’m being cautious,” Damian corrected with a scowl. “There’s a difference. They’re hiding something. I need confirmation.”

Cass blinked slowly. Then nodded.

“Thank you,” Damian muttered, grateful someone understood the importance of betrayal.

Duke, who had been sitting quietly with a protein bar half-unwrapped, finally looked up. “Let me get this straight—you want us to help spy on Dick… because you think he’s stealing your friend?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “He is stealing her.”

“Okay.” Duke took a bite. “And this isn’t just you being twelve and melodramatic?”

Damian didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned back to the Bat computer and brought up a file he’d already prepped—complete with time stamps, satellite footage, and a grainy photo of you and Dick walking to your car. Side by side. Smiling.

“Evidence,” Damian said grimly, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “But I need more. This tells me nothing of what they’re trying to hide.”

The others exchanged a look—equal parts amused and knowing. It wasn’t hard to guess what was going on between you and Dick. Especially with how happy Dick seemed to be lately, Steph and Cass had even caught him humming on his way out the door the other day.

Jason chuckled under his breath, tossing his cleaning cloth aside. “Kid’s already built a case file,” he said, standing. “Might as well help him.”

Operation Find Out What Those Two Are Hiding was surprisingly successful.

Within forty-eight hours, Damian had assembled a full investigative task force. Tim handled the digital trail. With a few taps and zero guilt for the invasion of privacy, he pulled location pings, overlapping time stamps, and even access to security footage from the café down the street. 

Stephanie, armed with glitter gel pens and far too much enthusiasm, took charge of the psychological profiling. “Body language doesn’t lie,” she said, flipping through candid snapshots she’d printed and annotated with notes like ‘eye contact: flirty’ and ‘distance: suspiciously close.’

Cass…no one knew what she was really doing all they knew was she was able to get the candids for Stephanie without being seen.

Duke volunteered to monitor Dick’s mood whenever he was at the manor, noting things like “that he was happier more than usual” or that “he smiled at his phone three times in a row.”

Jason, of course, took it too far. He attempted a staged “coincidental run-in” at the dog park—sunglasses, hoodie, and a golden retriever he borrowed from a neighbour. It was a solid plan in theory… until Dick recognized him instantly.

That failed mission had one upside: it’s how you met Jason. Who you learned wasn’t named Todd, like Damian kept calling him—at least his first name wasn’t. While he learned you were a pretty cool chick and that he absolutely loved your dog. 

And Damian—naturally—had taken to shadowing the two of you himself. He followed from rooftops, behind trees, under benches. He was determined to catch you both in the act—to find out what exactly you two were hiding from him and that if you lied and that Dick was truly your favourite. 

And then, finally, it happened.

On Friday afternoon. You and Dick stood near your car just outside the park, laughing about something he said. You reached up, probably to fix his collar, still laughing under your breath when Dick leaned down and kissed you.

Damian burst out of the bushes so fast the squirrels scattered.

“AHA!”

You jumped, half-screaming. Dick whipped around, startled. “Damian?!”

“I knew it!” Damian shouted, pointing at you both like he was delivering a verdict in a courtroom. “You two betrayed me!”

“Dami—” Dick started, hands raised in surrender.

“No!” Damian growled. “You were supposed to be my friend! He already has everyone else! He has Alfred, he has Father, he even stole Titus!”

Titus, who had come to the park alongside your husky and Haley, stood dutifully nearby. At the accusation, he gave a quiet chuff, more confused than guilty.

Dick opened his mouth, possibly to argue that he had not, in fact, stolen the dog—but thought better of it. One look at Damian’s furious expression told him now was not the time for logic.

You blinked, torn between guilt and trying not to laugh. “Damian…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped, spinning on his heel. “Unbelievable. I trusted you.”

“Says the one spying on us,” Dick called after him.

“I regret nothing!”

You sighed, shooting Dick a look that landed somewhere between why are you both like this and I’ll handle it. He raised his hands in surrender, clearly trying not to smile, and stayed behind as you jogged after Damian.

“Hey—wait up!”

He didn’t slow down. Not at first. He stalked ahead, shoulders stiff, fists clenched, radiating righteous betrayal in every step.

“Damian,” you said more gently, catching up beside him. “Can you just—stop for a second?”

He did. But he didn’t look at you.

You stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Look, I get why you’re mad. And I’m sorry you found out like that. But can I explain?”

His eyes narrowed, arms crossing tightly across his chest. “Go on, then.”

You took a breath. “We’ve been going out and we didn’t tell you because… we weren’t even sure where it was going. It’s still new. We didn’t want to make things weird if it didn’t work out.”

Damian said nothing, but the way his jaw clenched told you he was at least listening.

“I didn’t keep it from you to hurt you, Dami.” Your voice was soft, honest. “I didn’t stop being your friend. You’re still my favourite person to talk to at that park. That hasn’t changed.” You smiled a little, tilting your head to meet his wary gaze. “It never will.”

Damian glanced up at you, uncertainty flickering behind narrowed eyes—but the tension still clung to his small frame like armour not yet set aside.

“And now that you know Dick and I are… seeing each other,” you continued carefully, watching his expression, “that just means we get to hang out more. I promise—no more secrets. No weirdness. I’ll even bring my dog around to play with yours outside the park. And I’ll make sure Dick doesn’t always tag along, so you and I can still have our talks. Just the two of us.”

Damian stared at you for a long moment. His scowl didn’t vanish entirely—but it wavered. Just slightly. The hard lines of suspicion around his mouth eased, and that sharp, ever-scrutinizing glare lost some of its bite and he stopped looking like he was preparing to exile you.

“You’re not just saying that to get me to stop being mad?” he asked, eyes narrowing—not with anger this time, but with cautious hope.

“I am saying it to get you to stop being mad,” you admitted, lips curving. “But I also mean it.”

A huff escaped him—equal parts reluctant and resigned.

“…Fine,” he muttered, arms folding. “But I’m still watching you both.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He looked at you then, fully, with narrowed eyes and a serious edge to his voice. “If he hurts you, I’ll replace all the sugar in his apartment with salt.”

You grinned. “That’s fair.”

And just like that, he turned and marched back toward the bench, shoulders squared, chin lifted, every step radiating the proud dignity of a boy on a mission.

You followed behind him, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

Dick raised his brows as the two of you returned. “We good?”

Damian didn’t answer. He just sat down on the bench with all the grace of someone doing you a favour.

“If you hurt her,” he said flatly, eyeing Dick without blinking, “I will make you regret it.” Dick opened his mouth, but Damian steamrolled ahead. “We’re watching a movie at the manor tomorrow. You’re both coming. And I pick.”

You bit back a giggle as Dick shot you a helpless look. You just nodded, already amused.

Dick shrugged in surrender. “Fine. But if you pick Kill Bill again, I’m leaving.”

Before Damian could respond, five voices shouted in unison. “Can we join?!”

You and Dick jumped as bodies popped out from behind trees, the vending machine, a parked car—Tim, Steph, Cass, Duke, Jason and even Bab’s all coming to gather around you all.

Dick groaned and nearly facepalmed. “Were all of you idiots spying on my date?!”

You covered your mouth to muffle your giggles, eyes crinkling as you looked down at Damian beside you. His arms were crossed, face as impassive as ever—but there was the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in his expression as Dick launched into a full blown scolding.

“Welcome to the family,” he said dryly.

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

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Terms of Attraction

Pairing: CEO! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning. Mention of sexual activities.

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Word Count: 13.2k.

notes: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "CEO AU".

Also, this piece is to participate in Grem's 20 Characters with 20 Questions for 20 Tropes Challenge by @gremlin-girly Using Bucky Barnes' character, "When were you going to tell me about this?" question, and mutual pining trope.

Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here.

He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore they’d never become.

The room was dim since the heavy curtains were drawn shut to block out the midday sun. The only light came from the glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the polished surface of his desk. He sat hunched over it, resting his forehead against his crossed arms.

A soft sigh broke the silence.

“Again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“This is the fourth migraine this week,” she continued, with an edge of exasperation. “I’m making you an appointment with a neurologist. You like it or not.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, mixing a scoff and a tired chuckle. “You’re overstepping.”

“Oh, it is not in your best interest to start talking about overstepping,” she shot back, arching a brow. “Want me to make a list? Ten years under you, since you were a manager, mind you. It will take a couple of pages.”

Bucky grunted in response, looking for the right words, but she was already moving, pushing the coffee table aside and clearing a space on the plush carpet.

“Come on,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You have the meeting with Schwarz in forty minutes. You know, the one I had to postpone twice already?”

Yeah. He knew. He just didn’t care.

He stayed put for a second longer, staring at the dark wood of his desk. His head throbbed, and the pressure behind his eyes seemed to crush everything. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his head “Headaches? You think I got to where I am by whining about a fucking headache?” but right now, George Barnes could go to hell.

With a slow, resigned sigh, Bucky pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the open space she’d cleared. Lowering himself onto the rug, he sprawled out on his back, letting his arms rest loosely at his sides. As the exhaustion dragged him down like quicksand, he closed his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment.

She knelt behind him, pressing her cool fingers into the pressure points at the base of his skull. He tensed on instinct, prepared to anticipate pain, even from something meant to help.

“Jesus,” she muttered, working her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his neck. “You’re tense as concrete again.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, letting her hands do their work. The pain sharpened for a moment before it started to dull, releasing the pressure just enough to make his migraine a little more bearable.

“Speaking of overstepping,” she continued, “you should really hire a professional masseuse, Bucky. Have them come in three times a week and-”

“I don’t want a stranger rubbing me up and down while I’m ass-up and vulnerable on a pansy cot.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bother correcting her. If she was talking, it meant she wasn’t hovering with that worried look in her eyes.

She worked his knots, kneading the tension from his neck and shoulders before her fingers traveled upward. With a gentler touch, she started rubbing slow circles into his temples, easing the pressure that had settled deep in his skull.

“Rebecca called, again.” She said casually, but he could hear the warning under her words. “Says you had her bloc-”

“Not now,” he groaned.

She sighed but didn’t stop. “I know you don’t want to, but just meet with the guy for ten minutes, and you’ll get her off your back.”

“I won’t waste even five minutes listening to her new fucktoy ramble about some ‘revolutionary’ idea for industrial inputs,” Bucky muttered. “I know it’s going to be some half-baked high school powerpoint with stock photos and shit. That’s the kind of man she likes to have around.”

She scoffed, still working her fingers against his scalp. “He is cute, though.”

His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move or say anything right away, but his gaze was locked on her now, sharp, unreadable, and just a little too intense. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way she said it.

“Is he, now?” His voice came out pretty even, but there was something underneath it. Something edged.

She smirked, unbothered. “Not my type, but I can see why she’s… fond of him.”

His jaw ticked, and he exhaled slowly through his nose before letting his eyes fall shut again, but the tension in his body didn’t relent in the way it had before.

Yeah. The headache wasn’t going anywhere.

Just as he was starting to relax again, the door creaked open without so much as a knock, and a head popped inside: the new intern. The kid was his father’s friend’s grandson or something, which meant he had about three functioning brain cells and the audacity to use them in the worst ways.

“Sorry to interrupt your… erm-”

“Get out,” Bucky muttered, not even opening his eyes.

“But I just wanted to know-”

Bucky sat up so fast that the guy flinched. “Get the fuck out and close that door before I send you to count staple hooks in a basement, kid.”

The intern squeaked, stumbling back before the door shut behind him in a not-very-subtle way.

"Moody, aren’t we?” she sighed, shifting her weight as she sat back on her heels. “You’re still a Sarge at heart, it seems. Poor kid almost pissed his pants.”

His jaw worked slightly at the title, but he ignored it.

“The door is there for a reason. Besides…” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, shifting his gaze away.

He didn’t say what else he was thinking, but didn’t have to. She already knew. The way the intern had found them -he sprawled out on the floor, and she knelt behind him, hands on his body- it was enough to set off the office rumor mill.

“Don’t worry. Even if you don’t get out of your dungeon very often,” she mused, stretching her arms over her head, “you do know there’ve been rumors for a couple of years now, don’t you?”

Bucky turned fully toward her, narrowing his gaze. “What?”

“Come on, like the one where I was sucking your cock on that video call with that Japanese exec from the thermoplastics deal? With the guy watching it all because the camera was badly angled?”

His face twisted, and he waved his hands. “You weren’t even there that-”

“Or, my personal favorite” she continued, “that a window cleaner saw us on full display as you rammed my ass against the glass one afternoon?”

Bucky’s expression darkened into something truly menacing. “Bullshit. The cleaning crew comes on fucking weekends-”

She snorted. “People who gossip don’t care much about facts, Bucky. That’s just how things are.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he asked with irritation.

She smirked, unfazed. “What for? It’s not like it was going to change anything. And you firing people left and right over some rumor no one even knows where it started… Not a good look.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, ready to argue with her, but before he could, she glanced at the clock.

“Ten more minutes, and Schwarz will be here.” Her tone was all business now, but then her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and assessing. “How’s your arm?”

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line.

She sighed. “That bad, huh? Lemme see.”

“You don’t-”

“I do,” she cut him off, already shifting. “It’s probably one of the things that’s got you so moody lately. And the reason I’ll probably have to send the Germans a very nice basket of goodies after you mistreat their guy.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, but when she just stood there on her knees, arms crossed, waiting, he reluctantly popped open a few buttons of his expensive shirt. As he slid it off his shoulders, the scent of his cologne -warm, woodsy, with an edge of spice- assaulted her senses.

Beneath, he wore a pristine white tank top. And, his bad arm.

Irregular scars marred the skin in a twisted canvas that sprawled up to his shoulder, a reminder of the Syrian shrapnel that had nearly cost him the limb entirely. Inside, a lattice of titanium plates and screws that held together shattered bones and torn muscle.

Bucky exhaled sharply as he rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar grind of metal and bone, and the fucking pain. Most days, he could push past it. Ignore it. But some days, like today, it devoured him, made everything sharper, his patience thinner, and his temper shorter.

She reached out. He could see the way her gaze softened slightly as she took in the limb, hovering her fingers just above the scars. She was softer, yes, but never pitied him.

He let his head tip back against the edge of the couch, closing his eyes as her hands worked their magic over the worst knots of his upper arm, easing some of the strain. He hated how easy it was for her to do this, to get him. To handle him. It should piss him off. Maybe it did.

But he didn’t tell her to stop.

As she gently rubbed on the offending limb, his mind drifted to the hospital bed, to his suspended arm buried in a mix of cast, pipes, and pulleys.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the cold bite of metal restraining his ruined arm, the dull pain buried beneath layers of medication. His mother crumpled at the foot of his hospital bed, clasping her hands in silent prayer. And his father… standing rigid, arms crossed, and a voice edged with finality.

"Well, now that you’ve had your share of independence and adventure, I assume you understand that you are meant to be with us. To serve the family the way we prepared you to."

Not a “You’ll be ok”. Not a “We’re glad you made it home alive”. Just “You’ve learned your lesson.” A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched as he stared at the ceiling, willing the memory away.

Her fingers pressed into a tight knot near his bicep, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled through his nose.

“Where’d you go?” she asked, softly.

His lips parted, with the instinctive lie ready on them -Nowhere-. But when he turned his head to look at her, he caught the way she was watching him, with that usual awareness, so he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. “Nowhere important.”

She hummed and started pulling his shirt back into place, her touch lingering a second too long on him as she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders.

“Well, master,” she teased, the title laced with mockery, “it’s almost time to see the Germans.”

Bucky huffed, dragging his hands down his face before starting to button his shirt. She moved to stand, but before she could, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Firm, warm, just enough pressure to make her breath catch.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She swallowed, willing her face to stay neutral, to ignore the way warmth curled in her stomach at the roughness in his tone.

“You know there’s no need,” she said, carefully measured, as if saying anything more might give too much away.

His grip loosened, and she pulled back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. If he noticed the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, he didn’t say a word. Once she finished straightening her clothes, she turned on her heel and strode toward the office door.

“I’ll let them in in ten, okay?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder once more before nodding. “Yeah.”

----

She had suspected it wouldn’t go smoothly, but even so, when the heavy wooden door finally clicked open, the Germans’ expressions were unreadable, stern and tense.

She cursed inwardly.

Even if the meeting had been rocky, she hoped they’d at least reached an agreement. Otherwise, in ten minutes, her phone would be ringing with George Barnes on the other end, barking at her because Bucky refused to pick up. And, as always, she’d have to endure his tirade until he inevitably demanded she put his son on the line.

With a sigh, she pulled open a drawer, curling her fingers around a blister pack of Tylenol.

Then, smoothing her expression, she knocked gently on his office door.

A low, muffled groan was the only response she got before she stepped inside.

The sight wasn’t unfamiliar. Bucky sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, covering his face with a cushion like it could somehow block out the world. She knew how this went. If the headache was bad enough, it wouldn’t be long before he was hunched over the bathroom sink, pale and nauseous, cursing under his breath. And, as she suspected, he hadn’t brought anything to help.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Should I expect a call from Barnes Senior in the next few minutes, or can I focus on other chores?”

Another groan. “I think he won’t call, but who the fuck knows? Nothing’s ever enough for him. Maybe he has a few things to say about the deal, things even a fresh graduate should know.” His voice was thick with irritation, but there was something else underneath. Resignation.

She tsked. “Good thing you don’t listen to him. Much.”

“Hmm.”

She stepped forward, holding up the blister pack between two fingers. “Here. I bring an offering that might change your mood.”

“Whatever it is, leave it on the desk. And don’t give me any calls.”

“Are you really rejecting Tylenol?”

A single half-lidded eye peeked out from behind the cushion, scrutinizing her like she’d just asked him to sign over the company. Then, he muttered, “Fuck, what would I do without you?”

She smirked. “Probably chomp the heads off the few people who still have the balls to speak to you.” She leaned against his desk, watching him sprawl across the couch, with the cushion still covering his face. “Speaking of your stellar social skills,” she said, The signing for the Research & Development Collaboration deal with Prescott got moved from Tuesday to Friday. You still haven’t told me which day you want your plane ticket booked.”

Silence.

She frowned. “Bucky?”

He exhaled sharply against the cushion before finally shifting it just enough to mutter, “About that.”

That tone set off a flicker of suspicion in her chest.

“I know a couple of the board members are going just to play court jesters,” he continued, voice still thick with exhaustion. “But…I want you there.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

He let the cushion fall away just enough to glance at her. “I want you there.” A beat. “I need you there.”

Something in her stomach twisted. Not at his words -no, she was used to being indispensable- but at the tone he used.

“I need to see-”

“You handle logistics, and you filter out unnecessary conversations. I'd rather not waste my time listening to a bunch of suits trying to kiss my ass. You keep people in check.” He sighed, tilting his head back onto the couch.

She raised a brow. “So you need me as a buffer?”

He shot her a dry look. "I need you to make sure I don’t tell the wrong person to go fuck themselves."

A flicker of something -something warm- stirred in her chest before she pushed it aside.

“Fine. I’ll book my ticket too.” she said, trying to sound unaffected. “But I want juicy compensation for being away from home in non-working hours. And, I won't babysit you the whole trip".

Bucky huffed a laugh, still sprawled on the couch, with the cushion resting against his temple instead of covering his face. “You’ll do it anyway, even when it’s not part of your job.” He gestured vaguely toward the blister of Tylenol still sitting in her hand. “You’re like a mother hen.”

And fuck, how did he like that? How much did he like her, always two steps ahead of him, anticipating his worst moods and dealing with them before they could ruin his day completely? It should drive him insane, how easily she handled him, read him, but instead, he was perfectly fine with it. He craved it.

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “Well, this time mama is getting a compensation, James,” she shot back, drawing out his name like a warning. “Because I had plans for Friday night.”

He schooled his expression, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Just like that, something in his chest twisted, sharp and possessive.

“Must I remind you that you signed an availability clause two years ago?” His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. “You agreed to be available if the firm needed you.”

If I need you. His eyes seemed to say it, even if he didn’t.

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. This is the first time you’ve ever thrown that in my face. But don’t worry, I don’t need the reminder.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m pretty sure availability doesn’t mean ownership, Bucky. But it’s fine, I’ll see my godson another day.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the cushion.

Her godson.

He exhaled through his nose, and his voice came out controlled. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You know, you could’ve just asked nicely instead of throwing corporate fine print at me.”

He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the dull ache still throbbing behind his eyes. “I know.” A pause. His fingers dragged over his temple. “Sorry, I… this is killing me.”

She hesitated for a beat, caught off guard by the unusual admission.

“I’ll approve the extra compensation,” he muttered, reaching for the Tylenol she still hadn’t handed over.

“Nah,” she waved him off. “As you said, it’s already covered in the clause. That’s why my salary was increased in the first place. I was just messing with you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “Not many people can get away with that, you know.”

“Oh, but this mother hen knows she can.” She smirked. “Just a little.”

He huffed, watching as she poured a glass of water and handed him the blister pack.

“None of that scotch after taking these, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, amused despite himself.

She squeezed his good shoulder before heading for the door, and the warmth of her touch persisted where her fingers had pressed against him.

----

The lobby was a mess of tired travelers and frazzled staff, as the storm outside cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind howled, rattling the glass as Bucky ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “A place with this many stars and a price tag that could feed a small country, and they can’t even keep track of reservations?”

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. “It’s just one night, Bucky.”

He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that we’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight, and I’d rather not spend the next hour arguing with the poor guy at the front desk when we both know they’re fully booked because of the storm.” She gestured toward the rain hammering against the glass. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the lobby, in which case, be my guest.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed the key card off the counter with a glare, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the elevator.

She sighed again, following. This was going to be a long night.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching as she took in the room with wide eyes. The Renaissance-style decor, the heavy carved furniture, the ridiculous four-poster bed with actual curtains… it was over the top, even for a place like this.

“Well, this is… something,” she murmured, slowly turning in place before making a beeline for the bathroom.

He heard her sharp inhale, then -God help him- a pleased little hum that was dangerously close to a moan.

His bad mood tempered just a little.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped further inside, glancing at the coffee table stacked with neatly packaged luxury treats. He had no doubt they came with a price tag steep enough to make even him scoff.

She poked her head out from the bathroom, grinning. “You think they’d notice if I just sat in the tub and refused to leave?”

For the first time since the airport delays, he almost smiled. Almost. Then he sat in an oversized armchair. The long flight, the delays, and the cold air outside had worsened the stiffness in his arm.

She eyed him knowingly, arms crossing. “Speaking of the tub, why don’t you take a shower? Or an immersive bath? Heat those bones a little. You’re tensing the arm a lot, you know.”

He seemed to consider it for a second, rolling his shoulder slightly. But then he shook his head. “After you. You’re cold too. Ladies first.”

She arched a brow. “I appreciate the chivalry, but you need it more-”

“All I hear right now is a hen clucking.” He cut her off, smirking as he kicked off his shoes and sank deeper into the chair.

Her eyes narrowed. “Endearing.”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, since you offered,” she huffed, “I’m going to test the tub. And don’t expect me to be out in less than thirty minutes because I won’t. If you need the bathroom, I don’t know, use a vase or something.” She said as she started to rummage on her suitcase, looking for her nightgown.

Bucky snorted, “So regal, just what this place needs.”

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped as she finally dropped the facade. Out there, she had to keep up the usual push and pull, the teasing deflections, the confidence that made it seem like sharing a room with him -sharing space with him- was just another minor inconvenience.

But alone in here, she could let herself feel the weight of the situation.

She set her nightgown on the counter, running her hands over the silky fabric before reaching for the faucet. The deep tub groaned as steaming water rushed in, the sound filling the room as she braced herself against the edge of the sink.

This shouldn’t be affecting her so much. It wasn’t the first time they’d traveled together, and it wasn’t even the first time she’d seen him this exhausted, this raw from the day. But something about tonight, about his request for her to be here, about the way his voice softened when he said he needed her there -it’s killing me- stirred something deep and restless inside her.

She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them slowly. He didn’t mean it the way she wanted him to. He never did.

She reminded herself of that fact as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, shivering slightly at the rush of cooler air against her skin. Bucky was… Bucky. Intense. Guarded. Possessive, sometimes, in ways he didn’t even realize.

But never hers.

She sighed, pushing down the stupid, persisting ache in her chest as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. This wasn’t new. She’d spent years training herself not to hope for something that wasn’t there. And yet, every now and then, he’d let something slip -a look, a word, a need- and it would take everything in her not to lean into it.

The tub was nearly full now, and the steam curled in soft ribbons toward the mirror. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her body, soothing and distracting all at once.

Bucky wasn’t doing any better.

He sat in the oversized armchair, socked feet planted firmly on the carpet,  drumming his fingers idly against his knee. The tension in his shoulder hadn’t eased, not even a little. He rolled it again, flinching at the dull throb radiating from his arm.

Maybe he should’ve taken the damn bath first. Maybe the heat would’ve helped more than sitting here, stewing, staring at the closed bathroom door like some lovesick idiot.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t into him.

He knew that much.

Women who wanted something more -who wanted him- they left hints, like breadcrumbs leading straight to their intentions. He’d seen it a thousand times in the circles he frequented. The way they gravitated toward him, playing coy with soft laughs and lingering looks. Subtle touches under the table, fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. The way they’d beam at the expensive gifts, their smiles slipping the second he showed more interest in his bed than in whatever designer bag they were parading around.

And then there was her.

She didn’t play coy. She didn’t bat her lashes or leave accidental touches to test the waters. Instead, she petted him. Nursed him. Brought him Tylenol like it was her goddamn job -which, technically, it was-. And he liked it. At first, it had been enough, her dependable presence that kept him from losing his mind when everything else was chaos.

But eventually, it wasn’t.

Eventually, he started watching for the crumbs, the hints, waiting for something, anything, that told him she saw him as more than just her boss or her friend.

And he found nothing.

Because a woman who wanted something more wouldn’t massage the knots from his arm like it was second nature, without hesitating, without blinking. Wouldn’t press her fingers into the scarred muscles like she wasn’t touching the part of him that made most people flinch.

He huffed, rubbing his palm over his face.

She was comfortable with him. Too comfortable.

And fuck, it was funny, in a twisted way, how every other woman he’d been with tried not to look at his arm -careful not to let their revulsion show- but she touched it like it was just another part of him.

Because that’s all he was to her. Just another favor.

Nothing more.

----

After exiting the bathroom in her red silk nightgown -a gift from her friends- she thanked her past self for not just throwing in an old cotton camisole.

“Well, I emptied the tub and started filling it again,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “Maybe you should go check the temperature. It’s one of the last things I don’t know about you.” She tried to keep it light, casual.

Bucky stared at her longer than necessary. He had seen her in professional clothes, casual clothes, even bundled up in thick sweaters during late nights at the office, but never in something like this. It wasn’t even that revealing, but the way the silk fell against her body, catching the dim light, made his thoughts go places they shouldn’t.

He forced his gaze away, scoffing.

“Bucky, don’t tell me you didn’t even unpack pajamas.”

“Don’t use ’em,” he said, watching her expression shift.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

His smirk deepened. “Nope. I’m more of a… natural type of guy.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to suppress a reaction. Interesting.

“Well, I hope you at least brought sweatpants or-”

“Wasn’t supposed to be sharing a room, remember?” He shrugged, stretching out in his chair. “Didn’t think about it. But don’t worry, I still have underwear. Are boxers still scandalous to you?”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I can manage a slutty pair of boxers, thank you very much”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, turning to his suitcase. He rifled through his things, pulling out the garment in question. “Relax. I was planning on wearing a robe -there are always robes in these places- to protect your maidenhood.” He smirked, but his fingers tightened around the fabric.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.

“Take the bed. You’ll probably be dead asleep by the time I get out.” He suggested.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand in a dismissive tome. “That couch is too damn small for you. You take the bed.”

Bucky frowned, standing up straight. “How the fuck could I send you to the couch? It’s irritating that you could even consider me capable of that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t be stubborn, your body-”

His expression darkened, and his voice cut in sharp. “I’m not crippled, doll. I let you play mama all you want, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown man who can sleep on a damn couch without whining like a bitch.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw her expression shift. Surprise, hurt, and something more guarded sliding into place. He had sounded exactly like his father just now, and the realization made his stomach churn. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Just… don’t be stubborn, okay?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

And as soon as he was alone, he cursed himself.

----

As she slipped under the covers, feeling the crisp hotel sheets' cool against her skin, her mind replayed the moment over and over.

The sharpness in his tone. The way his eyes darkened, his jaw set tight like he was bracing for a fight that wasn’t even there. She had only meant to be practical; his body did take more strain, whether he liked it or not. And yet, the way he snapped felt like she had crossed some invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

She stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. I’m not crippled, doll. Had she made him feel like that? She had never pitied him, and he knew it. Bucky was the strongest person she knew, even when he was constantly grumpy and in pain.

Maybe that was why she did it. The taking care of him. Because no one else did. No one else noticed the stiffness in his shoulder after long days hunched on his desk or the way he rubbed at his temple when a migraine was creeping in. People either feared him, admired him, or wanted something from him. But who was actually in his corner, making sure he was okay without expecting anything in return?

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe, to him, she was just another person putting him in a box he didn’t want to be in. She had assumed he liked it, the way she doted him, the way she noticed him. But what if, in his mind, it only confirmed that she didn’t see him the way he wanted to be seen?

----

The water lapped at his collarbones as he sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat work through the persistent tension in his muscles. His head tipped back against the cool porcelain, and he closed his eyes.

He shouldn’t have snapped at her. She hadn’t meant anything by it; she never did. She was just looking out for him, the way she always did, and he’d thrown it back in her face like an ungrateful asshole.

With a sigh, he dragged a hand over his face, water dripping from his fingertips and wetting his scruffed face. He wasn’t mad at her, had never been mad at her. He was mad at himself. Mad at the way the frustration curled in his gut over things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t deserve that. He’d make it up to her in the morning. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he would.

----

At 3 a.m., she stirred awake, blinking against the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. Her gaze landed on his silhouette, sitting rigid on the couch, outlined by the streetlights below.

She frowned, pushing the covers aside and padding toward him. “Hey.”

He startled slightly as if he hadn’t heard her coming, too lost in his thoughts. “Hey.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Rough night?” she asked, quirking a brow, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glanced at her, then quickly averted his gaze. “Yeah.” A beat passed before he exhaled heavily. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Normally, she would’ve brushed it off, waved away his apology like she always did. But this time, she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my tantrums,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. “Seems like it’s becoming a habit lately, having to apologize for them. But really, doll, I’m sorry.”

Something in her chest softened. It was unfair how easily those simple words soothed the discomfort that had been eating her since their argument. She wanted to reach for him, reassure him. “I know you’re nervou-”

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head. “I’m nervous and frustrated by this deal, yeah, but that’s not an excuse to be an asshole. At least not with you.” He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand down his face. “So don’t do that. Don’t… justify me the way my mother did with my father when he beat her up on a weekly basis.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Well, you were kind of an asshole, if that’s what you want to hear.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but she wasn’t done.

“But you also know we have the kind of relationship where I call you out when that happens. How many times have I told you to fuck off?”

His lips twitched. “Never.”

“Okay, not in those exact words, but you know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass now.”

Bucky bit his lip, letting her continue.

“I know you’ve been working on this deal for over a year. I also know your father’s been breathing down your neck about it, just waiting for you to slip up so he can shove his twisted version of ‘tough love’ down your throat. And on top of that, I know this damn weather is making your arm and shoulder miserable. So, I’m letting it pass. You already apologized; why wouldn’t I accept it?”

His face was unreadable now, all traces of amusement gone as he nursed his glass of scotch.

She quirked a brow, aiming for levity. “Or what? You got some kind of kink? Want to be punished for being a bad boy?”

Bucky choked mid-sip, coughing as the liquor went straight up his nose.

“Oh my God, you do!” she gasped, grinning like she’d just uncovered some deep, dark secret.

“No!” Bucky spluttered, still coughing, his face red as a beet. He barely managed to set his glass down without spilling it.

She knew he was probably telling the truth, but she also knew how easily he embarrassed over certain things, and there was no way she was letting this pass.

“You couldn’t sleep because you were craving a spanking? A little pinching, maybe?” she cooed.

His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with horror. “My God, woman, stop it.”

She smirked. “Tell you what: I’ll stop if you take the bed.”

“I told you I-”

“I’m still taking it too.”

That shut him up. He blinked at her, clearly thrown back.

“It’s so big my whole damn living room could fit on it,” she pointed out. “We can share, so you don’t have to hurt your masculine pride, and mother hen here gets to be happy knowing you’re not miserable on that fancy couch.”

Bucky exhaled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know…”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Tell me one good reason why this is a bad idea. We’re both exhausted, and there’s enough space on that mattress to fit two more people between us.” She raised a brow. “I promise I won’t steal your virtue.” She winked, and he nearly groaned.

Oh, but he wanted her to take it, not his damn virtue, but something else. And that was the problem.

He couldn’t even use the excuse of propriety, he was already sitting there in just his boxers, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before. Hell, she’d been massaging his arm and back for years without batting an eye.

So, really, what was he holding onto?

“Will you shut it if I say yes?” he muttered.

“Just for tonight.” She grinned.

----

She climbed into bed, doing her best to act casual, like this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Like she wasn’t hyperaware of the fact that Bucky was standing just a few feet away, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, no robe in sight.

“We have to be there at nine,” she said, adjusting the blankets around her. “So we’ve got, what… maybe four hours of sleep?”

The mattress dipped as he sat down, and she felt the shift beneath her. She told herself not to look. But when he moved to lie down, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and ended up on her side.

He hesitated for a moment before mirroring her, rolling onto his side so they were facing each other in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Even with the shadows softening his features, she could still see it, the stress in his brow, the weight pressing down on him. The doubt.

So she leaped.

Hesitating, she reached across the space between them, palm up. “You’ve got this, Bucky,” she said, in a soft but firm tone. “You’re going to do great.”

His eyes flicked to her hand, and surprise flashed across his face, but it only lasted a second. Without hesitation, he reached out with his scarred hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, and gave a small squeeze. “Thanks.”

----

The deal with Prescott went just as expected, some rough patches here and there, but overall, both sides walked away satisfied.

As requested, she had sorted through the attendees beforehand, making sure Bucky knew exactly who he could afford to ignore and who required his attention. Not that he always followed her lead, but to her surprise, he was in a much better mood than the night before.

Maybe it was the decent night’s sleep. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his nerves, he had handled the negotiations flawlessly. Or maybe it was just that he finally let himself lean on someone for just a little.

Bucky stepped out of the conference room, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension from the negotiations. His gaze landed on her instantly, curled up in one of the lounge chairs, with a coffee cup in her hands, looking perfectly calm. She raised a brow when she noticed him watching her.

“We have a cocktail party tonight,” he announced, coming to stand beside her chair.

She took a sip before answering. “We?��

“Me. The board jesters. A bunch of industrial guys.”

“Right. So, you,” she corrected, setting her cup down.

He huffed. “I want you to come.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Are you sure it’s not just for you and the board members?”

“I’m sure.”

She leaned back, studying him. “Bucky, I don’t exactly have cocktail-party-appropriate clothes lying around.”

He shrugged. “Neither do I.”

That made her snort. “Yeah, somehow, I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he said. “I didn’t pack for this, which means I gotta go get something to impress a bunch of snobs. You might as well come with me.” He caught the hesitation in her body language instantly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “That’s your only reason for doubting, right?”

She exhaled, knowing there was no way to wiggle out of it. “Yeah, that’s the only reason. But…” She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain that their budgets were galaxies apart? That the tie he’d pick out probably would cost as much as her monthly groceries?

“But what?” he pressed.

Fuck it.

“But, we are almost at month’s end, and I still have to pay the-”

“Wait. No, no,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not expecting you to buy a fucking dress, doll. The company will.”

She frowned. “Bucky, I don’t think that’s appropriate-”

“I, the director, am the one making you attend this shitty event,” he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Obviously, it’s a company expense that my secretary looks good there, because if she doesn’t, the company image looks bad too.”

She gave him a flat look. “Did you just say I dress poorly in a roundabout way?”

His jaw dropped. “That is not what I said.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Mmhmm.”

Bucky groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just let me do something nice without fighting me on it?”

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Great,” he said, already dialing a number. “We leave in an hour.”

----

The last thing she expected when he said they were going shopping was to find herself standing inside a Prada store. She had anticipated something fancy, sure, but Prada? This was a whole different level. She was almost afraid to breathe too hard, worried she’d somehow stain or break something just by existing.

A perfectly dressed clerk approached them, and the moment the woman’s eyes landed on Bucky, her posture shifted: poised, interested, appreciative. She on the other hand, might as well have been invisible.

“What can I do for you?” the clerk asked, with a voice all smooth with professionalism and something more.

Bucky barely glanced at her. “We need a cocktail dress for her and a suit for me.”

Immediately, the woman waved over a co-worker, passing her off while keeping Bucky’s attention firmly on herself.

“Were you looking for something specific?” the second clerk asked her while signaling her to follow.

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking an empire dress with a V neckline.”

“Let me show you what we have.”

----

After trying on two options that didn’t feel quite right, she slipped into the third dress. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, elegant but not over-the-top, and when she pulled the curtain open, she froze.

Bucky was standing there, dressed in a black suit so well-fitted it might as well have been tailored for him on the spot. His ivory dress shirt contrasted against his sharp features, and there was something about the way he wore the suit -confident and powerful- that made her stare.

What she didn’t realize was that he was staring right back, caught off guard as he discreetly bit at his bottom lip.

“Guess that’s the dress,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

“You think so?” She did a slow spin, letting the fabric swirl around her.

“Definitely.” He managed to say.

She grinned. “Guess that’s the suit?”

He didn’t say anything, just gave her a pleased half-smile that sent warmth curling into her chest.

After purchasing the medium heels and the purse that she tried hard not to think about the cost of, they had lunch at an upscale restaurant.

----

By the time they reached the hotel, she was still reeling a little from the whole shopping trip. The Prada bags felt almost radioactive in her hands, she could barely process the fact that she now owned something so expensive, let alone the fact that Bucky had made the entire thing seem as casual as buying a cup of coffee.

As they approached the front desk, the receptionist greeted them with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. We have the second room available now if the lady would like to move in.”

Before Bucky could respond, she beat him to it. “Good. Can I take it now?”

“Of course, ma’am,” the receptionist said, eyes flickering to Bucky for a moment, then back to her. “I’ll send someone up to move your belongings.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” she replied quickly, trying to play it off with a small smile. “It’s just a small suitcase and is already upstairs.”

“Very well, ma’am. Please enjoy your stay,” the woman said, giving her the magnetic card.

As the elevator ascended, Bucky crossed his arms and shot her a dry look. "That was fast."

"Huh?" she blinked, shifting the shopping bags in her grip.

"You practically threw yourself over the door card." He chuckled, but there was something almost edgy beneath it.

"Well," she shrugged, "I was supposed to be there from the start, Bucky. Now you won’t have to miss my… how do you call it? Clucking?" She winked.

Bucky scoffed, but his jaw worked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something. And maybe he was. Because the truth was, he would miss it.

He had no business getting used to her presence, to the way she looked after him. But those few hours they’d shared in the same bed? Dreamless. The first time in a long time his mind had given him peace. And now, standing here, the thought of losing that -even just the simple comfort of her being near- felt… wrong.

He glanced at her and found her watching him with an amused tilt of her head. He swallowed down whatever mess of thoughts he was having and shrugged instead. "I’ll survive."

----

The message came through: "Ready?"

She took a breath, smoothing her hands down the dress that still didn’t feel entirely real. "Yeah, coming out now."

Stepping into the hallway, she turned and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Bucky stood there, waiting, a few doors down. The same suit from earlier, yes, but now fully put together. His hair was neatly combed back, his scruff freshly trimmed, and the addition of a sleek watch and cufflinks only added to the devastating effect. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a high-end catalog, the kind of man people turned to look at the moment he entered a room.

Her pulse stuttered.

He caught her staring, but he didn’t call her out for it, probably because he was doing the exact same thing.

She looked stunning. That dress had already been perfect in the store, but now, with her makeup done, her hair styled just so, and the soft glow of the hotel lighting catching on her skin? He was fucking dying to close the space between them, to inhale and find out which perfume she’d chosen tonight. Would it be the one he liked the most?

His eyes briefly dipped to her neckline before he could stop himself, and his traitorous cock twitched in interest. Damn it. He forced his gaze back up, schooling his face into something composed just as she started toward him.

"You look good, sweetheart," he managed to say.

She smirked, sliding her hand into the arm he offered. "You cleaned up good yourself, boss."

----

The ride in the limo was... interesting.

The board members who had come along were in high spirits, congratulating themselves and Bucky on the deal, clinking their glasses of expensive whiskey as they rehashed key moments from the negotiation.

And yet, somehow, she was left out of the conversation entirely.

Not just the business talk, that she understood. She wasn’t part of the board. But even the petty, circumstantial chatter, the kind of polite small talk that people filled silence with, never once included her. It was as if she were just there, a piece of decoration beside Bucky, an accessory rather than a person.

Of course, to them, that’s exactly what she was.

Just his secretary. The one everybody knew he was fucking.

Now, he’d simply taken it a step further and brought her to the cocktail party, dressed up in Prada and heels, just like a good mistress should be.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

He was fully engaged in conversation with the others, discussing projections, potential expansions, and other things that weren’t meant for her ears.

She knew this would happen. The moment he asked her to come, she’d known she’d feel out of place. And yet, some naïve part of her had thought -hoped- it wouldn’t be this bad.

She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way the man across from her kept glancing up from his phone, barely acknowledging her except for those quick, assessing looks, made her stomach turn. His fingers moved smoothly over the screen, typing something, then pausing -another glance, another smirk- before resuming.

She forced herself to sit still, to smooth her dress over her lap, to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something about this moment would come back to haunt her.

----

As they stepped into the reception, they blended seamlessly into the elegant crowd. The board members exchanged greetings with familiar faces, shaking hands and making small talk. A few acquaintances took notice of her, flickering their gazes between her and Bucky before curiosity got the better of them.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” one of them asked with a polite smile.

Bucky barely hesitated. “My dutiful secretary.”

There was always a beat after that -just a split second of realization- before the inevitable, knowing oh followed.

If he noticed the shift in people’s expressions, he didn’t show it. Either he was oblivious to it or, more likely, he just didn’t care. He was too used to these circles, to their assumptions, to their judgments. But she felt it. Every curious glance, every subtle flick of the eyes that said, so, he finally brought her along.

At some point, he made a passing joke “Ten years dealing with me, just for that, someone should give her an award,” which earned a few chuckles from the men around him. She mustered a polite smile, but inside, she could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.

She needed a drink. Or a few.

Slipping away, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a Gancia cocktail, sitting in one of the fancy stools.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still deep in conversation when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. His brows furrowed immediately -he wasn’t fond of being touched- but as he turned, his irritation sharpened into something heavier.

His father.

George Barnes stood there, exuding effortless charm as always, but he knew better. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Good job, son.”

For a moment, it almost sounded… honest, proud. But then, just as predictably as the sun rising, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice lowering so only Bucky could hear the next part. “You managed not to ruin it.”

Bucky's jaw ticked. But he exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression neutral.

George straightened, turning back to the small group with a practiced smile. “Gentlemen, if you don’t oppose, I’d like to steal my son for a moment.” The group murmured their good-natured agreements, stepping aside as the older man clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder again, making his muscles coil with irritation.

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked, words laced with aggression but softened enough to avoid drawing attention.

His father’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head slightly. "It's a corporate party. Why wouldn’t I be here?"

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and his tone grew colder. "Because it's three states away, and you have no business here."

George chuckled lightly, as if this conversation was little more than a minor inconvenience. "Oh, but you are wrong, I do have business here. I have shares in Prescot & Co. Surprised?"

"In the bare minimum," Bucky replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waitress, keeping his expression carefully neutral, tightening his grip around the delicate glass as his eyes remained fixed on his father.

George’s lips quirked into something like a smirk, clearly unfazed by the tension. "I know I gave you the industrial input branch to play with, James. And you’ve been doing a decent job. But it’s never bad to be aware of what’s going on there."

Bucky’s gaze flickered momentarily to the crowd around them, trying to gauge how much of this was being overheard. He wasn’t sure if his father’s presence here was meant to make some kind of point or just another round of his usual subtle power moves. Either way, he hated the feeling that his every step was being watched and scrutinized.

"Well, I’m doing just fine without your input," Bucky said, taking a sip of his champagne, trying to sound controlled.

His father’s eyes never left him, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. "Hm, and speaking of knowing what’s going on the firm..." George drawled, glancing toward the bar where she sat. "When were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, with a casual tone but loaded with implication.

Bucky’s body went rigid at the mention of her. His eyes shot toward her, but he quickly masked the tension creeping through his body. "What is it to tell?" he shot back, trying to downplay the situation.

George sighed, like he was explaining something to a child. "Some little birds keep me informed about your affairs on the firm, son. And they’ve been signing songs about you two for years now." His gaze flickered over to her, still perched at the bar, before he looked back at his son with a smug expression.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of being patronized, and it fueled his growing irritation. He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm but laced with the growing sharpness of his frustration. "It’s all bullshit, Dad. Maybe you’ll need to pick better your little spies." He hated the insinuations, the familiar condescension that George always slipped into conversations like these. The man always had a way of making his son feel small, of making everything seem like some petty game.

George didn’t flinch. His smirk only deepened. “Oh, I know about your escapades, James. Those bimbos you dated, the ones you dared to bring home. That last one, Mandy, or Marney...” he waved a hand. “But always, always, the songs about you and that ‘secretary’ of yours remained.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he fought to keep his composure. “Jesus, Dad. It’s my fucking secretary. At this level, it’s like having a work-wife. We never asked or told you anything about Esther in what, forty years working with her?” his voice was tight, defensive.

The old man quirked a brow, looking almost amused. “Exactly.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve been fucking Esther on my desk for the last thirty of those forty years, and no one had said a word or suspected anything. Why? Because I have brains, son.” His expression hardened. “It seems I keep overestimating you, thinking you could mask an office affair as it should be.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

His father smiled. “I know more than you think.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Then you’d know that if we were a thing, I wouldn’t hide her,” he stated in a low but firm tone. “I’d parade her at every opportunity, make damn sure everyone knew she was mine.” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, more like a warning. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”

George scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d be the talk-”

Bucky cut him off with a sharp smile. “Your last name would be the talk. And that’s what concerns you, isn’t it, Father?” His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. “But since you know me so well, you already know that I couldn’t care less about the tabloids, your social circle, and, lastly, your opinion on this matter.”

His father’s expression flickered, and something dark flashed in his eyes, but Bucky didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he drew on that well-practiced smile, the kind that could fool any onlooker into thinking this was just a polite conversation between father and son. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the crowd, leaving George standing alone in the wake of his words.

----

As she nursed her drink at the bar, she became aware of someone approaching. A tall man with a confident, almost cocky stance settled beside her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, flagging down the bartender without even glancing at her.

She turned slightly, taking in the sharp suit, the perfectly styled blond hair, the smug air about him. John Walker. She recognized him from a few previous company functions, one of George Barnes’s people. He wasn’t part of Bucky’s branch of the company, but he had enough pull to be a nuisance when he wanted to be.

“Well, here I am,” she replied coolly, lifting her glass to her lips.

John smirked. “Must be nice. Traveling in style, all expenses paid…” His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, then the Prada bag she’d set down by her feet. “Guess it pays to be the boss’s favorite.”

Before she could respond, another voice cut in.

“There you are.”

Bucky.

His presence was commanding. He stepped between them, close enough that John had to shift back, barely masking his irritation. Bucky didn’t acknowledge him, his eyes were only on her.

“I need you to reschedule the Montgomery call for next week, now.” he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue easily. A perfect excuse, a simple reason to pull her away.

She blinked, catching on quickly. “Of course, boss.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, Barnes. You really don’t let her out of your sight, huh?” He took a slow sip of his drink, then added, “You should loosen the leash a little.”

Bucky went still.

It was subtle, the tic on his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides but she could feel the shift in the air.

John had no idea how close he was to getting his teeth knocked in.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I was just thinking about tightening yours.” His voice was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.

John’s smirk faltered, but before he could respond, Bucky turned to her and offered his elbow. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

He barely spared Walker another glance as he guided her toward one of the balcony doors. The noise of the party dulled as they stepped outside, and the cool night air contrasted with the heat simmering beneath his skin.

"What did he tell you?" His voice was low and measured, but she knew better. He was seething.

She let out a small sigh. "Ah, just some silly banter we usually have," she tried to deflect, stepping closer to the railing.

Bucky stayed near, and his gaze flicked to hers. “Which consists of…?” he pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp.

She sighed, realizing there was no way he was going to let it go. “God, Bucky, it’s just stupid.”

“If it’s stupid, you can tell me.” He pushed.

She hesitated, but under the weight of his stare, she relented. “Some stupid thing about being the boss’s favorite.”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, and the muscle in his jaw ticked again. "That fucking bastard," he muttered. He started to turn back toward the party, and she recognized the intent in his posture. He was going to find Walker and probably, without subtlety, give him a piece of his mind.

She reached out instinctively, wrapping her fingers around his inner elbow. "Don’t you dare cause a scene over some juvenile taunt."

"He disrespected you," Bucky bit out with restrained anger.

She exhaled, trying for humor. "Did he lie? Am I not your favorite employee?"

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “You know what he meant by that.”

She smiled a little. "I do. But I just don’t care, Bucky." Her fingers lightly curled against his arm. "I know who I am and the place I occupy. John Walker’s opinions are not relevant to me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The place you occupy?"

“Yes. As your secretary, as a friend.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest truth. “You and I both know there’s nothing between us. It’s just so stupid. He’s seen the women you associate with; how could he even presume-”

Bucky’s chest did something stupid. He wasn’t sure what, only that it felt tight and hot and made him irrationally irritated. “What kind of women?”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come on, Bucky. The Vogue cover type.”

Bucky stared at her. “The Vogue cover type?” he echoed, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter.

She let out a small laugh. “You know what I mean. The ones with the perfect hair, the designer wardrobes, the endless legs-” She gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “The ones people expect a man like you to be with.”

Bucky scoffed. “A man like me?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re rich, successful, powerful, and on top of that, handsome. It’s not exactly shocking that you’d go for-”

Bucky let out a sharp breath. “For what?” he interrupted, voice edged with something dangerously close to frustration. “A goddamn mannequin?”

She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “Bucky, that’s the only kind of woman I’ve ever seen enter or exit your office in ten years. The only kind you arrange dates with. The only kind you send flowers to,” she pointed out, her tone laced with incredulity. “Did you never notice a pattern in your partners?”

He said nothing. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He couldn't deny it. Couldn’t, because that was the kind of woman that always approached him. The kind of woman that fit neatly into the world he operated in. The kind of woman he was expected to have perched on his arm. The kind of woman who made sense.

And the kind of woman who was so different from her.

Because he couldn’t dare to be with someone who even resembled her. To be what? A cheap replacement for the luscious body and sharp tongue he really wanted in his bed? No. That would’ve been pathetic. Even for him.

And maybe he was delusional, but he could’ve sworn there was something there, an edge in her voice when she spoke about his so-called type, as if she had already decided for the both of them that they could never be a thing.

And God, he was tired.

So tired of this stupid dance that had lasted years of what-ifs, blurred lines, untold truths, and all the office gossip that never seemed to die.

His patience snapped.

“What, do you think it’s so impossible for us to be something more?”

She froze, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Well, I never perceived anything resembling -um- interest from you,” she stammered.

Bucky let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Do you think I would let anyone touch me the way you do if I didn’t feel something?”

She went speechless for a second, parting her lips, scrambling for an answer. “Well, maybe-”

“No,” he cut her off, low and heated. “And you know it. Tell me one person you’ve seen me with who has that level of intimacy with me. One person who can approach me, who can touch me, who can nurse me like a fucking child and I let them.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his words, the frustration thick in every syllable. “You won’t find anyone.”

Because there was no one else. Only her.

Bucky moved in, crowding her against the cool balcony railing, his body was a wall of heat and tension. His hands weren’t on her -yet- but he was close enough that she could feel his breath, the scent of his cologne mixed with champagne, wrapping around her like a slow burn.

His voice was low, almost rough. “The question here is… do you feel anything else besides ‘friendly’ empathy when you touch me?” His blue eyes were searching, desperate for something he wasn’t sure she could give. “Have you ever wanted this to be something more?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

His jaw flexed, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. “Am I the only one who thinks that- fuck.” His head dipped for half a second, as if frustrated with himself, before he looked at her again, with a dark, unreadable gaze. “The only one of us that feels like us could be a thing?”

His words were a shock to her system, leaving the air thick, charged between them. His hands found the railing on either side of her body, bracketing her in without touching her.

And she was also tired, so goddamn tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of thinking about what was proper.

Tired of believing she could be nothing more to him than his dutiful secretary.

Tired of swimming through dates and relationships that, even with effort, never felt fulfilling.

She looked up at him, the man she had spent endless hours working for, hours that seemed to pass in a blink. The man marked by scars, both physical and psychological. The ruthless wolf who ruled a company he never truly wanted, yet refused to let go of. The man who, in the deepest corner of his mind -even if he never admitted it- wanted to be seen by his father.

The man she had learned to read so many years ago, whose moods, silences, and tells she knew by heart.

The man she couldn’t stop caring for because no one else did. Not even himself.

The man she was in love with.

And she couldn’t deny him.

"You are not the only one who feels all of those things," she heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly aware of the distant noise of voices and clinking glasses behind them. But before she could step away, he leaned in, still caging her against the balcony railing.

Bucky turned his head slightly, scanning their surroundings. There was no one. And fuck if he cared if there was.

His intense gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you mean it?" His voice was low, almost rough. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply and took a fraction of a step back, and his hands ghosted over her arms as if forcing himself to give her space. "Aren’t you feeling pressured right now? By my position? By our… dynamic?"

She scoffed, shaking her head, "You know me well enough to know I don’t let myself be pressured. I think my first week under you made that clear."

A dry chuckle left his lips. "God. You dared to lecture me about not being a servant just for asking for a coffee."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "Oh, don’t you dare play the victim here," she shot back, jabbing a finger lightly against his chest. "You barked at me to walk eight blocks in those fucking heels just because you wanted that petroleum filth they called gourmet espresso. You had five excellent coffee shops between here and there, but no, you had to have that one, which charged you double for dirty water."

Bucky let out a low, amused hum, catching her hand before she could retreat. His grip was firm but soft, and his thumb glided absentmindedly over her knuckles. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

"I thought of firing you on the spot," he admitted, almost reflectively.

Her brows lifted. "Oh, how gracious of you not to."

His smirk deepened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his other hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb.

"But then I realized," he murmured, tilting his head, "I got so fucking turned on when you didn’t cower and spoke your mind."

Her breath caught as his fingers slid back, cupping lightly the base of her neck.

"It’s so goddamn rare," he continued, dipping his voice into something huskier, "to find someone in these circles who actually says what they mean. Who doesn’t just… bend."

His grip tightened at the back of her head, and his fingers fisted in her hair, undoing part of her hairstyle as he tugged just enough to tilt her face up toward his. His pupils were blown wide, dark and consuming, the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the heat behind them.

"But I'd be lying," he murmured, as his breath brushed against her lips, "if I said I haven’t thought about bending you in other… more pleasurable ways."

A tingle ran down her spine, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The heat rushed to her face, completely unaccustomed to this side of him, this raw, unveiled hunger. The daily life they shared, the comfort they had built over years of working side by side, had nothing to do with the way he looked at her now.

Like a predator.

A handsome, fucked-up predator, ready to consume her whole.

And she was going to let him.

Far in the back of her mind, the worries of what this would mean, of the implications of crossing this line, of the scandal and gossip if anyone found them like this, all of it faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his body crowded hers against the railing, and the way his gaze locked her in place like she was something he had no intention of letting slip through his fingers.

She tried to feign a little nonchalance. "Is this your pickup line for fancy cocktail parties? Telling a lady you want to bend her?"

His low chuckle rumbled against her, his amusement laced with something far more dangerous. He didn’t pull away when she tried to call him out. No, he attacked.

"Oh, I think this lady enjoyed it very much," he murmured, brushing the shell of her ear with his lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The way she squirms under my gaze tells me everything I need to know."

The warmth of his breath made her shiver as his manicured stubble grazed her cheek, rough against the softness of her skin. Strands of his loosened hair tickled under her chin as he slowly turned his face, skimming his lips over hers, just the ghost of a touch, but it set her entire body on fire. Without thinking, she pressed the softest peck to the corner of his mouth.

And that was all it took.

He let go.

To hell with the party. To hell with his father, the endless charade of appearances, and whoever might walk through those balcony doors.

His other hand fisted the fabric at her lower back, yanking her against him as his lips crashed onto hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, deep, possessive, and unrelenting. His expensive suit wrinkled under her desperate grasp as her fingers clawed at his lapels.

Her purse tumbled from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when Bucky was pressing her against the railing, caging her in, one large hand tightening its grip on her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.

He kissed her like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. Like he was sealing something between them, something untold but inevitable. His tongue parted her lips and swallowed the soft gasp that escaped her own.

Her knees weakened, but he was there, securing his grip as if daring gravity to try and take her from him. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against her mouth as she arched into him, digging her nails into his shoulders.

Without even thinking, he pressed a thick thigh between hers, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.

Bucky felt it, her body’s reaction, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened their hold on him. His grip on her waist grew firmer, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to imprint himself on her, to make sure she felt him everywhere.

"That’s it, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, his lips barely leaving hers as he spoke. "I can feel how much you want this."

His thigh flexed, pressing up against her just right, and she bit down a whimper, tilting back her head against the railing. Bucky took advantage, latching his mouth onto her exposed throat, scraping over the delicate skin with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

Her hands fisted his suit, wrinkling the pristine fabric even further, but he couldn’t care less. Not when she was trembling against him, not when she was letting him take control, letting him push, pull, and claim in ways neither of them had dared to acknowledge before tonight.

His breath was uneven when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils blown wide, hunger and something far more dangerous swirling in that stormy blue. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled, his grip constricting on her waist as if he might just drag her away.

For a moment, she teetered on the edge of saying yes, of letting him whisk her away and finish what they started. But then reality seeped in: the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, the weight of eyes that could turn at any moment.

She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to press against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. “We… we can’t.”

“Like hell we don’t,” he countered, as he dragged his thigh between hers again. The friction made her bite her lip, shifting her hips instinctively toward him, betraying her resolve.

“Don’t be a brat,” she murmured. “You’re here to make connections, to pretend you give a damn about these people. Not to mention your father’s just waiting for you to slip.”

“I don’t give a fuck-”

“Bucky.” She exhaled, calming herself. “This is good for you. A couple of hours, and then we can go.”

His exhalation was sharp, and his grip faltered for just a second before his forehead came to rest against hers. He felt dejected. She let her fingers trail down his lapels, smoothing out the wrinkles she had put there.

“Honey,” she murmured, softer now, “I want this as much as you do.”

His lips parted, ready to argue, but she pressed a finger to them, shaking her head. “No. You told me you wanted me on this trip as a buffer, to help figure out who you can be a dick to and who you can’t.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Maybe I just wanted you close.”

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it. Instead, she dragged her hands down his arms, squeezing his wrists before stepping back just enough to force some distance. “Shush. I’m doing what I’m supposed to.” She smirked, playful now, tilting her head. “Don’t be stubborn. Be a good boy and talk to those people. We have plenty of time for ourselves once this ends.”

His nostrils flared, and for a second, she thought he might argue. But then, with one last lingering touch along her waist, he huffed a quiet curse and pulled away.

She was right. He knew she was right. But seeing her all disheveled against the railing, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in uneven little gasps, none of it helped his restraint.

Which was exactly why, instead of stepping back into the party like a man with self-control, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a darker corner of the balcony.

“Bucky! What-”

She barely had time to protest before her back met the cool stone wall, and his body caged hers in, shielding her from view.

“I’m being a good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You failed to perceive how you -and probably I- look right now.” His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tilting her chin up, and his eyes swept over her face and down her neck, to where her dress was slightly askew from his hands. “We can’t walk back in there looking like two horny teenagers who made out while the adults were talking,” he said, ghosting his lips over her temple, in a teasing but firm tone.

She swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver as his hands roamed her body, smoothing over the wrinkles in her dress and fixing his own tie with a frustrated sigh.

“And whose fault is that?” she muttered, smoothing out the lapels of his suit jacket before reaching lower to straighten the part of his shirt that had somehow come untucked during their little ordeal.

Bucky chuckled, watching her fuss over him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare throw this on me when we both know you were pretty damn excited a minute ago,” he teased.

Her hands stilled, lips parting in protest, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as one of his hands abandoned its pretense of decorum and slid down to cup her ass, squeezing with deliberate firmness.

She yelped, smacking his chest, but his smirk only widened.

“Now stop being so bossy and help us look mildly demure,” he murmured, all mock innocence, though the way his hand rubbed slowly at her rear said otherwise.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she batted his hand away, not that it did much, considering he was still crowding her against the wall like he had every intention of misbehaving again, and his scent clung to her like a second skin.

“Demure? After what you just pulled?” she scoffed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on her dress. “The nerve you have,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to regain some composure.

Bucky chuckled, slow and smug, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as he watched her. “And yet, you let me and enjoyed it. And… you’re still here,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

She exhaled, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “For now.”

His eyes darkened, and his amusement flickered into something deeper as he leaned in, fanning his warm breath against her temple. “For good.”

Taglist: @civilbucky

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

[charliemwrites]

Men At Work - Part 3

I know this has been a little slow to start, but things should progress a little more quickly from here. I wanted to establish some of the groundwork for this weird dynamic they all have but unfortunately, these men don't know the meaning of slow, even in my own head.

No Content Warnings

“How are the repairs going?” you ask.

It’s just Nikto today, returning your Tupperware from dinner the other night. He’s covered head to toe once again, all that’s visible are those glass blue eyes. One way mirrors - hiding everything beneath the surface.

They remind you of… something. 

Hmm. When you figure it out, they’re sure to make an appearance in your next novel.

“On track,” he answers in that sharp, staccato way you’re learning is just his way.

Unfortunately for him, that just makes you more curious. You know it’s a bit obnoxious - you’re not entitled to information, you know that. And most of the time you curb the inquiries tapping at the back of your teeth. But he’s in your house, snuggling your traumatized cat. If he’s got a problem answering casual questions, you’re certain he’ll have no problem letting you know.

“You’re redoing the whole thing?”

“Most of it. Foundation is good. The rest - дерьмо.”

You don’t know a lick of Russian, but you can guess.

“Good bones,” you hum in understanding. As if you know anything about construction. “That helps. When do you think it will be done?”

He shifts, sharp eyes flicking between your busy hands, the door, and Rasputin holding him lovingly hostage.

Little guy is currently perched on your shoulder, face buried against your collar in abject despair that his bestest friend hasn’t come to visit. Shithead is poaching (or attempting to, anyway) the sandwiches you’re assembling. So far, she’s only swishing her tail, biding her time. You’re keeping an eye on her.

“Two months. Three if any of us are called.”

You hum, reach for the tomatoes. It’s only because you’re looking at him that you notice the slightest twitch around his eyes. Beneath his mask, you’d bet he’s scrunching his nose.

“No?”

“I will eat.”

You leave the tomatoes off. Guy mews sadly, you tilt your head to press a kiss to his little ear.

“So, two or three months. Krueger said you’ll move in then.”

“Da.”

You top the sandwiches with a final slice of bread and turn to the oven. Spin back just in time to catch Shithead’s paw reaching for Krueger’s designated sandwich. Nikto eyes the plate of brownies in your free hand; you bite the corner of your mouth to keep from grinning.

“What about the yard?”

Nikto tilts his head. If he didn’t give the impression of a particularly large predator, you’d call it cute. As it is, even spiders and snakes endear themselves to you somehow.

“What about yard?”

“Any plans for it?” You sneak an extra brownie onto Nikto’s plate. Reward and apology for wrenching conversation out of him. “Grass? Trees? Flowers?”

He blinks. Just once. Some sort of intuition tells you that even that behavioral tic is a big social step for him.

“No.”

“Oh, uh… gravel then?”

“We mean no plans,” he corrects.

“Oh! Alright, I suppose that’s a long way off anyway. There’s still so much work to do on the inside.”

But it does get you thinking. What even goes into fixing a house? And how do they know all this stuff? The electric, the insulation, the… whatever else goes into a home. Is it just Weird Things they picked up from the military?

You stare contemplatively at the house’s exterior as you walk the plates across the street with Nikto. (Ras is riding on his shoulder and Guy refused to detach his claws from yours. You fear for the state of your home with Shithead left behind, but neither you nor Nikto had a spare hand to wrangle her with.)

Nikto practically kicks the door in, shouting for the others as he goes. Guy chooses that moment to start crying - uncanny sense for appearing pathetic as possible.

Konig must hear him halfway down the stairs, because the steady boot steps get faster after a moment.

“Oh, bubchen! Why are you sad? What has happened?” Konig coos, nearly running to your side.

Of course, now that he’s gotten what he wanted, Guy’s volume lowers. He makes a pleased little “mrow” and slinks off your shoulder and into Konig’s reaching hands. You’d call him a traitor but you’re a damn sucker for a big man with a cute animal. 

“You two are ridiculous,” you laugh, setting the plates on the counter.

It’s already been replaced since last you saw it. Black granite, very sleek. You like it. (Which of them installed it? Nikto? You usually catch glimpses of him on the ground floor.)

“He is a baby, Biene,” Konig protests, “he must be treated like one.”

“He’s already five!” You reply, like you don’t have a papoose for when your hands are too full to snuggle him.

“Did I stutter? I do not think so. This is a baby.”

You have to turn away to hide your laughter, pretending that taking the foil off the lunches requires your full attention.

Krueger steps up behind you while you’re not looking. The heat of him is what alerts you, the only reason you don’t jump when his rough voice comes by your head.

“Where is the Shithead.”

“Hello to you too, Krueger. How is your day?”

He grunts and reaches past you, trying to snatch up a brownie. Without a thought, you slap at his hand - balk at the sharp whack sound it makes. He jerks his hand back in shock.

“You deny me my dearest friend and you attack me in my own home.”

You spin on your heel, mouth already open. False start as you realize he’s even closer than you expected. The height difference doesn’t seem like much until you’re eye level with his neck. You untangle your tongue and ignore the smirk growing at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“This is barely a house, never mind a home,” you scoff.

He snorts - that smirk turns to a full blown grin. A little crazed. Unfortunately, that makes it more attractive. (And the bastard probably knows it too.)

“You insult me too, now.”

“Sure, but I brought you food.”

He flicks his eyes to the plate behind you and arches a brow.

“Bring me the little Sheisskerl and I will forgive you.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Go get her yourself.”

What the hell did you just say? Inviting a man into your house unaccompanied?! You may not be a true crime writer, but you know better.

You still don’t take it back.

He locks eyes with you, gives the distinct impression that he knows exactly what you just thought and he’s amused by your obstinance.

“Fine.” He reaches past your hip. Smells like sweat and something that reminds you of heat. Solder? Certainly not anything you’re used to. “Behave, eh? Konig is easy to take advantage of.”

You snort and glance at Konig over his shoulder, who’s glaring now. (Somehow no less intimidating even with Guy nuzzling at his mask.)

As Krueger turns, he takes a big bite of brownie, humming appreciatively under his breath. You shake your head, then turn to Konig.

“If you want to steal one of his sandwiches, I’ll look the other way.”

Konig barks a short, sharp laugh of surprise. It startles you a bit, but not enough to wipe the grin from your face. You know he really means it when he sounds like that.

“How are the bathroom repairs going?” you ask.

“They are going well!” he answers. Then launches into an in-depth explanation of all the ongoing projects. Replacing walls, rewirings, outlet and light installations. What doesn’t go over your head is almost too fast to understand as his accent thickens with excitement. You nod along anyway, because you asked, and he’s stupidly endearing - big muscular man getting a bit squeaky while he rambles about pipes.

He barely even notices Guy’s little paw reaching until it’s shoved into his open mouth. He sputters as you burst into laughter, gently tucking Guy’s arm against his chest.

“Why would you do this?!” he asks, only to receive a slow blink in response.

“He’s saying you need to eat,” you giggle, nudging Konig’s plate.

“Oh, that’s right! Thank you for the lunch!”

Barely a couple bites in and you hear the door open again. Krueger stomps in with Shithead bundled in his arms, one hand under her bottom, the other around her tummy. She’s got her head tilted all the way back to chirp and chitter at him.

“Why are you carrying her like that?” you ask, choking back a giggle. 

“It is how she wishes to be carried.”

You blink at her - but sure as shit, she’s perfectly content being held like a child’s toy.

“Well good luck eating like that.”

“You won’t feed me?” he leers.

“I don’t want rabies if you bite me.”

His laughter is even harsher than Konig’s. You like it instantly.

All that’s left is to hear Nikto’s.

Agatha is outside when Nikto walks you back home.

(Krueger huffed that he had too much work to do for the day, but he would see you for dinner. While you were still blinking in shock at his self-invite, Konig transitioned Little Guy back into your arms. All the while grumbling at Krueger’s impatient German.)

She scowls as she notices your two-person parade. Nikto’s juggling Little Guy and Rasputin; you’ve got a firm grip on Shithead and the stack of dirty plates. You snort a bit just thinking of her paranoid comments about them being bad men. Sure, they might be in some ways, but it’s a hard sell when Ras is trying to lick at the edge of the mask around Nikto’s eyes.

“Afternoon, Agatha,” you call, just to be petty.

“When is your fiance coming by again?” she calls back. “Such a lovely young man.”

Your mirth dries up in an instant. “I broke up with my boyfriend four months ago. I thought I told you.”

You did. You know you did. Because she’s a nosy pain in the ass that was asking about your Easter plans with him (trying to invite you to church once again) when you told her that you left him. She’d even fussed about it at the time, saying that there’s hardly anything that can’t be healed with time and understanding.

(It was only your commitment to your own privacy that kept you from asking how much time it takes to smooth over someone cheating with your cousin.)

At your side, Nikto grunts. You glance sideways at him, wondering what he must think.

But his eyes are on Agatha. Even Rasputin has paused the grooming routine to narrow his one eye at her.

“Is this the one that looks in mailbox?” he asks, louder than you’ve ever heard.

Loud enough that she hears. And flushes redder than the poppies in your flowerboxes.

“That’s her husband, actually,” you answer. She sputters, and an incredibly immature bolt of satisfaction suffuses you.

He grunts again. Eyes her up and down. “Maybe we leave surprise for him next time, da?”

You press your lips together, but it does nothing to prevent you from grinning. He’s deadly serious, though, which somehow makes it even funnier to you.

“Maybe!” you reply in a tone that really means absolutely.

Nikto shuts the door on her face before Agath can get out a threat to call the police.

“You’ve got a petty streak,” you say, grinning at him.

He tilts his head. “You like.” He doesn’t even sound sure if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yeah,” you giggle, “I like it.”

He grunts and takes the plates from your hand. “We wash. You think about dinner and revenge. Da?”

You plop yourself onto a stool by the kitchen counter. “Da.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[linkons-most-wanted]

LIs Build IKEA furniture

I couldn’t get this out of my head, so enjoy 🤣

Zayne ❄️

Immediately takes charge of the process, doesn’t realize he’s doing so until you tease him about it

Treats the process like a surgery, you become the assistant. “Hex wrench. Number sixteen screw. Panel C in a vertical orientation.” When you tease him, he pretends to brush it off but then leans into the bit. “Phillips head screwdriver, stat.”

Never gets confused by the diagrams. Quietly notes errors and typos in the instructions. Seems to be able to use the tiniest details to know the correct orientation for each piece

Somehow had sandpaper on hand for when the pieces don’t fit perfectly

You hardly got a chance to look at the instructions but he still made you feel like an essential part of the process

Furniture is assembled perfectly in record time

Xavier 💫

Happy to help you out, starts reading the instructions while you sort the parts

Falls asleep reading the instructions

You take charge, waking him up on step 3 when you need him to hold something. He falls asleep holding it but somehow doesn’t drop it

When you ask for a part he just stares at the pile and picks up random things to offer you until he gets the right one or you point directly at it

Ask for the same part a second time, “Which was it again?”

You attach the last part and turn to high-five him—he’s sleeping again

Rafayel 🎨

“You want to spend time on this weird project instead of hanging out with me?” “This is us hanging out.” “What? But it’s boring. Can’t we, like, get someone else to put it together?”

You start building anyway

When you ask for something specific (“hold this”) he does so without hesitation but keeps complaining

“If I have to hold this board up any longer I’m going to get wrist cramps and then I won’t be able to paint for a week!”

“Ow ow, I think that gave me a splinter! Look at it! It might get infected! I need first aid, like, immediately.”

“This color is boooring, we should paint it later.”

This might be taking longer than if you just built it yourself

Sylus 🚗

“Did you steal this?” “No.” “Then why is it still in pieces?” “It’s how they sell it. It saves money.” “Why didn’t you say something? I’ll take you to a real furniture store.” “I want this exact one though.” “Can’t you pay them to assemble it?”

All you have to say is “I guess you’re not up for the challenge” and then he’s sitting on the floor next to you, also staring at the instructions

You both get confused on the same steps. Which side goes up again? Can you tell by the number of holes? Eventually you both shrug and hope for the best. Sylus brute forces a few pieces that probably don’t actually go together.

You realize you put a piece on backwards three steps ago and Sylus patiently helps you backtrack and fix it

“You’re being surprisingly cooperative.” “I am?” “Yeah, I thought you’d be way more annoyed.” “I never feel annoyed when I’m with you.”

“Where did that piece go?” (Mephisto stole it, it was shiny)

Caleb 🍎

“Hey Pipsqueak, remember when I built that bed for you? Even though you were in high school you still reeeeally wanted a pink one…” “Ugh, stop! It’s embarrassing!”

Takes the bag of pieces and the instruction book right away, uses his gravity Evol to hold up the parts. “Caleb, you took all the jobs! Let me help!” “You can help by getting us some snacks.”

“Caleb, I don’t think that goes there.” “Of course it does, are you really going to doubt the mechanical skills of a former fighter pilot?” Ten minutes later when it’s clear you were right the whole time: “Caleb, you dummy.”

“I switched the delivery notification number in your account over to my phone number since you’re going to need me to build whatever you buy, anyway.”

“You should come over to help me build my furniture too.” “But you didn’t let me help at all!” “Snack duty is very important, Pipsqueak.”

[ha-rinrin]

Home in the Madness

summary: In the heart of a chaotic hideout, surrounded by machinery and unfinished projects, a makeshift family finds comfort in each other.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Authors note: Im feeling real low but writing about Jinx and Isha brings me serotonin.

masterlist

The hideout was as chaotic as ever, filled with the constant hum of machinery and the unmistakable scent of burnt metal. It was the kind of place that could make anyone feel lost in the mess, yet here, in the middle of it all, there was something beautifully grounding about the way you, Jinx, and Isha existed together. The walls were covered in graffiti, the floors cluttered with half-finished projects, but in the midst of the madness, there was a family—an unspoken bond that ran deeper than the wreckage of the world around you.

You sat beside Jinx on the floor, her warm, electric energy radiating off her, drawing you in like a magnet. She was showing Isha how to assemble a small gun, her hands moving with practiced ease, but it wasn’t just the task at hand that made your heart race. It was the way Jinx looked at you when she thought no one was watching, her eyes softening just for a moment before she went back to her usual chaos.

She was yours in a way no one could ever understand—wild, unpredictable, and impossibly charming. You were more than just partners; you were a team, and in this makeshift family you’d created, the love between the two of you was undeniable. Jinx’s playful touches, the way she leaned in just a little closer when explaining something to Isha, the light teasing in her voice—it was all wrapped in layers of affection that only you could truly see. You knew her better than anyone, her quirks, her flaws, her genius, and above all, the love she had for you.

“Okay, kiddo, you see these parts?” Jinx said, her voice playful and energetic as she held up a small metal piece. “This is the trigger guard. We gotta be careful with it, alright? If you mess up, it’s not a ‘boom,’ but it’s still a pop that’s gonna sting.”

Isha nodded seriously, her wide eyes focused on Jinx, hanging on every word. “A pop,” she repeated, her voice almost a whisper as if speaking too loudly might ruin everything. She took the metal piece in her tiny hands and studied it.

You watched her, your heart fluttering as she gently guided Isha’s hands. You couldn't help but smile, loving the way her energy filled the space, making it feel like home.

Isha looked up at you both with wide, eager eyes, clearly trying her best to mirror everything Jinx was doing. “Like this, right?” she asked, holding up the piece of metal like it was the most important thing in the world.

You leaned in, your hand brushing against Jinx’s as you offered a gentle correction, your fingers tracing the outline of Isha’s little hands. “Just a bit to the left, like this,” you murmured, looking at Isha with the kind of softness that only came when you were with them.

Isha's eyes sparkled with determination as she followed your instructions, her little fingers carefully holding the pieces together. She glanced up at you, then over to Jinx, looking for approval.

“Looking good, kid!” Jinx chimed in, leaning closer to inspect Isha’s progress. Her voice was as encouraging as it was teasing. “You’re gonna be the best gunsmith in the Lanes at this rate.”

Isha beamed at the compliment, a proud smile spreading across her face. She tightened her grip on the parts, adjusting them ever so slightly before her hands froze. “Am I doing it right?”

“Perfect,” you reassured her, leaning in to gently guide her hands into place. “You just need a bit more pressure on the side here, like this—”

Just as you finished the sentence, Sevika's low, almost inaudible chuckle broke through the stillness of the room. You glanced up and saw her sprawled across the couch, arms crossed, eyes watching you three with a calm amusement. She didn’t seem to mind the chaos—she had gotten used to it long ago—but you could tell she was enjoying the scene. There was something comforting in seeing the whole family together, in its own disjointed, chaotic way.

“Are you sure teaching her to make guns is safer than bombs?” Sevika’s voice was laced with dry humor, but there was an underlying affection in the way she watched over you all. She didn’t often show it, but her eyes softened whenever she saw you and Jinx together, especially with Isha.

Jinx let out a mischievous giggle, leaning over to poke you in the side. “Hey, I didn’t think Isha needed to make any big explosions just yet.” She shot Sevika a look, her grin wide and full of playful challenge. “Gotta start small, right?”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, giving a half-smile as she pushed herself up from the couch, walking over to where you, Jinx, and Isha were. “You two are going to turn her into a walking arsenal, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jinx replied with mock innocence, but there was a flicker of pride in her voice. “Just showing her the basics. Gotta be prepared, right?”

You’d never imagined a life like this, especially not with Isha—your heart swelled as you realized just how much she had become part of your world. Over the past few months, she'd grown on you, not just as Jinx’s sidekick, but as your little girl. She was smart, fierce, and sweet in ways that surprised you. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t technically your child; she was family, your child. You loved her fiercely, like you loved Jinx.

Isha proudly held up the completed gun, a wide grin on her face. 'I did it!” she declared, her voice full of pride and excitement.

“Perfect!” Jinx cheered, her voice full of pride as she high-fived Isha. You could see the joy in her eyes as she ruffled Isha’s hair, her usual carefree grin softening with an unexpected hint of pride.

You smiled at her, the love for this little girl bubbling in your chest. “You did amazing, Isha,” you said softly, pulling her into a quick hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

Your eyes met Jinx’s for a moment, and there was a softness there, something you hadn’t seen in a while. Without a word, she leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a soft kiss. In that fleeting moment, the world fell away, leaving just the two of you. You could feel her wild affection for you—untamable and pure. She was more than just Jinx, more than the chaos. She was yours, and you were hers. The bond between the two of you had grown so strong, woven through with every shared look, every touch, and every moment spent together, even in the madness.

As she pulled away, her fingers lingered on your hand, her thumb tracing the lines of your palm in a soft, intimate gesture. There was a glimmer of something deeper in her eyes—something that made your heart beat just a little faster, something that said everything without saying a word.

“Love you,” Jinx whispered, her voice quiet but steady. You could feel the weight of those words, how much she meant them. She didn’t need to say it often; you both knew.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice just as soft as you gave her hand a gentle squeeze. 

You leaned back against the wall beside Jinx, your hand instinctively finding hers. In that simple touch, you realized that, amid all the madness, this moment felt like home. There was something so natural about it now, like the two of you were always meant to be here, in this messy hideout, teaching Isha how to make guns. You and Jinx were in love, but it was more than that. It was a deep, unshakeable connection that made everything feel like it had meaning, even in the chaos of the Lanes.

Jinx grinned, her heart clearly swelling with affection for the girl who had become part of the fabric of her world. “She’s gonna be unstoppable,” Jinx said with a laugh, her eyes meeting yours once more, this time with something even deeper than mischief. Something that said, without words, this is home.

Sevika snorted, shaking her head. “Don’t get any ideas, Jinx. I’m not cleaning up after all the disasters you two are going to cause.”

Jinx winked at her, her fingers still intertwined with yours. “No promises,” she teased. But there was warmth in her voice, a depth to it that spoke volumes.

You, Jinx, Isha, and Sevika—somehow, despite everything—had become a family. It wasn’t a traditional one. Hell, it wasn’t even close. But in the chaotic, unpredictable world you all lived in, it was more than enough. And as Isha held the gun frame proudly in her hands, a bright smile lighting up her face, you realized that this—this chaotic, loud, beautiful family—was everything you needed.

[ranger-jahen]

hmmm. this is difficult. but I’ve been reading a lot of post-game discussions in various places, and I think the answer to Selûnite Shadowheart’s final quest is truly that neither of the options are the “best ending.” and it really depends on what you personally take away from the story as being most important; it’s a malleable story, not set in stone either way.

for my games, I will always choose to let Shadowheart make the decision for herself, and yes, this does usually result in her letting her parents go and freeing herself of the Sharran curse. narratively, this is the ending I prefer. I believe rejecting Shar fully and completely requires Shadowheart to be willing to feel the depth of the loss that Shar wants so much for her followers to be afraid of, to be so afraid of that they will willingly turn to her promised oblivion in place of it. living with that grief instead of fleeing from it seems the truest way to defy the goddess who has taken so much from Shadowheart in an attempt to remake her in her own image. by Shadowheart embracing loss, freeing her parents, and freeing herself, she seems to defeat Shar’s influence over her life once and for all, and go on to find herself in the new life of hope that has been opened to her. she even finds herself with the presence of her parents’ guiding moonmotes, meaning that their love is not fully taken from her. this is the ending with the themes I appreciate most, despite its bittersweet tones. I find it reflects my own inner wounds and inner hopes that surround breaking away from abuse and learning to love the version of yourself that was forged during a time of great pain, yet still plodding on towards a better life somewhere down the road, even if it means grieving what might have been taken from you. the idea that grief isn’t the death of spirit, shackles are.

however, I am aware that if you manage to hit a very specific set of circumstances in triggering various memories of Shadowheart’s, there is also a chance that she may choose to save her parents of her own volition rather than to put them to rest. if there was a clear set of goals that led to this outcome, I’d be more inclined to entertain the idea of it being the “right” path, but as it stands, it can be very difficult to find all the right clues, even sometimes depending on whether or not Shadowheart is in your active party in different sections of the map. so unless you either datamine, spend eons studying different forks and party assemblies in the game, or follow meticulous guides pre-written by folks who are likely datamining themselves, this is a “random” outcome. and if it was the objectively “correct” outcome, I do not think it would be left to chance. (and I don’t personally ascribe to the idea that persuading Shadowheart to a specific outcome carries the same connotations as persuading Astarion to a certain outcome; the complex inner workings of the choices presented to the two of them are very different.)

with her parents alive, Shadowheart is much happier in the moment. she can find comfort and togetherness and learn of her past, which means she reclaims many of the things that Shar initially took from her. she does have to deal with Shar’s ongoing torment, but she seems willing to put up with it simply for the joy of getting to have her family together again. for some, the takeaway here is learning to live with chronic pain in order to experience all life has to offer. as a chronic-pain-haver myself, I don’t easily find my way into this interpretation based on some specific details in the story, but I think it’s wrong to say that this can’t be a valid interpretation. if that’s what truly speaks to someone’s heart as their main takeaway from Shadowheart’s journey, then this would be the best ending for them. that’s important, I think. very much so.

I don’t think either interpretation can claim superiority and “correctness” over the other because the themes presented in Shadowheart’s story are so genuinely complex, and the fact that different endings speak to different people seems to be a feature, not a bug. it’s fascinating, honestly, not least of all for the fact that she seems to be one of the only companions without a specific ending that is objectively “better” for her between the two. I’ve read lots of nuanced discussions about all of the companion’s endings, but I think Selûnite Shadowheart’s is truly the most dependent on player experience.

[mareastrorum]

That last episode really wasn’t as interesting as the discourse suggests, and that’s pretty much the problem:

First, Ludinus’s fight was not of the caliber expected for a final boss fight, which (in combination with his staff) suggests that it won’t be the last time we’ll see him. The issue is that the audience is generally quite tired of Ludinus because (1) he has made far too many appearances for a villain with a single-minded goal, (2) his interactions with the PCs are uninteresting because his motivations don't resonate with them in agreement or opposition, and (3) Delilah did the whole “Cerberus Assembly wizard who refuses to stay dead” thing in this very campaign (plus it was far more thematically appropriate for a necromancer) and that takes the dramatic tension out of the possibility. No one cast member bears the blame for those 3 issues; Matt probably should have pivoted to give Ludinus additional motivations when the Hells had so consistently demonstrated an inability to commit to the gods question, and the players should have done something to build a sense of purpose in their group (which would be their reason to oppose the villain). Instead we're left with "this guy has rancid vibes, kill him and do what he wanted us to anyway."

Second, the PCs’ decisions leading up to this point have annihilated any semblance of tragedy in the narrative. This isn’t a tragedy because that genre rests on eliciting a feeling that the characters deserved better, but the audience nevertheless understands why it turned out this way. That can arise from paying attention to institutional injustices, the allure of cycles of violence, or the development of tragic flaws (strengths causing a downfall). That isn't C3; this is a bunch of trite flaws (selfishness, short-sightedness, pettiness, favoritism, etc.) turning out to be flaws. It would have been amazing if this had been an example of hubris like we saw in EXU Calamity, but each of those main characters were bursting with pride in themselves, their city, and mortality, and while that hubris brought the Lord of the Hells back, they managed to prevent the worst case scenario using the exact same skills and resources. None of that is present here. Bell’s Hells are constantly trying to shift the captain’s hat to someone else, and their ship has been heading straight for rocks for the past 60 episodes. There was no intention to sail into the rocks. It wasn’t their strengths that led to Imogen accepting Predathos; it was the same indecisiveness that has plagued them the entire campaign. They had 118 episodes to build a proper tragedy, and instead we have a story that took hundreds of hours to say that unreliable people shouldn’t be relied upon. The result has been numerous posts hoping for the Hells to suffer all sorts of consequences (TPK, specific player deaths, refusal of aid from the gods) for failing to commit to a course of action. Why? Because then at least there would be some type of cathartic satisfaction that Fucking Around means they’re going to Find Out. It has nothing to do with imaginary people deserving a better ending and everything to do with feeling like this ending would have been more satisfying around episode 50.

These criticisms are not about facets within the story; it's not about whether X character was correct, whether Y fucked up, whether Z plan was the better choice. It's that sometimes people don't land their bit for improv shows, and that is disappointing after seeing skilled storytellers do so well with prior campaigns.

[ceilidho]

‘John price with a single mother this’ ‘Simon Riley with a single mother that’

Yeah yeah keep yapping. Now ME? I think we’re seriously undervaluing the sheer perfection that is Johnny fucking MacTavish with a single mother. He’s insufferable. If there’s an opportunity to worm his way into your life permanently, he’s taking it. My brains fixated on newly moved in neighbour reader and Johnny just comes back from being deployed and there’s this pretty woman next door and woah! bonus points! She has a baby!

He’s bouncing off the walls. He’s sick. Almost first thing he does after seeing you come in and out the flats alone a few times is ask if your lad is around. Has to try so hard to pretend to be sympathetic when you say he did a runner when he found you you were pregnant.

He’s actually spectacular with babies. Makes a point of it whenever he sees you with the kid too; always makes her chuckle, goes out of his way to prove that he’s great with kids. Works his way into it, builds a rapport so when you’re called into work for an emergency you just can’t miss the first person you go to for babysitting is Johnny. When you get back, he’s ‘asleep’ on the couch with the baby on his chest and you just don’t have it in you to wake him so you just sit on the other end of the couch and wait. When he does ‘wake up’ it’s a bit late to be kicking him out so you just offer to let him stay night (this becomes a reoccurring theme).

Starts referring to the you and baby as ‘the bairn’ and ‘his lass’ long before he even asks you out. Asked out for drinks? No, sorry. He’s got to go home to his lass and the bairn. Is he busy this weekend? Yeah he’s taking his lass and the bairn to the amusements. Frequently confuses work colleagues and friends alike because when did Johnny have time to A. Get a girl and B. Shag her enough to knock her up???? Will NOT correct anyone who calls him your husband or the baby’s dad, and will actually get upset if you do.

The moment you agree to go out with him he’s micromoving you into his flat (he’s already looking for houses). Has pictures of you and the baby up on his wall in less than an hour of you being his girlfriend. The ‘spare’ crib is already assembled. He’s already picked a ring. He’s insane. He’s in love. He’s known you for like three months. He’s already got the next like two pregnancies planned out (he wants a big family. No he hasn’t asked you yet). Actually kind of deludes himself into forgetting the baby isn’t his biological child. Wdym it’s not his kid it looks exactly like him??? I think he would actually get a little violent if the baby’s father randomly popped up demanding visitation out of the blue. Said baby’s father is not heard from again.

Anyways I’m insane and in love with Johnny MacTavish and his silly deranged ways send tweet

i want you to know that i woke up to get some water in the middle of the night and happened to check my phone and see this and i had to physically hold myself back from answering it at like. 3am.

first of all, i love you. second of all? i love this. i have been repeating "his lass and the bairn" in my head for like five hours now. johnny deluding himself into thinking the baby is actually his? that little gasp you heard was the last little bit of air in my lungs escaping before i expired and died.

there's no way he wouldn't end up saying something batshit crazy like "look at his wee little nose - just like his daddy's huh?" and you'd just be frozen staring at the two of them. maybe your baby's nose does look a little like johnny's but - that doesn't mean - is he just joking or -?

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jamil Viper: A Web, Tangled

Aaand here we go with the Relaxing in Room line of birthday cards :v d ehebkwjw It’s so funny that they chuck pillows to attack??? (By the way, congrats to this Jamil card overloading and crashing the JP server 😂)

For this series of birthday ficlets, I’ll focus on writing each birthday boy preparing to walk to school with the reader (since the duo partner barely appears in the vignettes). Can be read platonically or romantically, whatever you prefer~

Rise and Shine!

You lingered by the doorway, your eyes glued on Jamil.

He was preoccupied with glimpsing himself in a mirror set on a table. Before him were various accessories from a jeweled box. (Judging from the gaudiness of the massive rubies on it, it must have been a gift from Kalim.)

Loose tresses the color of dark chocolate tumbled down his back. When Jamil ran a brush through them, the sun caught and his hair tempered, turning lustrous.

You’d seen him massage his scalp with oil-slicked hands before—and again, he diid it, followed by some sort of a cream. The routine left his head moisturized smelling faintly of jasmine. Jamil never compromised when it came to hair care.

You often had to remind yourself that he was not a princess, entrancing as he was. The sway of his hair, the snap of his steps. Each movement, close to a part in a mysterious dance.

Jamil produced his magical pen. The magestone laid in it was as clear as a cloudless day, and the color of blood that had been left out for a little too long.

Now came the spectacle, the very highlight of your entire morning.

Jamil raised the pen as if he was a conductor waving his baton. A hush fell over an imaginary audience, a collective of breaths held in anticipation. This is it, this is it.

He flicked his wrist, and the magic flowed.

A trail of scarlet light emanated whenever Jamil drew his wand. The accessories laid out on his desk floated up, compelled, in a neat line. A band with a feather dangling from it, narrow golden bangles, flat beads that clinked like coins.

His dark locks lifted, dividing themselves into even sections, then into even smaller ones. They carefully twisted over and under each other, weaving into tight braids. Accessories slid on, effortlessly fitting themselves at his direction.

His intricate hairstyle assembled quickly, as if arranging the pieces of a familiar puzzle.

The red sparkles faded into a fine shimmer and then into nothing at all. As the last traces of magic settled, you bursted into applause.

“Bravo, bravo! Great show as always,” you said appreciatively.

“… That wasn’t a performance,” Jamil corrected as he set his magical pen down.

“It might as well be! It takes some serious skill to pull that off every morning.” You gestured to him. “And so fast!“

“Anyone could accomplish it with enough time and practice.” His words choice was humble, but there was a hint of a smirk in his tone.

A rare moment of triumph for him.

“Not just anyone. I think you’ve got a natural talent for this kind of thing,” you grinned broadly, “like a spider!”

Jamil’s neutral expression splintered, leaving jagged edges exposed. His left eyes twitched, pupils pinpricks.

“Excuse me? In what way do I remind you of a vile bug?”

“Hey, don’t knock spiders! You guys have similar skills. The braids, the webs. You make’m well, all nice and strong. No strands out of place.”

“That doesn’t reassure me,” he groused, a hand on his hip. “I’d prefer if you didn’t compare me to them. It feels wrong.”

Jamil shivered. Not from the cold, but with repulsion.

You gave a laugh—soft against the rising morning sun. “Really? But you’re so alike in other ways too.”

His eyes narrowed into suspicious slivers. Mildly offended, perhaps.

“Elaborate,” he commanded.

“They’re hard working and important but under-appreciated,” you pointed out. “Without spiders, there would actually be a lot more bugs around. We should be more grateful to have spiders’ webs.”

There was a pause, deliberate. Then a gentle prompt.

“… Remind you of anyone?”

Jamil scoffed. It was as loud as a thunderclap in his suddenly cavernous bedroom.

“Maybe.”

Two syllables, clipped. An acknowledgment.

“Jamil-senpai…?”

He hurriedly looked away, staring at the wall for likely longer than what was deemed appropriate. Any more, whether in length or in intensity, and he might have burned a hole in it. His face, hotter than the Scalding Sands.

Your brows shot up. “… Ah. Could it be that you’re feeling embarrassed?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous. Something like this couldn’t possibly ruffle me.”

You craned your body, attempting to meet his gaze. But he wrenched away, denying that to you. “Then why aren’t you looking at me when you say that?”

“I need to get ready for class,” he replied dismissively. “So close the door and wait outside while I change out of my pajamas.”

“Now you’re just changing the subject!”

“Well, we’ll both be running late if we continue to dawdle,” Jamil warned—a tactful evasive maneuver.

His hands found their way onto your arms, steering you into the hallway. You turned back, mouth opening to protest, but Jamil had already sealed himself off.

Banging and calling out to him was no good. Kicking resulted in you gripping onto your poor foot and whimpering. You were left in a sorry state, back to the door as you rested on the floor.

On the other side, Jamil was surely having a little laugh. Cheeks still burning from the praise showered upon him, basking in the afterglow of it.

You sighed.

A spider makes its web to deceive flies into getting stuck in it. Jamil-senpai can be just as tricky.

[wileys-russo]

alessia russo, “how’d you get pizza sauce there??”, cozy night in!!

pizza party II a.russo

"-no, amore no!" your girlfriend protested as she saw what you'd grabbed out from the cupboard. "baby yes, yes!" you cheered happily, the can of pineapple chunks placed down onto the counter.

"thats an insult. you've insulted me, you've insulted the pizza dough, you've insulted the entire country of italy, you've-" alessia started to rant as you rolled your eyes unfazed by her behaviour.

"you're half italian russo, relax." you grinned, rummaging around in the drawer for a can opener. "russo!" your girlfriend gasped in disbelief at the use of her last name.

"you don't call me that. you may call me baby, babe, love of my life, my everything, my love, darling, sweets, angel-" alessia started to list, ticking them off on her fingers as you sighed and shook your head.

"are you done now?" you cut her off with a raised eyebrow, finally finding the can opener and standing up straight again. "no actually i'm not, there's still the italian names." your girlfriend warned as you sighed.

"amore mio, tesoro, vita mia, angelo mio-" the blonde again listed them on her fingers, only stopping when you gave yet another deep sigh. "you get the point. never russo!" the taller girl wagged a finger in warning and bumped you out of the way with her hip, taking the can opener where you were struggling.

"thank you love." you kissed her cheek expecting her to do it for you. "alessia!" you protested as the can opener was dropped back in the drawer, the pineapple then put on a shelf out of your reach as your eyebrows furrowed into an annoyed frown.

"ah! also off limits, try again." the girl made a buzzer noise with her mouth, grabbing out a knife. "why can't i have pineapple on my pizza?" you questioned crossing your arms as she ignored you and you rolled your eyes.

"why can't i have pineapple on mine baby?" you corrected as she looked up with a grin. "much better. and i told you, its an insult!" she bonked you gently on the head with a wrapped stick of pepperoni.

"pizza is supposed to represent diversity, freedom of choice! you can't police what i put on it." you warned as the taller girl shrugged. "alright, go get your pineapple then babe." she smiled slyly knowing full well it was out of your reach.

"you're insufferable." you grumbled with a huff. "you'll thank me when this pizza is the best thing you've ever tasted baby, trust the process and the italian." alessia grinned, shooing you away as you tried to help.

"half italian." you reminded, ducking as she tossed a mushroom slice at you with a frown. "i thought the point of date night was that we cook together!" you laughed, taking a seat at the counter and watching your girlfriend prep everything.

"don't you remember what happened the last time we cooked together?" alessia reminded as your face flushed warm and you buried it in your hands. "it was an accident!" you whined, looking up with a scowl as a cherry tomato hit you in the head.

"stop wasting food!" you tossed it back as she caught it and threw it in the bin. "safe hands." she smirked, blowing on them as if they were alight making you roll your eyes.

"this recipe doesn't even call for pepper! so i would be perfectly fine to help you my love." you smiled hopefully, the last time you'd tried you'd accidentally broken the pepper grinder and caused the entire casing of whole peppercorns to fall into the pasta your girlfriend had spent an hour making.

"you're very cute baby girl but not very convincing." the blonde smiled in amusement, still chopping things as you sighed, the two of you falling into conversation.

"right, come and assemble them." she waved you over once she'd rolled out the dough for the bases and chopped everything up. "are you going to critique my every choice?" you deadpanned as the striker grinned.

"only if its wrong." "well then you can make it for me, save the headache." "headache!" "yes, add that to your list of nicknames babe."

with a wink you left her to it, jogging upstairs to grab some extra blankets and a hoodie given the temperature had dropped significantly tonight and if the dark grey clouds hanging were saying anything rain would be due soon.

"pizza's are in, i'm just gonna clean up tesoro!" you smiled at the nickname, the girl very rarely ever speaking any italian, which you knew was because despite her boasting she hardly knew any.

gathering what you wanted you tossed them down the stairs not fancying tripping yourself over trying to carry them, a few soft thumps sounding as they hit the ground and you made your way after them.

you chuckled hearing alessia on the phone in the kitchen, knowing from the laughter every few seconds that she was talking to ella, only confirmed by the girl in question being put on speaker and singing out hello.

"its date night tooney leave us alone! go bother your boyfriend." the blonde chuckled ignoring her best friends whines that she missed her and joe was out of town with arlo on a boys weekend.

"yep love you love you love you-" alessia repeated as ella rambled on, eventually clicking end call making you laugh as the mancunian was cut off mid sentence right as the timer went.

"prepare to be amazed!" your girlfriend puffed her chest out proudly as you joined her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and hummed, gesturing for her to continue.

slipping on oven mitts she bent down and carefully grabbed out both trays. "less maybe one at a time baby." you warned as she scoffed, one pizza try in each hand and presenting them proudly as you clapped your approval.

everything was seeming fine as she turned to place them down, the air fragrant with the smell of the freshly cooked dough making your stomach rumble, not having eaten for hours now since you'd been running around doing errands all day.

though it all went wrong as your girlfriend tried to flick the oven closed with her foot, missing the door entirely as she kicked at air and lost her footing, your eyes widening as she went tumbling down to the ground, and the pizzas went with her.

"ah fuck!" the footballer swore as one of the hot trays brushed her arm, kicking them both away as she lay down now flat on her back and covered in marinara sauce and various toppings.

"oh my god less! are you alright?" you covered your mouth with your hands, peeking over the counter to take a look at her, an utterly defeated look on the older girls face as she let out a deep and defeated sigh.

"don't." she warned seriously looking up and seeing the corners of your mouth turn upward. but it was far too late as you also fell to the floor, clutching at your stomach and near dying of laughter as your body convulsed with amusement.

a few more beats of time passed before eventually your girlfriends own laughter joined you, the blondes eyes closed as her body shook and you managed to turn onto your stomach, crawling around the counter to where she was.

"oh lessi." you shook your head in disbelief at the sight in front of you, sat up on your knees and staring down with a pitiful smile as her laughter turned to slight giggles and her face was nearly as red as the pizza sauce covering her top.

"i was doing so well!" she groaned with another bark of laughter, covering her face with her arms. "you were doing so well baby, so well." you agreed with a giggle of your own, tugging her arms away as she pouted up at you.

"my cute little pizza." you teased poking at her as she whined and her foot kicked out at you before she sat up with another deep seeded sigh. "i'll get another batch of dough ready." the blonde groaned trying to stand as you shook your head.

"less, my love i adore you and you know i love your cooking. but i am starving and the prep and cooking for those two already took you nearly two hours. if i wait that long i am going to waste away!" you warned making her crack a smile.

"you go have a shower and i'll order us some pizza's to be delivered." you compromised as she made no move to fight you, both of you getting to your feet. "oh no no no! i am not showering again." you stepped back as she tried to draw you into a hug.

"but i need comfort and support right now!" the taller girl protested adorably as you held your ground and shook your head.

"after you shower, my italian stallion." you grinned as she slumped over with a defeated huff. "can we at least get garlic knots?" the striker mumbled as you nodded.

"yeah baby, i'll get you some garlic knots."

when she returned now freshly showered and changed your girlfriend found you curled up in the mountain of blankets and pillows you'd meticulously crafted for the ultimate comfort in the middle of the living room floor.

"hello you big dope." you laughed as she belly flopped on top of you, burying her face in your neck with a grumble back, hugging you tightly as a hand snuck up the back of her top to gently scratch up and down her back.

"less." you held back a smile as she pulled her head out and gave you a look. "how'd you get pizza sauce there?" you laughed, finger swiping behind her ear to collect a dollop of marinara tucked away there.

"i don't know!" the blonde whined flopping back down onto you with a moan of annoyance. "you know i think this takes the cake as being worse than the peppercorns, once we picked them out the pasta was still edible. more so than the floor pizza!" you teased softly.

"alessia!" you squealed as she bit your neck sharply, trying to shrug her away to no avail as her taller form was stretched out comfortably on top of you.

"sorry she's not here right now, try again later."

[wisteria-lodge]

What do you think a wizarding wedding would look like, and what do you think Lucius' and Narcissa's specifically looked like?

The book does show us Fleur and Bill's wedding, but that was a wartime shotgun-ish wedding in the peripherals of the story's focus. I'm also not ever sure how much of the details there are things joanne really thought about and decided to include in her representation of a Magical wedding, and how much of it are just modern social customs she might have considered the forever universal default and put in the book.

Narcissa and Lucius also seem to be the rare fictional couple who'd actually enjoy all the pedantry and tradition and specificities in a wedding to me. Seeing as you're writing a fic with them in it, I thought you'd probably already thought about this aspect of worldbuilding/character writing, so I hope you don't mind me asking abt it. Thanks and have a great day!!

Okay, I love this ask, and I'm going to lay it all out, but first I want to lay out my Reasoning.

Here are my rules, when it comes to expanding on/filling in the Harry Potter world building:

ONE: If we’re dealing with any sort of political or social structure, my reference is England, year 1700. 

This does make sense with the backstory we get: the Wizarding World split away from the Muggle world in the late 1600s, wizards live a really long time, and wizards also didn’t need an industrial revolution (because magic filled the place of tech) so they wouldn’t have gotten any of the social changes that happened because of the industrial revolution. 

Also, this particular time period generally fits with what we see on the page. Education, politics, the police force, mental health care - it all seems to work in a very 1700s way. We don’t have any electricity, there’s no industrialization. (Like, Umbridge’s pamphlets are made by hand. I mean obviously they’re made by magic, but an individual’s magic, they’re not assembled in a magical factory.) So when Draco brings up a “museum”...  it makes sense to me that he’s not not thinking of a modern museum with a ticketing department running off grants and public funding, full of typed-out little plaques written by scientists and historians, telling you the provenance of whatever you’re looking at. If we went to a museum in Wizarding World, I would expect the type of museum you saw in 1700: a cabinet of curiosities assembled by one single wealthy collector, arranged in some eccentric way, handwritten labels or no labels at all, very probably in a wing of a private house. That feels correct and in-universe to me. So… whenever someone asks me something like ‘how do taxes work in the Harry Potter universe,’ I take 1700 England as a starting place, and go from there. 

TWO: If we’re dealing with aesthetic details or inventions, I draw from England 1700 - 1880

There isn’t much that’s Victorian in the world building… but there’s plenty in the set dressing. We see lots of 1800s fashion: women wearing hats with birds and flowers on them, men wearing bowler hats and top hats. There are 1800s hedge mazes, most of the holiday decorations are from the late 1800s, we’ve got radios and trains… and I’m completely fine with all that. It seems to me that if you’re a wizard walking through the Muggle world, it’s a lot easier to see someone wearing a cool hat, and say ‘I would like a hat like that’  - versus walking around and picking up the concept of, idk unions. So cameras are okay: they’re 1800s. Note that Rita Skeeter’s photographer Bozo has a magical version of a 1850s camera

while Muggle born Colin Creevey has… a modded 1930s camera? To communicate that he’s got a foot in both worlds. 

My point is, if you saw someone riding a bicycle in Harry Potter, you would assume they brought it in from the Muggle world. Bicycles showed up in England in the 1880s, so that’s slightly too late. It’s important to the feel of the world to keep up a good chunk of separation between the aesthetics of the Wizarding World, and the aesthetics of the muggle world.

THREE: Gender politics/gendered customs basically don’t exist

This is one of the things that makes Harry Potter a J. K. Rowling fantasy world. Obviously, JKR the person has a lot to unpack about gender politics, and there are all kinds of Doylist differences between the way male and female characters are treated in the Harry Potter books. But in universe, there is no Watsonian benefit to being a guy or being a girl in any particular situation. We get gendered bathrooms (although the prefects’ bathroom and the locker rooms seem co-ed), gendered fashions, gendered dorms… and that’s basically it.  

Of course there are some very old and baked in gendered things I doubt JKR even thought about… a woman taking her husband’s last name for instance. (Honestly - I would have loved a posh doubled-barreled name for Draco. Draco Malfoy-Black sounds quite sharp and public schooly.) There’s a thing where Dumbledore mentions that the Blacks prefer it when a guy inherits… but in the same breath, he’s completely convinced Bellatrix is about to inherit, so clearly that isn’t that important.

The only other example I can think of is the way we’re told the unicorns prefer the female students. But, the boys in Professor Grubbly-Plank’s class unanimously think this is bullshit, and I would argue that the framing of the book supports this read. We haven’t seen magic work like this before, so did Professor G-P get it wrong? And/or just doesn’t want to deal with the boys? Presumably this is why we are happy Hagrid is coming back

FOUR: There is basically no organized religion/spirituality in the Wizarding World. 

The narrative does a lot of work to not tell us who the random officiant at Dumbledore's funeral and Bill and Fleur‘s wedding is. Who is he? Who does he represent? How do you find him? How does he have authority to do this? Not important, doesn’t matter, keep moving along. We are definitely in a world where there is a holiday named Christmas… but it’s like the women taking their husband's name thing, that seems too baked into JKR’s worldview to question. But there is no mention of any religious dimension, it’s just presents and feasts and balls. 

If I’m writing something that’s interested in what these guys consider to be the sacred underpinnings of their world (like something focusing on a wedding, for instance…) then I think I would end up expanding on important magical rituals. I’m thinking Fidelius, Unbreakable Vow, sacrificial magic. Not for nothing, but considering how much importance the moment where Severus and Narcissa make an Unbreakable Vow is given by both the narrative and the characters… it feels more like a wedding than the wedding does, and I’m not even a Severus/Narcissa shipper. 

*

So when it comes to weddings… I’ve honestly found it uniquely difficult to research the history there, because a lot of people are very motivated to suggest that every wedding tradition has some deep, meaningful ancient origin - or that it was just kind of always that way. Take the concept of a “best man” and the term “best man" for instance. That starts showing up in the 1780s (so it’s a social custom that doesn’t make my 1700 deadline.) Harry is of course filtering everything through his POV, but if I were writing a wedding thing, I’d want to say that Sirius is filling a different position. Like “godfather” seems a very legally important role in the wizarding society, so lean into that.  Maybe the “best man” equivalent at a wizard wedding is the person who you’ve picked to get custody of your kids if you die. 

We also see things like white wedding dresses and matching bridesmaid dresses being treated as an absolute given at Fleur’s wedding, when both of those things pretty much only exist because Queen Victoria did them in 1840. One interesting thing is that JKR doesn’t seem to do an exchange of rings, and she’s changed up that moment to make it more reminiscent of (I think) a handfasting ceremony? Which is fine, I can work with that. (Also rings are just treated very negatively across the board in the Harry Potter books. No idea why.)

But, in-universe, the Bill/Fleur wedding is really hard to use as a model for what a typical pureblood Wizarding wedding looks like. For all the reasons Anon mentions: It’s war time, it was put together very quickly, Harry is not paying the most attention, we don’t get to see the whole thing. I would also add in the fact that the Weasleys are political radicals, and at that point especially would be very politically motivated to have a wedding that looks more Muggle. 

Okay.  If I were writing a pureblood wedding… like Lucius and Narcissa’s wedding… what would I do.

First, I don’t think I want a typical wedding from the year 1700. I want 1700 does renaissance/medieval. (Kind of Sir Walter Scott.) I like this because it brings in/explains the Merlin thing - the purebloods all use ‘Merlin’ as an oath, so I guess Merlin (and Arthur, and that kind of romanticized middle ages) is important to them culturally. Also, medieval influences are going to make your wedding feel impressive and established… which is exactly what the Malfoys are after. Make sure everyone knows what an old family they are. All these pureblood families have crests, so put them everywhere, front and center. The decorations should be banners and flags with the crests of everyone attending, no florals.

I also love the idea of fossilized fashions, old-fashioned clothes that don’t come out except during a very ceremonial, traditional occasion. (Think of the ways that veils used to be a pretty normal part of a lady's wardrobe, but now you only see them during weddings.) I’d have it so that during a wizard wedding… all the ladies bring out their long, draping, evil enchantress sleeves and the guys are supposed to wear half-capes and swords. It’s also a good excuse to bring out all the really old family jewelry, of which I am sure the Malfoys have buckets.

I also want this to be a very magical wedding. Like, there are parts of it you straight-up could not participate in as muggle, because I think (sadly) that would be the vibe during the timeline of the main books. Weddings are for showing off, and part of that would be showing off your magical prowess. I’m thinking - light the dance floor on fire before the first dance, and then the couple has to perform a Flame Freezing charm. This tradition started as a screw-you to the Muggles after the witch trials… but now everybody just kinda does it because it looks really cool when the newlyweds dance on a bed of flame. Oh, and we’re definitely doing medieval-style palm-touching dances. No waltzing for the first dance at a traditional Malfoy wedding.

And they’ll go all out for the wedding feast, which will be long. The 1700s and middle ages were both really into food that did stuff - food that transformed, or food that looked like other food, or food that had birds flying out of it. So  just lean into that times a million with magic.

I am also such a sucker for slightly sentient magical houses, and Harry Potter absolutely has some of that, with the way Hogwarts (the building) has various ways to fight back against enemies and infiltrators. So I think a Malfoy wedding would definitely be taking place at Malfoy Manor, and that the house itself would be a part of the proceedings in some way. Like it’s got to accept the new family member (we know, from little moments like Umbridge being barred from Dumbledore‘s office… that sometimes magical buildings just reject you.) Integrating a new person into the new space would be a multi-step process. Maybe there’s a ceremony where they present the new person with the family spell books, and another one where they present them with keys to various parts of the house, etc.

You could tie this in with the idea of a bedding ceremony (which also hits my medieval + 1700s markers.) Maybe the house changes in some way when the couple first sleeps together, like it redecorates with the belongings of the person moving in, or grows them a rose garden or observatory so they feel more at home. I bet it’s fun for the guests to stick around and watch this change happen. (A trope like this might be especially fun in an arranged marriage or marriage-law type story.)

I’m thinking this would also be a very long wedding, and the wedding party is probably staying at the house for a week or so beforehand. That’s part of the flex, the family’s ability to adequately pay host to so many people for such a long period of time. Like that’s what a house like Malfoy Manor is for, there’s a reason those places were functionally small hotels. If at the end my old-school pureblood wedding feels like a modern muggle wedding... I don’t think I’ve done my job. A Muggleborn who’s been invited ought to have culture shock.

And yes. It goes without saying that Lucius and Narcissa would have eaten up all this pomp and circumstance, with a spoon.

[thereweredragonshere]

what headcanons do you have for the riders in a modern au?

Sorry if some of these are a little basic lmao I don't think about modern aus all that much.

They all live in Britain. Sue me. I want some dragons over this side of the atlantic.

Hiccup -

Does digital art

Plays minecraft religiously and can do red stone better than he can do maths

has failed exams due to his pretty much illegible hand writing despite answers being mostly correct

Listens to exclusively 80s/90s music

Lives in a flat above a pub that his dad owns called 'Berk' aka 'Berk's bar' (Which is a whole au that i have and is where i got the name for my discord server from lmao. But these headcanons aren't all specifically from that au. Just general ones.)

Gets bullied quite bad at school. He's taken days off because of it before.

Class presentations are his worst nightmare. Can never get his words out during them and gets very freaked out.

Astrid -

Plays Rugby, Football, does boxing, really name any contact sport and she's probably tried it at some point. Her favourite lesson is P.E. (Physical education/gym class) and she will riot if it gets cancelled for some reason.

'Difficult' student. She struggles with anger management and schools are shit at helping kids with that, so she gets labelled as a problem child cuz she always chats back and gets sent out of classrooms.

Despite being a 'problem' child, she still gets all the shit that needs doing done.

Never shows up to school assemblies. She usually just goes and finds a staircase to sit on.

Divorced parents. She bounces between houses quite a lot.

Spends most of her free time at the gym. Buffstrid canon in modern times too people!!

Snotlout -

Got massively bullied in year 7 and like half way through year 8 he switched the fuck up and became a fucking menace. Bro was NOT playing.

Rides horses. Hookfang is a horse.

Is lowkey fucking amazing at maths but he's scared to put effort into it cuz he thinks he'll get made fun of.

When him and Astrid become friends they actually bond over being the 'problem' kids. Though Astrid is a bit more than Snotlout.

Constantly in corner shops. He loves buying overpriced american sweets.

Fishlegs -

Actually very rarely gets bullied cuz no one knows who the fuck he is (Until the gang all become friends, then people DEFINIATELY know who they all are.)

Loves the three sciences. Even physics. He actively enjoys doing physics.

Kinda not really a teacher's pet. He won't tell on you but he certainly won't partake in whatever it is you're doing on your phone in the middle of a very important english lesson.

Loves shakepeare.

Him and Snotlout (When the gang all become friends) set up one of those stupid cliche 'pay me and I'll do your homework' things in the boys toilets at school. Snotlout did the discreate advertising and Fishlegs did the homework. They split profits 50/50 and they both found it so funny that it actually worked. And then they got busted by the head teacher and that's the first time fishlegs ever got detention.

Ruffnut -

Local school fact file. She can tell you every single detail about the place. Wanna know when that one piece of gum you just accidentally touched was stuck to the table? She'll fucking know.

Giver her £10 and she will eat literally anything.

Actually CAN'T get bullied cuz she just doesn't give a fuck

Very good at english/languages

Has never done homework a day in her life. Never will.

Brings random live animals into school every now and again. Much to the genuine delight of Hiccup.

Drives her parents' car somewhat regularly, despite not being old enough and not having a licence.

Tuffnut -

Can tell you the translation of ANY word into French. This guy is a MACHINE in French lessons.

brings full sized nerf water guns into school.

Chicken is canon. Ruff and Tuff share their bedroom with Chicken.

Never ever sits normally. Always swinging on his chair or sitting cross legged.

Chronic beanie wearer

[silentwalrus1]

Thinking about Kamino cloning primarily as a major planetary economic driver and thus extremely A Business and how that would interact with the clones’ existence as a product and more specifically with the whole thing about Quality Control. The enforcement of interchangeability has significant value in the same way the invention of the assembly line and mass produced components have value to industry, i.e. if one part of a large & complex system stops working, you don’t have to rebuild the entire damn thing, you just replace the part.

In a biologically engineered army, that interchangeability can most advantageously manifest in:

Size (smaller range of equipment, armor, housing etc necessary)

medical compatibility (you only have to stock one blood type, organ and tissue donation availability skyrockets etc)

capability (the more you can crosstrain Jeff A to do Jeff Z’s job, the easier it is to replace Jeff Z if he bites it)

So clones that look different but are otherwise to spec in the prioritized categories would probably be fine, because getting rid of them is a loss of product and thus loss of profit.

Of course, as businesspeople, the Kaminoans want their product to seem more high-end than it actually is. So you don’t want to scrap perfectly good stock, but you DO want to make sure those fucking primates don’t act up and pop the hood on their own shitty dye job while the warranty’s still active.

Cue the Kaminoans issuing hair dye, makeup, shitty 2-dollar cosplay contact lenses etc and a bunch of random mercenaries disinterestedly instructing auditoriums of 400 cadets at a time in how to haphazardly cover up your Manufacturing Defects. Half the Mandos are like “if you want an armor painting seminar i have a fucking PhD but i haven’t taken off my helmet in front of another living person in 20 years, for this we’re pulling up the first fucking makeup tutorial that falls out of Space YouTube”.

It turns out it is much, much easier and more efficient to give clones access to Space Youtube than it is to teach them things yourself.

Cue 5 years later the Jedi roll up for pickup and not only is every single clone perfectly identical, they have achieved this via having every face BEAT, hair COIFFED, skin (tone corrected & colormatched ofc) GLOWING, contoured to the GODS,

[crying-wolves]

🆃🅷🅴 🅰🅽🅸🅼🅰🅻🆂.

(peer mentor!ex-prisoner!vi x masc!prisoner!reader)

PART ONE

synopsis: the consequences of your chaotic past have finally landed you in Piltover's finest Correctional Facility. Too bad you can't even atone for your sins in peace without seeing some very familiar, very unwelcome faces.

cw for part one: prison 😔, only sorta-kinda proofread, lots and lots of cussing, afab reader, masc!reader, reader is kind of a pessimist. and a little mean. she went through a lot. running from the cops, the slightest sliver of sexual tension, MDNI!!!!, discussions of crime, dr*gs, alc*hol, all that fun stuff, backstory exposition, let me know if i missed anything!

a/n: this is gonna be multi-chapter (around 5 parts) because it feels better to me this way! the second chapter will be out before next week! pls enjoy <3

likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated :)

Time. 

Sweet, sticky, oozing, glorious time.

It’s funny. When you were still a kid—

Well, kid is kind of an overstatement, but you were definitely reckless enough to feel like one. Wind in your face, light in your eyes. All that good stuff. Everyone around you said you were just a touch too restless. A little overboard with your idea of fun.

It was almost as if there weren’t enough seconds in a lifetime to get to everything you wanted to do.

And you wanted to do everything. Sex, drugs, booze, petty crime, not-so-petty crime—The list went on and on and on and on, and then it got longer.

And then, quite suddenly, actually, you didn’t feel like such a kid anymore.

Soon, you were well into your twenties.

  a newly-lit angry flame in your chest, 

  a whole lot more restless energy, 

and a shiny court order issued for you to pay for the consequences of your childish actions.

Now, shoved into the corner of four thick stone walls with 58 and a half more months to go, all you have is time. 

  And nothing has ever felt like less of a comfort.

It’s an uncharacteristically humid day when you see her again. The other prisoners are groaning about the busted ACs and barred windows, claiming that they’re being roasted alive every minute they’re forced to spend in these conditions, and if you weren’t so concerned with folding each individual page of a shitty magazine you’d found into jumbo fortune tellers, then you would be right there with them. But, you know, important task at hand and all.

You’re on your 15th glossy sheet when a heavy fist raps against your cell door, startling the plush paper out of your hands, and your contraband scissors clattering to the floor.

 “Fuck…one second!” you hissed out, trying to tape the tiny shears to the bottom of your crackling toilet’s seat. It’s usually the best hiding spot one can find in this overglorified bird cage. The guards who usually commence the daily room checks, Officers Harold and Steb, tend to overlook the rather obvious placement, choosing to believe in the all-forgiving power of ‘feminine rehabilitation’. As long as you bat those pretty eyes and send a half-assed smile over their way, they’ll depart from your space with little trouble, whistling cheerily and trusting in the innate goodness of women who are simply ‘down on their luck’.

If they found out about half the shit the other inmates were smuggling in, whether it be hidden under porcelain seats or shoved up some secret orifice, they’d have a serious bitchfit.

The door swings open after a great deal of hustling and bustling on your end. Flashlights and clickers bombard your senses like noisy fireflies, and for some reason, Harold is grinning at you like he’s won the lottery five times over.

  “There is a very special assembly being held today for you C-block girls. Report to the East chapel in 30 minutes! You don’t wanna miss it!”

He’s always excited about things like this. Fundraisers, kickball, bonding activities. Whatever gets the girls together, possibly even enjoying themselves for an hour or two, lights his wrinkled little face up like a Christmas tree. It’s hard, you admit, not to find his hopefulness endearing. Sometimes, at least.

You bare your teeth sweetly, corners of the mouth pointing upwards as politely as can be managed.

“Sounds like a whole lotta fun, sir, but I was planning on a cozy day in, you know? Window watching…ceiling observing. Can’t put those off.”

  He pouts, actually pouts, at your negative response. For a moment, you think Steb is going to have to talk him down from crying.

  “Oh nonsense! Nonsense!” he exclaims, waving his pudgy hands in the air to ease himself. “We’ve set up fans and opened alllll of the windows. It’ll be a great big treat Besides, inmate, it would be rude when our special guest has come alllll this way just to speak to you lot!”

He turns on his heel away from you, motions for Steb to follow in step into the hallway.

  “30 minutes! Nothing more, inmates!”

The door slams shut, leaving you to stew in frustration without the prying eyes of happy-go-lucky correctional officers.

You wonder, for a brief moment, if there’s enough time to grab the scissors from your hiding place and offer it up to Harold for a one-way ticket to solitary confinement, but you decide against it. Who knows what this special assembly will bring out of the other women?

A full 47 minutes pass by before you find yourself in the East chapel, Officer Harold clicking his teeth in disappointment at your tardiness. But when that sweet breeze of electric fans and breathable air hit you in the face, you wish you had arrived sooner. Especially when your eyes fall on the last available seat: one smack-down in the middle of the front row. Of course.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your dark blue jumpsuit, settling into the surprisingly comfortable flip-out chair that’s a hair’s breadth away from the altar. Every single person seems to be talking over each other, new voices add themselves sporadically into the mix, gossiping excitedly about the same old things that always happen in this place.

  “Did’ya hear Nolan’s getting out on good behavior next week? what a fuckin’ kissass? I’d break her face if it didn't mean God knows how long in the hole…”

  “You’ll never guess who I saw sucking face with a guard while waiting in the commissary line. Some of these girls’ll do anything for a freebie, I swear…"

It almost reminds you of a high school cafeteria. Nothing but low jabs and cruel chatter.

“Apparently, they flew her in from Zaun…she’s this ex-convict who got out of a murder charge ‘cause the judge says she’s got ‘good character’ or something. Can you believe it! I’ve got fan-tas-tic character and I’m still stuck in this hell for another 40 years…”

  That certainly peaks your attention…

  …because there aren’t many people, especially, many people from the Undercity of all places, who go before the hallowed Piltover court with a charge like that and just get to walk free.

And considering the fact that you were born and raised in Zaun, growing up with kids who had also spent their free time chasing the next new thrill until ultimately getting caught, it may not be a stretch to say that you could, possibly, recognize this speaker.

It isn’t until you catch a flash of electric pink hair, a silver sparkle atop thick raised eyebrows that your heart drops to your ass.

  Violet fuckin’ Lanes. 

In all her flesh and glory.

Janna, even the way she struts to the podium pisses you off.

Her boots hit the ground like some magic megaphone, somehow commanding the attention of each and every eye in the room. The inmates stare, like wild animals trailing a new addition to an already tight knit pack. It’s different, though. There’s none of the whistling or lewd comments that usually accompany the arrival of a new prisoner, but the captivated silence that falls over the crowd when she smirks their way makes you wish she was in uniform like everyone else was.

Some regard her with disdain, invisible daggers shooting from their eyes right between her charmingly crooked smile. Others are practically leaning into the spinning fans that litter the scenery, trying to catch themselves from swooning so openly in front of her.

You can’t say either reaction is unexpected. You two do have a particularly troubled connection, after all.

Violet had introduced herself to you as ‘Vi’ after some enforcers shut down a crazy house party you were both attending. Bottles were being thrown all over the place, people had been dragged out by their arms and legs. You took this as a sign to get the fuck outta dodge.

When the pink-haired girl had caught up to you, pretty easily, you might add, she was already talking your ear off. Inviting you to a different party just a few blocks away, asking if the dying cigarette hanging from your lips was up for grabs, listing off every situation in which she’s had to book it to keep from getting locked up (this was the 6th time in the last three weeks), all without faltering in speed or running out of breath. It was impressive, for sure.

She led you straight to that party she was gabbing about. Some stuffy abandoned warehouse spinning with heavy smoke and even heavier music. Vi hauled you into the center of the heady disarray and pulled you in as close as she could.

  “Dancing’s always more fun when your eardrums are about to pop right out of your skull.” she’d told you.

And you smiled at her. Honest full-face-grin beamed at her, because, Gods, where has she been all your life, and why is she only coming into it now?

So, of course, you danced with her all night. It ended up being the most fun you’d had in a really long time. You could tell she wanted to keep your attention all for herself, what with the way she wouldn’t let you out of her sight for longer than ten seconds (even when she challenged you to keg stand contest, and lost her focus because she couldn’t keep her eyes on her own barrel for the life of her), but you didn’t mind so much. She kept laughing and spinning you in circles and dragging you around like she was leashed to your wrist, but you didn’t find it the least bit annoying.

When the warehouse began to empty and the music dimmed to a shivering whisper, Vi brought you to the roof just in time for sunrise. The way the warm spots of heat kissed your features rebirthed a sort of softness in your heart, and you showed it by wrapping an arm around Vi’s shoulders in a contented squeeze.

  “You’re…something else, you know that?” you’d crooned to her, still addled and woozy from the flask in your hand and the—well, copious amounts of everything still settling in your system.

Vi trailed her gaze up to the curve of your neck, taking in the position of your head, memorizing the drops of alcohol as they ran down the corners of your mouth. You were downing cheap, warm beer like parched wolf, and for some reason, her head swirled with envy at the sight of it.

In a flash of a moment, she ripped it from your lips, and toppled you over so hard you started spitting up the bitter liquid.

  “Hey! The fuck was that f–”

She straddled you, trapping your thighs between her own in a tight embrace. pressed a harsh kiss to your temple to apologize, the madwoman.

When you looked back up at her, she tilted her head at your form like a curious pantheress, like she wanted to know how you felt squirming between her teeth.

“What are you doing this weekend?” she inquired, like her hips weren’t crushing yours into the impenetrable concrete.

You blinked several times at her.

  “I–I dunno! …What are you doing this weekend?”

That got her grin back. She rewarded you by shifting her weight off of yours, and stretching out next to your heaving frame with a thoughtful hum.

  “Come up Topside with me. I can show you all the best spots, we can get into some real trouble up there…”

  A stunned laugh loosened itself from your throat. No one’s ever caught you off guard this much in such a short amount of time, so you punched her in the arm to regain some iota of surprise back.

“What happens if we get caught, smartass? We’re not exactly piltie princesses over here.”

She rubbed her sore bicep slowly, shrugging as if she’s made of rock-hard diamond. From what you’ve seen of her, it doesn’t seem like an outlandish assumption.

  “Oh, please…”, she muttered, ultramarine eyes boring into your foggy glare.

 

“You really think they’re gonna be able to catch us?”

It’s been almost seven years since she said that to you, on that hushed, rumbling morning, 

  and you regret ever listening to a single word she ever uttered in your direction.

taglist: @baylegend6

[jackdaw-and-hattrick]

My understanding of the Bats as pertaining to parenting (correct me if wrong):

Dick: wants kids, eventually, maybe (yes, but indecisive. Would almost definitely be a spur of the moment or surprise thing)

- good parent, though desperately in need of someone who can be “the bad guy”

- feels he’s assembling an airplane mid flight the entire time

- very likely that his kid will grow up feeling like they can do anything. An-y-thing

Jason: very loud about not wanting kids (constantly a few seconds from kidnapping another new orphan)

-excellent parent. Could parent his way through a manic breakdown while off his meds. Everyone kinda assumes he’ll fall apart around the teenage years but is shockingly good (he learned from Sasha and is dedicated to not making the same mistakes)

-tends towards overprotectiveness, especially when the kid’s small. Terrified to death of turning out like either (any?) of his parents. Yells at his kid once (1) while mad and nearly starts crying about it.

- kid will most likely have lifetime issues with money (over cautious) and risk of codependency

Cass: no specific plans either way. Would be a killer auntie but also kinda likes the idea of doing it right this time.

- absolutely a “mama bear”. A quiet, deadly mama bear. Both deeply wants her kid to be able to explore freely but equally yearns to protect them. Nonetheless, deeply compassionate and caring.

- her child will either be 1) extremely confident, or 2) relatively shy and anxious. Possibly both. Most likely feels a similar struggle connecting to peers.

Tim: not really into the idea of being a parent. Likes babies but older kids are not really his thing. (Keep trying to kill him) If he ended up becoming a parent anyhow he’d most likely freak out but get his shit together. Possibly after some light slapping.

- at the biggest risk of being a “bad parent”, primarily out of a combination of having no idea how much attention a child needs, not wanting to turn out like his own parents, general emotional awkwardness, and an overconsumption of parenting books all giving conflicting information. Desperately needs a support, and luckily has it.

- Ultimately would do pretty good for himself. Kid would probably struggle to feel connected to him in a meaningful way. Know they’re loved but don’t know if they really KNOW their dad.

Steph (sorry man nothing here. No plans to become a parent any time soon. Probably would feel guilty that she had to give away one kid but kept the other if she did have one and that would be a terrible thing the bear)

Duke (honestly I don’t know man. Don’t even have a round about guess. Feel kinda bad about that :()

Damien: coin flip. On the one hand, would do well as a dad. On the other, would probably feel ill equipped to shape a whole person’s emotional state.

- Caring. Quiet. Probably moves to a ranch when he’s older. Instills a strong sense of confidence and responsibility. Has to personally force himself to be affectionate because he knows how much it meant to him as a kid even though he couldn’t see it.

-Their relationship would be absolute HELL through the teen years. ( “YOU DONT UNDERSTAND ME!!!” “TRUST ME, I DO. THERE WAS NO BIGGER EDGELORD. ITS EMBARRASSING. IN A COUPLE YEARS YOU WILL BE EMBARRASSED. GO TAKE A NAP AND TALK TO PEOPLE)