#and therefore Not A Very Good Time To Be Writing Descriptions

[houseofhyde]

tear you down, wear you out.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. post-thunderbolts. synopsis. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request. warnings. smut ( switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here! ) bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the thunderbolts* reader inclusivity. some implications of the reader being shorter/smaller than bucky, reader has a specific fear + a specific scar. word count. 14.3k hyde’s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)

Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.

In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.

It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational. 

“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”

Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of  Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.

“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.

“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane.  “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”

No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.

“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”

“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”

Bucky wants to disobey.

He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.

It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.

Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.

“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”

“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”

His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.

“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”

“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.

He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”

“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.

“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.

The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.

A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.

“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”

If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.

For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.

“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.

“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”

Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.

“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”

“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”

“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.

“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.

Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.

The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…

“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.

As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”

Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.

What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.

Instinct commands him to reach for two things.

First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.

A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.

And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.

“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.

Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.

Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.

There, that’s what it is.

Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.

He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.

His right palm is growing sweaty.

“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”

“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.

“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.

You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.

“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.

“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”

Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.

“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.

Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.

“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.

“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”

“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”

“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.

Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.

“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”

Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.

Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.

In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.

“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”

“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”

His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”

The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.

“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”

Five weeks pass before the call arrives.

On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.

On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.

The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.

“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”

“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”

They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.

“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.

“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.

Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.

“And you’re being reckless!”

“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”

The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.

A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.

Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.

After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.

An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.

From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.

“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”

“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”

The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted. 

“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.

“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”

One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.

But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.

Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.

“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”

“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”

“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”

Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.

Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.

The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.

“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”

“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”

“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”

“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.

“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”

Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.

At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.

“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.

“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”

“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.

The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.

Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.

Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.

Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious  — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.

For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.

If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.

Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.

It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.

You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.

“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”

Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.

After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”

“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”

“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”

To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.

“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”

“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”

“Oh, so you notice things now?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.

There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.

“Like what? This is just my voice.”

“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”

It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.

Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?

A throat clears itself over the comms.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.

There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.

“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”

“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”

The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.

The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.

The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.

“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.

“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”

“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”

A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”

“For once.”

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.

Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.

A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.

Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.

“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”

“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.

For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?

You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”

A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.

He doesn’t get to make a single wish.

All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.

With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.

“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”

“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.

“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.

“James.”

“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.

Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.

“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”

“Bucky!”

The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.

Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.

“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.

“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”

“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”

“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”

The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.

“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”

“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin. 

“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”

A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.

Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.

The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.

“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.

“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”

“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.

The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.

“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”

Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.

“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.

Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.

The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.

“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”

Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.

Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.

You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.

Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.

Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.

What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.

One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.

Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.

Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.

Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.

“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”

“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”

“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”

He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.

The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.

Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.

You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.

“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”

“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”

An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.

“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”

You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.

“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”

“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”

“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”

There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.

“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”

A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.

“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.

“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”

The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.

A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”

“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”

Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.

Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.

You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.

“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.

The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.

But you like to play dirty.

A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.

Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.

“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”

A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline. 

“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”

His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.

Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.

“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”

The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.

“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”

Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.

Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.

That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.

“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”

Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.

You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.

“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.

“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”

The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.

“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.

Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.

“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”

The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.

No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.

“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”

When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.

Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.

Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.

You must be a dream.

“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.

And, oh, does he watch.

Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.

“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.

The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.

You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.

It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.

“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”

“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.

Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.

“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.

“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”

“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.

You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.

Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.

Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.

“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.

Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.

The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.

“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”

Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.

“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”

“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.

“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”

The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.

So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.

“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”

Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.

Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.

The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.

His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.

“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”

His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.

“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”

You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.

“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”

That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.

In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.

Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.

“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.

“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.

You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.

One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.

“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”

“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.

“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”

“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.

“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”

The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.

You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.

His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.

Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.

“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”

A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.

One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.

“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”

Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.

That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.

The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.

“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”

“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.

He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on. 

Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.

“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”

He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”

“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”

“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”

He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.

You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.

Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.

One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.

“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”

“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.

He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.

“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”

“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.

“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”

“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.

Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.

And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.

When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.

Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.

“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”

The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.

Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.

Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.

More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.

Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.

“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”

Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.

The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.

“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”

“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”

The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.

“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.

“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?” 

“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”

“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”

“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.

“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”

He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.

The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.

“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.

“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”

“Your heartbeat.”

+ extra hyde.

· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic) · besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous. · dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍‍♂️ · anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3 · lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;

[anistarrose]

I'd like to propose a dark horse candidate for the most interesting line in The Book of Bill. And it's this near-unreadable, seemingly one-off joke from the "Skin" page:

[ID: tiny text reading: "Help! This is not Bill Cipher. My name is Grebley Hemberdreck of Zimtrex 5. I'm one of thousands of beings Bill has devoured over trillions of years whose souls are now trapped inside him. You have to free me! It's horrible in here. He just keeps playing the song "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark on an endless loop. Please, please, this is not a joke! The Zimtrexians were once a proud and mighty people, but now our spirits long for release from this..." End ID.]

Okay, so Bill devours souls who then live out a horrible existence inside him. That's just some typical and expected Bill behavior, right? Nothing to be shocked by? Maybe not, but one thing jumps out at me... and of all things, it's the way that Bill keeps playing that Beach Boys parody (correction provided by @fexalted: no, not in fact a Smiley Smile parody, but a real song!) on loop.

Because in The Book of Bill, there's a recurring motif of characters playing music for a very specific reason: to repel an unwanted presence inside their head. This is what Elias Inkwell, and later Ford, did with the "It's A Small World" parody — they tried to keep Bill out of their brains. Or, metaphorically... to drown out his voice.

[ID: a Journal 3 page with a cassette taped inside. It's titled: "The World Is Small Ever After for Always." Ford writes: "If it's war you want, it's war you'll get! If you want to torture me? I'll torture you back!" End ID.]

That doesn't necessarily mean that Bill finds the voices of devoured souls to be troubling, let alone downright haunting, does it? Well... not quite on its own. But there's a "color" code on the page about TV static that says a lot:

[ID: a code consisting of colorful squares, translated to letters that spell out: "he never sleeps he never dreams but somehow still he hears their screams." End ID] (screenshot courtesy of @fexiled)

The context of the page implies these "screams" come to Bill especially when he listens to TV static, and the broader context of the book implies that these are the screams of his destroyed home dimension, Euclydia. Therefore, not necessarily those of the souls he devoured, from Zimtrex 5 and possibly other dimensions.

Except... do those two things really have to be mutually exclusive?

The beings that Bill devoured were accumulated over "trillions" of years, plural, according to Grebley. In Weirdmageddon 1, Bill claims to have resided in the Nightmare Realm for precisely "one trillion" years. So the "devouring" habit probably extends back even further than his time in the Nightmare Realm...

Enter @acetyzias, pointing out a very conspicuous word — and one of the only uncensored words — from Bill's description of destroying his home dimension:

[ID: the word "mandibles". End ID.]

Oh, and how does Bill describe the "monster" that destroyed his home to Ford, when Ford asks about revenge?

[ID: Journal excerpt reading: "Sixer, it would eat you alive." End ID.]

For a long time, Bill's destruction of his home has been associated with fire, even when the story's told by Bill himself. But through the way the book characterizes Bill's guilt — and characterizes how the consequences of what he's done remain lurking deep inside him — I think The Book of Bill lays out the hints for another motif: devouring.

And, well, when it comes to how Bill destroys things... it wouldn't be without precedent.

[ID: screenshot of Bill in Weirdmageddon 3, taking a bite out of the Earth. End ID.]

[moonydustx]

Hey!

I loved your story about the one piece boys and pregnant reader so much! Could you pretty pretty please write something to Law and Kid with the same plot? If you want, of course, and when you have time <3

Loved your writting, really!

hey hey! It took a while, but I arrived with your request :) In fact, as we already have Law's version, I brought the second part of that story. I really rlly hope you like it and thank you very much for all your support and requests <3

one piece masterlist

Warnings are place individually in each story.

*in both we have a brief smut (there are no descriptions or explicit content). Please stay alert and of course, minors do not interact.

Eustass Kid

warnings: Kid alone is a big warning. Brief mention of smut at the beginning, use of safe words, violence. But as always in this series, fluff with a happy ending. Killer is mentioned a lot in this one because, for me, there is no Kid without Killer and also the opposite (they are so good, I love this duo)

Your legs hung on his shoulders, the sweat between the two of you mixing each time he thrust deeper into you. Kid's grunts filled the entire void in the room, however, your mind wasn't there. It was more precisely under your bed, in a small box of things that you didn't use that often and therefore, it was the perfect hiding place.

"My fucking good girl, taking me so good." his teeth found the side of your leg, biting not so gently.

"Kid." you tried to stop him, it wasn't so good to have him there when your own mind couldn't even be there.

"You fucking needy, huh? I'm going to fill you up, make you stuffed with…"

"Red… Kid, please red." the safe word reached Kid's ears and immediately your legs found the bed back, his head almost hanging trying to understand what had happened.

For a brief second, the only thing the two of you were able to do was stare at each other. Him, waiting for you to explain what had happened while you - or at least a scared part within you - waited for an angry version of him.

"Did I hurt you? What happened?" he tried to reach you, but you were already sitting up and shrinking between the sheets. "Do you need me to ask for help? Do you want me to get out of here?" You had never reached the point of needing to stop the act like this, still, such kindness and concern were the last things you expected to receive from your boyfriend. You expected maybe a little silence, or him asking something like why you stopped. In fact, it was a somewhat different situation for both of them.

"Can you get my clothes, please?" you asked and watched him do it immediately.

As you got dressed, you watched Kid do the same, but he always took a few seconds to look at you, making sure you were okay. As soon as the last piece of clothing found your body, you reached under the bed and pulled out the tests hidden there. It didn't take long for the bed next to you to sink.

"I'm sorry I stopped you like that." you asked, staring at the tests and avoiding your boyfriend's eyes. "But we have to talk. I can barely look you in the face and hide this from you."

"What is that?"

"Pregnancy tests." you passed it to him, your eyes still locked on the ground below you. "All positive, Tass, I'm pregnant."

The silence in the room seemed to last forever. Enough eternity for you to think that maybe Kid was plotting a way to get you out of there. It wasn't until his laugh reached you that you could look at him. One hand holding the tests steady and the other covering his own face, while he laughed.

"I do not believe that." he said through laughter, standing up. "I'm going to be a dad, can you believe that? I need to tell the guys."

"Kid?" You stood up and watched him leave the room euphorically.

Before you could get caught up in fear and insecurity or before Kid had even had time to cross the hallway, you saw him coming back through the door. The arms - the arm and the metal prosthesis in this case - lifted you from the ground, covering your lips with his red ones.

"I love you so much." he stole a few more kisses, while you were still trying to process what was happening. "I love you! You're going to be a mom and I'm going to be a dad. Isn't that great? A little brat of ours?"

"Serious?" your excited voice was already joining his, a huge weight lifted from your shoulders.

"Come on, we need to celebrate."

If you didn't expect Kid to accept the pregnancy so easily, you expected even less to become a little puppet to reassure him. It didn't take long for the others to realize how much the captain was even more attached to you. Taking you out of activities, always leaving someone on your trail - which most of the time was himself. Killer was the first to realize he could use this to the entire crew's advantage.

You watched Kid shout something almost intelligible to other companions, the only thing you could point out was that his mood wasn't the best at the moment.

"Excuse me." Killer's voice startled you, appearing behind you. "Can you lend me your and the baby's presence?"

"What do you mean lend?" Instead of answering you, he guided you by his shoulders until he stopped you next to Kid. Sneaking up behind the two of you, Killer managed to leave you almost glued to the captain and it was only seconds before he threw one of his arms around you.

"I didn't see you arrive darling, how are you?" different from the shouts you heard, Kid said in a much calmer voice.

"I am great, what about you?"

"Just sorting some things out." he answered you and then turned to the others. "That's it, we need to catch that idiot and solve this problem once and for all." it was like watching another Kid talk, without shouting or rudeness.

The next time, all it took was an indication from Kid's first mate for you to end up next to the captain, or on his lap, or making some minimal physical contact. It was as if Kid's hard shell melted with your every touch. When the baby started to appear more in your womb, it became even worse. It was like your belly was his little stress ball, but seeing him calm was something you wouldn't complain about.

You wish you could go back to the past and understand what Kid's arrival into the world was like. After all, the arrival of your baby was being turbulent. A huge storm was shaking the ship, practically no doctors on board or supplies and a baby who decided to arrive a few days ahead of schedule. You could only think if when your boyfriend arrived into the world, it was the same way. With one last scream and almost tearing off Kid's remaining hand, little Vicky came into the world. Reddish hair and a cry as imposing as the screams and orders that the girl's own father always gave.

"A little girl, Kid." you spoke in a low tone, placing her in your arms. Next to you, you watched your boyfriend, still perplexed by everything he had seen. "Our little girl."

“I-I…” Uncharacteristically, you saw the words trail out of his mouth, lost in some ecstasy you had never seen. "She's so tiny, so fragile… so beautiful." the last part was nothing more than a small whisper.

"Do you want to hold her?" your question seemed to pull him back to reality, fear appeared on Kid's face, making it easier for you to understand what was stopping him. "I will help you."

"Are you sure, I mean…" he began, eyes going straight to the metal arm. "Won't it hurt?"

"Let me help you."

Holding the baby in one of your arms, you took the sheet next to you and folded it in parts, forming a small padded rectangle. When you handed it to Kid he immediately placed it against the metal arm and sat on the edge of the bed, next to you. Carefully, you placed the girl in his arm and watched him.

For a while, you saw Kid just analyzing, attentive eyes roaming over the newborn baby. Soon, a smile adorned his red lips and the hand - the one that originally belonged to him - touched the girl's cheek and soon allowed her little fingers to attach themselves to just one of his fingers.

"You look like a doll. A perfect little doll." he said without even taking his eyes off the child.

You didn't need much to know that the minutes he spent in silence, just contemplating the girl were actually filled with promises, in an almost mental transmission between the two. Something that maybe one day, you would discover what it was.

"I promise to take care of you forever, buddy. And I promise to be your friend too, well, they say parents should be friends with their children and I want to be your friend. Your mother will also be a great friend and you will love everyone and of course, they'll be drooling over you… Wow! You're beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing your mother and I could have done."

With each passing day, Vicky became even more like her father. You thought the similarities would only be in the reddish hair. When you least expected it, she was already walking up and down with him, spending hours in the workshop and bringing back some crazy inventions that she and Kid had wasted hours making. As a result, she became a shadow of Killer too - according to Vicky, she was his best friend, just like he and his father were. It was when she said she was going to make a metal arm that you and Kid - begrudgingly - had to stop her. Maybe she shouldn't look so much like her own father.

The clock already indicated that lunch time had passed hours ago and you hadn't seen any sign of the two red hairs that completed your existence. After gutting the ship, you found the two of them piled up in your room. Next to them, some of your and Kid's makeup. The typical red color of his lips had been replaced by pink, along with some glitter-filled blue eyeliner.

"What's going on here?" you closed the bedroom door, trying to avoid laughing when Vicky turned to you and you saw her wearing a much more chaotic version of the makeup on Kid's face.

"Daddy said I could get him some makeup. He'll look really nice."

"See, love? I'm going to be the handsome one in this relationship." this time it was almost inevitable not to laugh. "I think your mommy wants to put on some makeup too."

"Can we save this for later? It's lunch time." you warned and saw that they both remained standing still, a pretentious smile on each of their faces.

"Just today, mommy, pleeeease." Vicky asked, with bright eyes in your direction.

"Yeah, just today mommy." Kid repeated in a much more cynical tone, patting the ground next to him. "Sit here."

Without complaining - not that you had much room for it when those two asked you for something - you sat down next to Kid and Vicky immediately jumped into your lap. Her colorful fingers were responsible for part of the makeup, while Kid took advantage of the opportunity to paint you awkwardly too, exchanging ideas with his daughter.

As with all other things, Vicky had also inherited Kid's sense of fighting. A small part of him had become more cautious after the girl became part of the cew, a small part. This did not prevent him from retaliating against any threat of attack on his group.

When you heard the sound of gunfire in the distance, you knew something was wrong. The screams coming from the direction of the ship caught your and Killer's attention, who had disembarked in search of useful information for your journey. Almost connectedly, the two of you started running back to the ship, one thing on your mind.

Upon reaching Victoria Punk, you saw that most of the fight had been resolved - and thank whatever kind of god you could thank, almost all of it was enemies arranged on the ground. Your eyes, however, couldn't find the person you were looking for most.

"Where's Vicky?" Your scream attracted the attentive looks of your companions. Your eyes immediately searched for Kid's, who understood your concern.

"I want everyone hunting my daughter on this boat now!" Kid shouted and everyone immediately started circling Victoria Punk.

"Kid, what if…"

"They wouldn't leave here with her." he reassured you before you could even bring up your concerns. "They didn't leave here with her." he repeated, but this time it just sounded like he wanted to believe the words he had said.

"I found her!" you barely had time to recognize the voice that called you when you took off running in the direction of what you had heard.

If you looked to the side, you would find Kid and a few other companions running to the same place, almost as worried as you were.

"This was already here when I arrived." Heat warned as you were the first to enter the small room.

Vicky was standing next to him, one hand holding her wrist. Behind her, two bodies piled up, grunting in pain.

"What happened, my dear?" you leaned down to look her in the eyes. Relief hit you when you saw that in her expression, there was nothing but tranquility.

"My redhead" Kid bent down next to you, unlike the gentleness you had used, he already bent down checking every inch of the girl. The air in the room almost dissolved when he located the slightly marked fist. "What happened?"

"They said I would be a good bargain." She spoke with a smile, intriguing you both. "And then I did what Uncle Killer taught."

"What did he teach you?" You looked between her and the man who had just arrived.

"Knees, private parts, eyes and private parts again." she simulated the blows. "Oh, that one held me." she pointed to one of the fallen men. "And then I remembered private parts again." she simulated another kick.

The silence that followed was soon infected by Killer's loud - and genuine - laughter, soon followed by Vicky and Kid. Surely the two were already teaching the girl how to defend herself and this time, you were relieved that you hadn't won the argument with Kid when they brought up the subject the first time.

"You're awesome, baby." Kid squeezed her in a crushing hug, watching his daughter groan and try to free herself. As soon as he released the girl, Vicky lay on his shoulder. "What is wrong?"

"I'm just a little tired." she explained and he nodded, before making the decision.

"What do you think, you and your mommy go ahead and I'll find you two soon. We can rest for the rest of the day." he proposed and felt her nod.

"Actually… Killer, can you take her?" you stood up and saw Kid do the same, the girl tied to him "I have a few things to take care of, but I'll catch up with you soon."

"Leave it to me!" Killer promptly bent down and turned his back, giving the girl space and height to jump on his shoulders. "Ready?"

"Uncle Kill, instead of resting, can we make hot chocolate?" "Yes" "With marshmallows?" "For sure." "And chocolate balls?" "Your mother is going to kill me… but yes!"

Their voices began to become increasingly distant, as did the small murmur of the other companions. Once you and Kid were alone, a simple exchange of glances was enough for him to understand what you meant. Passing through the space he gave you, you bent down and picked up the man who Vicky had directly pointed out as the main cause of trouble for her.

"Hello dear bastard." with fake care, you patted his shoulder a few times. "Ready to say what you want to my daughter?"

"That stupid brat" your fist found his face, sinking him into the ground again.

"Wrong answer. Shall we go again?"

Kid watched the scene with a sadistic smile on his lips and one foot on top of the other man, preventing him from interfering in his activities. If they messed with him, that was fine, but it was better if they didn't mess with his girls.

Law - Part 2

you can see part 01 here

warnings: a little bit angst, a looot of fluff. mentions of common pregnancy problems (such as nausea, dizziness). At first, a jealous and insecure Rosi with the appearance of a brother or sister, but spoiler alert, they become best friends. And again, Law is such a great dad. Mention of the Straw Hats (mentions of Robin x Franky), brief discussions, but as always, a happy ending, very brief smut at the end (again, nothing explicit) (I should have taken a little more time to write this second part more carefully).

When the news reached Rosi about her being promoted to big sister, you and Law could see the girl filled with doubts. What do you mean big sister? When would this sibiling arrive? Why would arrive? Her critical and curious sense were directly derived from Law and you couldn't find it more adorable. It was like watching two versions of him - at different ages and heights - arguing. Law trying to explain how a sibiling would reach you and Rosi with questions and more questions that left him in a tight spot to explain how babies were made.

For the first week, everything seemed to go well. Despite the barrage of questions, you could both see the girl being genuinely curious and excited for the arrival of another member of the family. You saw the happy questions turn into a more serious doubt the first time she saw you feeling sick, being helped by Bepo. The second time, she followed you and Law into the bathroom, opening the door and seeing him holding you while you were leaning over the toilet.

"Mommy?" the thin voice, no louder than a whisper reached you both, immediately, you tried to demonstrate the best expression possible. "Are you okay?"

"Yes I am my sweetie." with Law's help, you stood up and leaned against the sink, washing your face. "I'm just a little sick."

"Daddy, aren't you going to give mommy any medicine?"

"That's normal, princess. Remember we said that some things would change while your brother or sister didn't arrive? Because of that, mom will get a little sick sometimes."

The girl just nodded and remained there at the door, both you and Law knew it was impossible to get her out of there. It didn't take long for the two of you to realize that your explanation wasn't enough for the girl to understand. This hit you both when you noticed her asking less and less about the baby that would arrive in months, or her becoming more and more attached to you, practically claiming that you were her mother and exclusively hers.

"Take it mom." she pushed her plate of fruit towards you, while the three of you drank coffee at the table.

"No need honey, I don't want to eat right now, but thank you very much." You smiled in her direction and saw her insist, with a discouraged face.

"Mommy?"

"What is it, my little one?"

"Can't we send this baby away?" she spoke naturally, you watched Law place the coffee mug against the table and analyze his daughter from afar, waiting for an answer. "I don't want to have a sibiling anymore."

"Why do you say that, Rosi?" Law's tone was more serious, while you just looked at what the girl had to say to you.

"Because I want him to go away, just get away from Mommy." the girl's voice became louder and even angry. "I already hate him."

"Rosi!" this time it was Law's voice that had raised a tone, much more serious than the girl had ever seen in the few years of her life. "Apologize to your mother now."

"No."

"Everything is fine." you interrupted the two and saw her eyes full of tears towards Law, who looked stunned.

You didn't need much to know that even he didn't expect such a reaction from himself. Rosi pushed the plate away and left the table, her feet stamping firmly against the floor. You and Law tried to call her, he was much calmer this time, but it seemed to be in vain.

"What the fuck did I do?" Law murmured to you, seeking affection as he nuzzled against your neck. "Why did I scream?"

"Babe, I've seen you yelling and swearing so many times, that was barely saying it out loud. I just think you're weirded out because we never have to do that." You took his hand, placing a quick kiss. "I think there are a lot of changes in her head, it's normal for her to feel lost."

You watched him take his face away from you and give a light laugh, followed by a wave that seemed to want to get the thoughts out of his head. Your look indicated that he wasn't going to leave without telling you what was interesting that had crossed his mind.

"Now that you say that, I clearly remembered a day when my mother was still waiting for my little sister." This explained why he was reluctant to voice such a thought. "I remember I asked if we could exchange it for Sora's new collection." he laughed weakly, once again tormented by the longing and distant memory of what it was like to have a sister, even if for a short time. "I should go talk to her, shouldn't I?"

"It would be amazing if you did."

He tried. He tried to talk to her, get to her, but Rosi made it clear with her little genius that at that moment, she didn't want to talk to her own father. The day practically passed with him hunting for her and without any answers. It was only when night fell that he could hear three light knocks on the door of his small office.

"Dad?"

"Hi, my princess." Law took his attention away from the book and turned to Rosi, standing at the door. Her eyes were redder than the last time he had seen the girl. "Are you sleepless?"

"I wanted to talk to you… Can you stay with me for a little while?"

Instead of responding in words, Law just closed the book and headed towards the door, ignoring Rosi's giggles and grumbles as he threw her over his shoulder.

"Um, where are we going?" he turned her around on purpose, he didn't really care that his daughter's laughter might wake someone up. The girl had already been too stressed that day.

"Daddy! To my room." he turned her around again and placed her on the floor, the girl was still panting from both the gyrations and his laughter. "Come with me."

She pulled him by the hand and the two crossed the hallway in silence, only their footsteps echoing off the metal walls. Law was surprised to enter the room and find you already sitting on the bed.

"I called mom too." Rosi guided Law to sit next to her.

Automatically, he placed a kiss on the top of your head and sat down, watching Rosi step in front of the two of you. You watched the girl take a few deep breaths, her hands clasping together in anxiety.

"Rosi, what's going on?" you called her and saw her stop, collecting the concentration she was missing.

"I know I was rude to you, mom, I'm sorry. But I'm worried." She began to speak, approaching the two of you.

You could see a certain insecurity in the way Rosi looked at you and then at Law, as if the words were too difficult to bring awareness to both of you.

"I don't want to have a little brother anymore, I know I said it would be cool, but I don't want it anymore" she said emphatically, waiting for a reaction from the two of you. Unlike earlier, her voice this time had no anger, just choked and low. The only thing you and Law could do was look at each other and turn your attention to Rosi.

"Why don't you want more?" Law started and you opened your arms, giving Rosi space and freedom to come and snuggle into you.

"The baby is hurting you, mommy. Today daddy had to help you and the other day it was Bepo." Her eyes shone with a few tears. Damn, your own eyes were already burning knowing that she was worried about that. "I don't want another little brother or sister if they're going to hurt you."

The idea that had crossed your mind, of how difficult it would be for her to understand the appearance of someone who would share the little world of the three of you with her, became even clearer after the girl's concern. Without thinking much, you squeezed her tightly, showering the little girl with kisses.

Little promises that everything was okay came out of you as you squeezed her while Law watched. At the same time that he found a certain grace and cuteness in his daughter's behavior, he remembered a smaller version of himself, the small fragment of memory he had given you that day. Rosi was nowhere near the little drama he had at the time.

"Rosi, look here." Law asked and the girl, still glued to you, just turned her face towards him. "What you saw today and what you saw before is normal."

"Exactly and it will soon stop happening." you completed.

"But it will take a while?"

"Maybe a little." Law resumed in a welcoming tone, you had realized that after Rosi had entered your lives, the little girl had unlocked a patience and calmness that you didn't know about in him. "All babies do this when they're in their mommy's tummy."

"Even me when I was inside?" she completely freed herself from you, sitting in the small space between you and Law.

"Even you." you and Law responded almost in unison, laughing together at the girl's euphoria.

"What else did I do?"

"You loved kicking when your dad was around, it was like you heard his voice and started making a mess." you explained and saw her smile, her eyes were now shining with pure curiosity, which you hadn't seen in a few days. "And to help, he kept tickling you."

"Like this." Law squeezed the girl's side, eliciting a surprised scream from her and then loud laughter. "And like that, then some more like that." Every time he moved, scratching the girl, she seemed to laugh more.

Her little face was already red and the tears that were once worried seemed to have been replaced by the overload of laughter and euphoria that settled in Rosi. Law finished tickling her as soon as he saw her lack of air and pulled Rosi into his arms, filling her with kisses on top of her dark hair like his.

"You know you'll forever be our little princess, right?" the girl nodded, earning a few more kisses from him. "And that we will always love you."

"A lot?"

"A lot." you replied as Law opened the girl's arms as wide as she could.

"A million times like this here." he reiterated, seeing you nod. "Now it's time for bed, don't you think?"

"But I still don't want to sleep." She mumbled and you stood up, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm dying for some sleep." You gave her one more kiss and then moved up your body a little, giving Law a quick kiss on the lips. "What do you think about dad staying with you for a while?" you blinked at him, so only he could see.

A thank you was muttered silently to you as a good night was exchanged. When you left the room, Law adjusted himself so that the girl was looking at him.

"I wanted to apologize to you about earlier today." he began, seeing her paying attention to what he was saying. "I shouldn't have spoken like that."

"And I was mean to Mom. She always taught us that we can't say mean things like that, right?" the girl replied, taking him by surprise by her little confession.

"Yeah, we shouldn't be mean." he lay down and patted his arm next to him, so she could do the same. "Did you know I already had a sister?"

"Same as what I'm going to have?"

"Well, we still don't know if you're going to have a brother or a sister." he pointed out, feeling her nod and snuggle into him even more. He knew her well enough to know that she must be falling asleep, but she wouldn't give in. "She was younger than me, her name was Lammy."

"And where is she?"

"Today she is a little star, just like your grandparents." As much as he didn't believe in this cute fantasy about life after death, it was the way you and he had found to explain the lack of some other blood ties in Rosi's life without traumatizing her. "But when she was still here, she was my best friend."

"And what did you do?"

"She loved playing tea time and between you and me, I hated it." he laughed at the memory, tormented by the idea that the old Lammy would get along great with Rosi. "But she played ninja fights with me afterwards, so it was worth it."

"Did your grandparents still love you after she was born?" the question made Law turn to her, trying to understand where that was coming from.

"Of course, our parents loved us very much, just like your mother and I will love you when the baby arrives." he explained and she seemed to be deep in thought. "You know, don't you? That regardless of anything, your mother and I will always love you."

"Promise?" she asked

"Promise."

"You pinky promise?" she raised her pinky and then Law crossed his with hers.

"That was the easiest promise I've ever made, you know?" he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, seeing the girl smile. "Now are we going to sleep?"

"I want to hear a story, the story of the ninja bear who stole honey."

Law started the story with a probably different beginning than the other thousand times he told it - the story was clearly made up about Bepo stealing food, but Rosi and you had agreed not to tell Law that you had noticed. It took a few minutes for sleep to take them both away.

In the following months, Rosi seemed to be much safer and more integrated into waiting for the baby. She helped decorate part of the room, participated in your consultations since Law knew that the girl liked practical explanations, it was an easy way for her to understand that her mom was fine. The name was her choice too, Linn, in her justification, remembered the name of the story that her father had told some time ago, about a nice girl called Lammy. The resemblance was very little, but her intention was enough to warm both of your hearts.

When Linn was born, Rosi was almost on duty at the bathroom door - again, the hot tub had been her best friend during the birth process. You and Law wish you could have recorded the first time she held her brother. Bright eyes, firm hands, there you two knew it was a partnership for life.

Apart from the small dispute over who would be the assistant every day when Law would deal with something more practical in the medical wing, the two complemented each other. All of Linn's fear was supplied by Rosi's courage, all the hard shell that she had inherited from Law were supplied by Linn, who had pulled your side of the molten feelings. And when the two of them got together, talking wasn't an impossible task for anyone. Whether it was when they asked to dye Bepo black and make him look like a panda or when they found the straw hats - which Rosi had already met - and all she had to do was say that she wanted a party like last time and immediately the banquet was organized. .

How long has it been since you wore this type of piece on your body? Looking in the mirror was like seeing a new version of yourself. A few more stretch marks and marks, but all with a good meaning: having brought two of your loves into the world. It was the voice of one of them entering the room that brought you out of your reverie, small hands clinging to your leg.

"Mommy, let's go!" Linn hung onto the dress you were finishing putting on. The four year old seemed to have more energy than you had ever had in your entire life.

"Where are your father and sister?"

"They've already gone to the party, mommy." you picked him up, feeling the boy celebrate as you started to leave Polar Tang.

The deck of the Sunny, where you were anchored, was full of people, crew members from the Straw Hats and the Heart Pirates gathered, talking, drinking and partying. It was already something common every time the two crews met on the way, of course, with a lot of influence from your eldest daughter who loved the lightness of your friends.

"Linn!" Nami came towards the two of you, picking the boy up and squeezing his cheeks. "How big you are!"

His cheeks flushed at the compliment, earning a laugh from you. Nami warned you that she was going to steal the boy for a few minutes to take him to show the other companions and you trusted her too much to oppose that.

In the distance, you saw Law sitting talking to Robin while Rosi was between his legs, practically being slathered in sunscreen.

"Mommy!" she called you, trying to get away from your husband. "Daddy's making me all dirty."

"It's just what's necessary dear." you replied, giving Robin a quick hug. "And how are you?"

"Great! I was even discussing with Law how you guys have been, how the kids are doing." she made room for you to sit next to her.

"It's been challenging, but amazing at the same time. Are you thinking about having one?"

"I don't know, Franky and I talked a lot about this subject, but if one day I have them and they look like yours, it would be lovely."

"Lovely?" Law inserted himself into the conversation, a cynical smile on his lips made even Rosi turn around. The girl's dark hair was being braided by Law, he certainly had more skill than you in that task. "Lovely until they get rebellious and against sunscreen."

"You put a lot of it on me, I'm sticky!" the girl grumbled and he lightly tugged on the finished braid in her hair, laughing when he saw her get even angrier. "Mommy, daddy pulled my hair!"

You and Robin just laughed at the implications the other two had towards each other, watching the girl run off to play. The three of you stayed there for a while, making small talk.

"Now it's your turn." Law warned you as soon as Robin left to get the three of you some drinks. "Come on, sunscreen for you too."

Without hesitation, you pulled off the dress you were wearing and let it pool on one of the chairs. A malicious laugh crossed your lips when you saw Law's inability to form any cohesive thought until you turned your back to him, arranging your hair to stay out of the way.

"You make things so much more difficult that way." he whispered, applying the lotion to you and sliding it down your body. "You look so hot in these."

"You say that because you're in love with me."

"That too, but other than that part, you should wear this bikini more often." He placed a light kiss on your shoulder, along with a small bite, almost as if testing if your skin - and you - were real at that moment.

"I found you!" Ikkaku interrupted the two of you, running until he stopped in front of you. "Shall we play? We find a ball and we can improvise a net."

"Let's go!" you answered her and looked at Law over your shoulder. "Want to come, baby?"

"Not this time." he almost completed it, saying that he would choose to just enjoy the view, but decided to keep the information to himself.

Well, at least he thought it was just for him. Anyone who looked at Law could without much effort tell which direction he was looking in and by the type of gaze, what his main intention was.

"Captain…" Shachi leaned next to him and Law didn't bother to look to know that he was accompanied by the two other parties - Penguin and Bepo.

"We have a proposal for you." Penguin started, not getting much of his attention. "Of course, when you can stop drooling over your wife's body."

"What do you want?" Upon realizing that he had been noticed, Law with great difficulty looked away from you and back to them.

"We want to make an exchange: two days of no service for an hour of safety for both of you."

"What does that mean?"

"For an hour we take care of the children, but not only that." Shachi bent down, creating some suspense until he got close to the captain's face. "For one hour, no one, I repeat, no one will come near Polar Tang."

"Three hours." Law responded immediately, taking the boys by surprise. When did it become so easy to make deals with the captain?

"Do we have a deal?" Bepo stretched out his paw and Law quickly shook it and walked towards you.

The excuse he gave was that he needed your help with something about Linn, he knew that for any other reason, he would make you suspicious. It was only when he took you to an emptier corner of the Sunny that you realized his real intentions - and you couldn't be more interested.

With no time to waste, as you were transported with his powers, your body barely found your room and Law's hands immediately claimed possession under your skin. His mouth covered yours and as he explored every inch of paradise inside your lips, his hands slid across your bare skin.

"No, love, please no." He held your hand that was about to undo the knot of the bikini you were wearing. "You look too hot in this for me to miss the opportunity to have you like this."

"I didn't know you liked it so much, you thought I was so…"

"Don't you dare continue this." He placed you on the small table, fitting himself between your legs and taking your lips again. "It was fucking torture, seeing you walking around, anyone being able to look at what's only mine."

"Fuck, you're mean." his hand slid down the front of your bikini, getting closer to where you needed him most. "Law?"

A grunt from him, as his face buried itself in your still covered breasts was the only thing you heard. Before he could sink too far into pleasure enough to not be able to think, you gently pulled him by his dark hair until his face reached yours.

"Condoms, Law."

"But babe…" he mumbled, almost like a child throwing a tantrum.

"Do you remember the last time we didn't use it?" You pointed to the height of your belly and saw him nod, sobriety returning to his features.

"Yeah, condoms are a good choice."

[yandere-daydreams]

Do you have any tips for being like, less straight to point when writing? I feel whenever I write I’m being super descriptive and taking my time talking about stuff and then I read it back ands it like

“The sky was a cool blue. I like when the sky is blue”

Like I was reading one of your fics and thought “damn, this bitch like the Tolkien of yandere fanfiction, writing the most beautifully paragraphs known to mankind for gojo”

You won’t gotta tell me I know that you do commissions and stuff so that’s like, your income lmao

wait this is actually something i think about on the reg,,, you really have to come at with the assumption that, if you're writing in first or third person limited, your readers will know to assume that whatever's being said is automatically from your pov character's perspective and therefore aligns with their mentality. that frees you up to get really creative with adjectives and physical descriptions that inform the audience about the character's feelings (i.e. "the sky was a cheerful and idyllic blue" for a character who lies sunny days or "the sky was an agitating and eye-bleeding blue" for a character who doesn't). alternatively, you could also link new stimulus to the physical reaction it causes in the character, for example "the sky was blue. i found myself smiling absentmindedly as i went about my day." the latter is pretty easy to overuse, but also leaves a stronger impression with readers.

it's also very important to be very, very mindful with how you're pacing the distribution of information, too. i personally try to limit myself to one new piece of information per paragraph, just to give my readers time to adjust to a character's eyes being blue before letting them know that his mom is also super dead, but in general, just don't feel the need to get all of your exposition off your chest as soon as it's brought up. intrigue is hot, and the deliberate with-holding of clarification makes it hotter. plus, if it can't be shown by the events of the story and doesn't come up in a character's natural monologue/dialogue, there's a good chance it wasn't that important to begin with. there's no need to talk about how dead a character's mom is at all if he's going to her funeral, like, three pages later.

tldr; use more adjectives and don't tell your readers shit. they'll figure it out on their own if they know what's good for them.

[waitineedaname]

I've decided to finally compile all my daemon au thoughts into one post instead of just flooding my friends' dms with them! I doubt I'll ever managed to actually write a fic for it because there's no way I can pull together a coherent enough plot so it would just be a series of vaguely connected vignettes, BUT. it's on my brain always.

Shen Qingqiu has a red-crowned crane. She felt Shen Jiu die when Shen Yuan transmigrated, and she was NOT PLEASED, which definitely puts a damper on their relationship at first, though she begrudgingly plays along with Shen Yuan assuming the role of Shen Qingqiu because the alternative is death and she will NOT let this fool's incompetence kill her. She eventually comes around to him, but she generally has Shen Jiu's rather acerbic and distrustful personality

Luo Binghe's daemon is unsettled at the beginning because he's still a kid. He usually chooses smaller, easier to hide forms when they're out in public, only choosing bigger forms when they're alone. Eventually, as he becomes more comfortable with Shen Qingqiu, he starts coming out of his shell more and exploring more forms around him -- a lamb bleating at his heels, a little lion cub tumbling around the Bamboo House's private training grounds. On one notable occasion he took on a crane form as an attempt to get in SQQ's daemon's good graces. She did not appreciate it.

He doesn't settle until the Endless Abyss. In PIDW, Bingge's daemon settled as a chow chow, a dog that looks soft and fluffy but is prone to, uh. aggression issues. In SVSSS, Bingmei's daemon settles as a Tibetan mastiff, an absolute unit of a dog that LOOKS intimidating, but is really just very protective

Shang Qinghua has a yellow-throated marten daemon! This is, notably, not the daemon the original goods had. Since he transmigrated as a baby, the original goods' daemon hadn't settled and was Also a baby, so he didn't end up with a grown adult's fully settled daemon like Shen Yuan did. Martens look very cute and nonthreatening, but they are fierce predators and will take down animals much larger than them! He usually keeps her hidden in his robes, but she wiggled out to screech at him to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE when things started going wrong at the Immortal Alliance Conference, and her having a different form is what clued SQQ in that SQH might also be a transmigrator

Liu Qingge has a snow leopard and Yue Qingyuan has an Asian black bear. These daemons were chosen because Tibetan mastiffs were kept to protect monks from snow leopards and bears lol

Plot stuff under the cut!

SQQ's daemon is aware of the System, and therefore gets to learn things about SQQ's fate in the original novel. she is Not Pleased.

She remains reserved and guarded for a while, but it's hard to resist Shen Yuan's persistent charm, so she does warm up to him eventually. She's not wild about being touched, but she'll occasionally allow him to pet her feathers. She's also not wild about letting That Little Beast live in the Bamboo House, but she quickly learns Shen Yuan is just as stubborn as her A-Jiu was, so she allows it if only as a chance to keep a closer (suspicious) eye on Binghe

They definitely get much closer after the Immortal Alliance Conference, because she can tell just how much SQQ is grieving, and it pains her too. At this point, she's started seeing him as Her Person and not just a bodysnatcher

When they run into Binghe and his daemon again at Jinlan City, they both get to enjoy remembering the graphic descriptions of how in PIDW, Binghe's daemon had ripped SQQ's daemon's wings off as part of his torture. And oh fuck, his daemon settled as something even BIGGER this time?? Look at those jaws!!! Clearly the thump thump thump of his tail wagging against the floor at the sight of them is because he's excited to get his revenge. Definitely not because he's excited to see them again

On rare occasions, daemons of powerful cultivators can survive beyond the death of their person, usually only if the daemon is particularly strongwilled. She survived Shen Jiu's death once already. She's certain she could survive until SQQ gets into the back-up mushroom body. They thought it would only be a few minutes. They didn't expect it to take five years.

She is absolutely catatonic with grief during those five years. Binghe takes her survival as proof that Shizun's soul must have survived, certainly he will be able to bring him back if his daemon is still alive. He treats her with the utmost respect, the same way he treats SQQ's corpse. He never touches her directly since he knows she hates being touched. She never spoke much to him before, but now she doesn't even speak at all. She just curls up on the bed where he keeps the body, resting her head on Shen Qingqiu's chest

When Plantzun does finally show up and chaos ensues with the corpse hot potato, she confirms any of Binghe's suspicions about Shen Qingqiu's identity by swooping into the fray to peck angrily at the familiar stranger, some life and vitality finally returned to her and she scolds him for taking FIVE YEARS?? SHE NEVER WOULD HAVE AGREED TO THIS IF SHE'D KNOWN IT WOULD TAKE FIVE YEARS, HOW DARE HE. Shen Qingqiu is first so relieved to see her, and then terrified because she immediately broke his cover

After everything settles and the plot concludes and bingqiu get their happy ended, Binghe's daemon becomes SUCH a lapdog. Clingy rescue dog made of velcro type of vibe. They have to get a big enough bed to fit two grown men and a 150 pound dog. He LOVES Shizun headpats. SQQ's daemon does not ever join these cuddle sessions, but she always keeps an eye on them from her nest of pillows across the room because like hell is she ever letting Shen Qingqiu out of her sight again

[marzipanandminutiae]

i adore sumptuous antique dolls and their trousseaus. please do talk of anything you know of them.

They're pretty and important and I felt deeply ripped off by Y2K-era doll culture when I read the description of The Last Doll in A Little Princess as a child:

"She sat down on the floor and turned the key. The children crowded clamoring around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their contents. Never had the schoolroom been in such an uproar. There were lace collars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs;there was a jewel case containing a necklace and a tiara which looked quite as if they were made of real diamonds; there was a long sealskin [stole] and muff; there were ball dresses and walking dresses and visiting dresses; there were hats and tea gowns and fans."

The description of Emily, Sara's main doll, also sent me into transports of imagination:

"She certainly had a very intelligent expression in her eyes when Sara took her in her arms. She was a large doll, but not too large to carry about easily; she had naturally curling golden-brown hair, which hung like a mantle about her, and her eyes were a deep gray-blue with soft, thick eyelashes which were real eyelashes and not mere painted lines."

The only thing that came close to the idea of a Doll With Trousseau when I was a child- meaning that you could get all sorts of accessories for your doll beyond just clothing, almost everything a real person had -was the delight of the American Girl catalogue

LOOK AT ALL THE LITTLE THINGS. LOOK AT THEM. The pages for modern dolls had lots of treasures, too, and I pored over those as well- but that was Normal Clothing and therefore boring. not the fantastic, princess-like garments of the historical dolls (because that was the only reference point I had for Little Girls Who Wear Dresses All The Time; as a Millennial child, I grew up in jeans except on fancy occasions)

and they were good-quality, unlike what you get from AG today. but I digress

the problem with American Girl was that they weren't "pretty dolls," by which I meant Lady Dolls. child dolls only sort of interested me, baby dolls not at all. grown-up ladies from the past REALLY looked like princesses (even the poor ones! by which I meant "peasant" outfits worn by various Disney princesses, natch)

Barbie was nearing the end of the era where you could easily buy clothing for her in stores without buying a whole new doll. Bratz were entirely focused on modern fashion with no history or fantasy, and anyway I thought they looked mean. so that was a no-go

And Thus I Pined

I mean they truly had everything for these dolls in the late 19th-early 20th century- the dolls themselves were only half the revenue stream, with clothing making up the other half. or sometimes even more. have you ever wanted scented writing-paper for your dolls? that was a thing in late 1860s Paris. it was wild

go to a doll show sometime if you get the chance. those sales rooms are the closest you'll get to the experience of one of those fine old doll shops nowadays, and they're still pretty magical

This doll has a full six dresses (unfortunately not pictured) and a paragraph of accessories, typed, including a tiny etched glass perfume bottle to hang from her tiny chatelaine. it's so wonderful I'm going to punch a wall. anyway

[andy-wm]

i'm wondering how your thesis of "idols will come out when they want" fits into your insane shadow analysis attempting to prove jimin and jungkook fucked in the middle of their travel show (amongst other things)? like do you get joy out or trying to drag someone out of a closet they might not be in? or is it something else? just curious! 😀

Hey wdcmaxy

Since you have the guts to use your name I'll respond :)

So, you read my thesis?

*Sips whisky*

Cool. And you read my insane shadow analysis too?

Hmmm... do you come here often?

Let me answer your question then.

I think we both know the shadows analysis isn't really insane - it's based on very basic earth science. Shadows grow longer as the day progresses because of the rotation of the earth on its axis. You sound reasonably literate so i assume you know this already.

I guess your description of my shadow analysis ( I think I'll name my next racehorse 'Shadow Analysis') as insane is an attempt to discredit the idea that a fair bit of time passed while Tae was out of the house? But that was kinda silly on your part. Even children know that shadows change as the day passes.

Nothing insane about it.

He was gone for hours, no debate.

Now let's move on to the fucking part, and when and how idols choose to come out.

This is actually worth discussing.

As flattered as i am that you think my tiny insignificant blog could be a game changer for anyone, let's be real.

How many people, besides yourself, do you think read my blog?

Serious question.

I'm estimating maybe 100. Double that on a good day. Maybe 300 if i write something REALLY profound which doesn't happen often.

I am way less excited about my impact on the world than you are, because I'm a realist.

BUT if by some strange twist of fate my blog came to the attention of someone whose opinion mattered (I'm not counting you, don't worry) do you think they would take it seriously? Do you REALLY imagine a random tumblr post about shadows could make someone believe that an idol was gay if they didn't already believe it?

Here's a great example of how that wouldn't happen:

You, dear reader.

You're my example.

You came here to tell me I'm speaking shit and that I should pull my head in, correct? My insane shadow analysis hasn't changed your beliefs at all. You're here, throwing a tantrum on my page, because you don't agree with what I'm saying, not because you suddenly believe it.

Or ...

Perhaps you suspect it's true and that scares you. Maybe you can't be absolutely sure I'm wrong and that's why you need to yell at me? Could that be it? Time for a bit of self reflection?

Either way, it's not going to make an iota of difference in the grand scheme of things.

We are all just dust motes floating through time and space, my friend. You dont need to worry so much. The universe is unfolding exactly as intended.

However... There are a couple of things we should agree on:

The fact is that the shadows grew long and therefore, time passed. And Tae was out for several hours. Maybe he went out for a bit of afternoon delight himself? Maybe Jimin and Jungkook played Pokemon Go all afternoon, or prayed, or practiced their English, or braided each other's hair.

Regardless of whether they did or didn't fuck, or how many times, or on what surfaces, the time still passed.

And whether I write my blog or not, people will believe what they believe. And they will be gay or they won't be gay.

And even though I never mentioned anything about them fucking in that post, whether you like it or not Jimin and Jungkook might be fucking right now, as you read this.

One last thing...

Please bear in mind, through all of this, that fucking is not the be all and end all of life. Sure its a lot of fun if you do it right but the notion that it's more meaningful than sharing your innermost thoughts and feelings, or giving someone your time and energy, is bullshit.

You can have a roots-deep love for someone and never even think of fucking them. Or you can meet someone in a public toilet and have at it, and leave without even knowing their name.

Sex does not equal love. Fucking is not that big of a big deal.

Unless...

Unless you're fucking someone the patriarchy doesn't want you to fuck. Then its a major issue.

Hear me out.

The need to control who we fuck is based a patriarchal need to control material wealth.

To control material wealth, the patriarchy needs to control reproduction (so they can be sure their wealth stays with their bloodline, because wealth is built over many generations) and to do THAT they need to control womens' bodies.... and to do that, of course they need to control who women fuck. And who men fuck too!

Do you know what the ACTUAL issue is with men who like dick? They don't automatically buy into the patriarchal way of life. (where's the solidarity, lads?)

Why don't they?

Because lifelong monogamy and marriage and nuclear families don't matter as much when you're not equating love with sex, and sex with reproduction. When your goal isn't to accumulate wealth and pass it down to your children.

Same thing applies to women who love women. They aren't focused on being demure and pleasing the men in power. They aren't focused on making themselves wife material. They will challenge the status quo and maybe even (shock! horror!) decide not to have children. How the heck do you make sure your money and power stays in the family, how do you build an empire, when the women are perfectly happy having sex with each other and don't want to love, honour and obey??

And whose fault is all this?

Its got to be the damned queers, right? They're making people think there might be other ways to share your life with those you care about! That's why its important to squash down gayness whenever you can, right, wdcmaxy?

Look at them destroying the fabric of society!

If Jimin and Jungkook ARE fucking every chance they get, good for them. I hope they're balls deep and breathless, hitting all those sweet spots for each other having a really good time.

And if they're not fucking, it actually doesn't matter to me because the way they support each other and share their hearts is beautiful. (I do think they are fucking though)

Truthfully, whatever they're doing, as long as they're happy I'm happy.

Can you say the same, wdcmaxy?

Peace.

[lazyjellyfish300]

Shiu Kong Headcanons/Analysis 🚬🖤

a/n: this started out as headcanons and soon became an analysis of all my opinions and thoughts born out of love for this man. 💕 Material from these hcs and analysis may be used as inspiration for other writing/art, please just credit me if you do. 💕

CW: JJK SPOILERS, maybe some angst, non descriptive discussion of trauma, mention of violence and brief mention of graphic content.

divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more. Pics from Pinterest

Words: 1.7k

-He's the type that's constantly running late but somehow manages to still arrive on time.

-He has to drive often for work, but he dislikes it.

-He does like his car, however.

-I personally think he has a couple tattoos underneath his suit.

-This man is loyal. he has known Toji for over 10 years, and helped take care of a child that's not his.

-Therefore, he would not cheat.

-He's an exceptional people person and good with social interactions. He negotiates and mediates for a living. He also honed these skills as a detective who must be able to use discernment and judgement to ask important questions, think critically, and read other people.

-He can snuff out if someone is being disingenuine or full of shit like it's nothing.

-His source of stress is entertaining clients/hospitality so therefore, despite being a master at communication, he gets social burnout and has a limited battery. But, he has enough tact and restraint to air out his frustrations in private. An example being when he kept a cool expression during Sonoda's cuckoo rant, and didn't laugh with Toji about it until after he left the room. He definitely gossips in my opinion.

-He has an extroverted way of expressing his love. I see him as indulgent at times. His vices are cigarettes and cheese which can be pricey (and unhealthy) commodities, and collecting tropical fish (not a cheap variety), which implies he has an aquarium, which is a very expensive investment which requires upkeep. I see him spoiling you with little gifts and trinkets, taking you on nice vacations, BUT to a point which I'll touch on in a sec.

-He has "restaurants that he uses for clients." So that demonstrates he has intel or the ability to look into people's tastes and what may impress them. Therefore I see him applying the same thoughtfulness to his partner.

- Shiu has an eye and appreciation for luxury but he does not identify as rich. When he's telling Toji how the Star Religious group helped them:

"Check this out, the president has a private jet." But yet also states that "Rich people think on a different scale, man."

I think Shiu is well-to-do, as we've seen he would get quite the generous cut from the job with Toji, his suit, his possession of gadgets (laptop, cellphone), owning a car, but this separation he makes between himself and rich people shows that he must either be somewhere in the middle, or upper middle.

Or, it's possible that he is rich but he doesn't identify with a rich person's mentality. It could also mean that he was raised from a more modest background or merely possesses a frugal mindset that makes him view himself as different.

-But I believe he does have some level of frugality/money conscientiousness and we see him use practicality once again when he's on the phone with Toji, reminding him that despite the bounty there's handling fees, posting fees, etc.

-He is gracious and can demonstrate humility on occasion based on his response to Sonoda giving Toji a bonus. "Do you mean it? I know it was a necessary expense but you've helped us a lot."

-I imagine in a relationship that selflessness and modesty would come out. He wouldn't want to trouble you too much with things that he sees as going out of your way for him. Especially since hospitality is a cause of stress for him, so he wouldn't want to burden you with the same thing.

-His strategic and logistical way of thinking is also demonstrated when he meets Toji at the boat races. "What were you thinking, letting go of the entire deposit?" He is risk averse and doesn't take them unless it's calculated. He acknowledges that traveling on public transportation with a captive can raise suspicions, showing he's definitely got social awareness. Another pen in his cap for being a master at navigating social situations.

-The previous point is also another credit to his background as a detective. Detectives must review evidence and be analytics-driven. Therefore, I believe he is an extremely observant person. He's sharp, intelligent, strategic, and can remain calm in the face of conflict.

-Despite his illicit line of work, he has some preference for order and structure, possibly tapping into his values from his old profession. "It's my duty to report how the job is going to our client."

-And depending on how many years he worked in that field, it's very possible that he's retained most of those qualities in some way to this day, even if his sense of justice/ethics has been warped. I think he still operates with his own reasoning in a way that makes sense to him.

-Work as a detective is no joke. I believe this man has probably witnessed unfathomable horrors and trauma we don't know about. There are most likely cases that haunt him, based on what most legal/criminal justice professionals can tell you about their experiences in real life.

-He can also see curses despite not being a sorcerer. That has got to be terrifying to be able to see them while not possessing the ability to defend yourself against them.

-His exposure to the legal system, and the dark side of human nature I believe would make him susceptible to all the corruption he's witnessed.

-My theory is he must have lost faith in it along the way and most likely resigned to a more pessimistic world view. This can explain how he went from being an agent of the law to his illicit and criminal dealings now, and could also explain why he ended up in Japan from his native Korea.

-He is also desensitized to the things that he's seen. He can stand next to Toji and watch a giant worm vomit a dead body on a table with his hands in his pockets. Once again, the gravity of some of the things he's observed in his life must have been pretty gnarly if this doesn't phase him.

-Outward appearance is important to Shiu. Dressing and looking professional. Source: when he asks Geto: "Are you really wearing that?"

-He has a sense of propriety. We see this when he corrects Toji that he was not speaking to the founder with a sigh. Therefore, he has some level of manners and tact. He's no doubt chivalrous with women.

-He can read between the lines. Despite Toji's orders, he was able to figure out what he was planning at the time and is confident enough in his own reasoning to make the call to keep Kuroi alive. But note that this judgement was one based on strategy, not mercy. Shiu is still indifferent to killing.

-He anticipates things and is proactive and takes a forward thinking approach coupled with knowledge that he already possesses to make decisions. He knew that relief from Kuroi's rescue would wear them down more than the heigtened stress from failure. Therefore, between Shiu and Toji, he is the brains of the two. He fills in the gaps with his cunning and is very through and intuitive to clues that Toji might have overlooked.

-Shiu doesn't like to linger on the past or choices he's made. Evidence of this is when he's walking outside with Toji after the job is done and Toji is questioning why Shiu didn't kill Kuroi when he had the chance.

"It all worked out in the end, didn't it? And stop running your mediator ragged."

In other words: "Don't give me flack for not doing what you would have done in the moment. We got the job done, end of story. And stop stressing me out."

-I think Shiu is definitely wise enough to know that smoking is unhealthy for him, but he uses it as a crutch for the stress he's under. He was already smoking a cigarette while on the phone with Toji as they were discussing the job and his concerns with Toji's approach.

-He has a playful, informal side with people he knows. He sasses back with Toji: "I already did, dumbass."

-He remembers things about people. Despite it being several years since he associated with Toji, he knows that Toji's "never been the type who's been cut out for making easy money." His line: "Almost forgot, how's Megumi doing?"

When he went to speak with Toji, he had enough consideration in mind for him that he meant to ask about the boy.

-This also shows that the relationship Shiu had with Toji and his son must have been impactful in some way for him to recall his name, have some level of investment in his wellbeing to ask about him(and had to have been a motivator for him to step in and help in the first place), despite Toji answering that he doesn't know who that is.

-"I'll only see you again for work." Shiu made that decision. There must have been some sort of interpersonal fallout between the two men that shows that Shiu would not associate with him on a personal level.

It could very well be due to Toji's decline after his wife's death. This means that Shiu must not have been fully corrupted at that point, if he was willing to distance himself from that sort of behavior at that time.

Or, he might have been like-minded as Toji, but it might have been in response to a personal slight that was committed against him or that he took offense to.

Not quite sure, but I'm convinced it must be personal in nature if he will not walk into that territory with Toji again, however it was not egregious enough to not be willing to conduct business with him.

-"If we don't work together again, I'll see you in hell." So Shiu is a conscionable man to some degree. He is aware that he's flawed enough to earn that level of punishment. But he's resigned himself to the way he is now. He doesn't try to redeem himself because his thinking is: "it is what it is." He doesn't trouble himself with his past decision making as I made in an earlier point.

-Overall, he's a troubled man underneath, but he has bits of humanity he clings onto(he dislikes black beans, loves cheese, smokes his cigs, collects pretty fish). This is why I think he's such a fascinating and wonderfully well-crafted example of a morally grey character that we unfortunately only get a minor character's world's eye view into. His qualities are elusive but they are all very much present if you delve into him, and I adore him so very much.

And we all can acknowledge, he's very easy on the eyes.💕

[luvfy0dor]

RRRRAAAAAH i’m so insane abt dad fyodor i’m!!!!! imagine him helping the kid with schoolwork and attending parent meetings i’m so? feel free to decline! <3

“Multiplication Sucks ♡” - Dad!Fyodor Dostoevsky x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

Warnings; None!

Description; Fyodor helping his daughter with her homework assignment, I'm so sorry it's so short : [ I tried writing a scenario for a parent teacher meeting but I kept scrapping my ideas, ill do a part two at some point i promise!

A/n; I LOVE THAT WE ALL LOVE DAD FYODOR SM DJSJEJS THANK YOU DAD!FYODOR ANON FOR BLESSING US WITH THIS WE LOVE YOU 💜 ALSO IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO GET OUT ANON AHHH 💔

Headcannons !! ༊*·˚

• Fyodor is the type of dad to let his kid waste no time when it comes to homework. He wants them to get it done the very night it's assigned so they can relax afterwards and not gain the habit of procrastinating.

• You will catch him walking your kid step by step through their homework. He's not the type of parent to yell out of frustration, especially not over his kids homework.

• He can help the child with most subjects, but he's especially good at math and therefore some sciences. He's good with history, too.

• At one-on-one parent teacher meetings, he already knows what to expect. He knows his kid is well behaved, he raised them well mannered and respectful. He also knows that his kid is smart and does well on their assignments, they get it from their papa.

ೃ⁀➷

(As always, d/n is daughters name, p/t is parental title)

You sat on the couch with Fyodor, leaning on his shoulder while you watched a movie. He seemed relatively intrigued while he chewed on his fingernails. His hair was messily pulled back, his bangs falling through the grip of the ponytail holder and back into his face. His free arm was around your waist, holding you close. Your daughter was being relatively quiet, you couldn't really hear her footsteps going back and forth around her bedroom like you usually could. All of a sudden though, you could hear some frustrated groans. Fyodor definitely heard it too, turning his head to look at you. After a second he got up from the couch and walked towards d/n's room.

He knocked on your daughter's door lightly, opening it upon hearing a soft "come in". He walked into her bedroom, his eyes immediately falling onto the young girl slouched over at her desk with a pencil in hand. He tilts his head and notices the sheet of paper in front of her, half finished with lots of scribbled out things.

"What's wrong, Malyshka?" He asks, reaching out and rubbing her back in consolation. The young girl sits up with a pout, her lip quivering a bit. "Multiplying is stupid!" She says sadly, placing her pencil down gently and crossing her arms. Fyodor picks up and examines the paper, humming as he reads over the simple and basic multiplication problems. "Well, I can help you. There's no need to cry over it." He says, petting her head gently and putting the paper back down. "Is it this one that's troubling you?" He asks, pointing to one of the problems with the pencil. She nods, sniffling.

"16 x 2..." He hums for a moment, thinking of a way to explain this to her. "If you can do 6 x 2 and 10 x 2, all you have to do is add them together." He says, handing the pencil to her. "You're a smart girl, I know you can do it." He says, remaining at her side while she uses the strategy he provided her. Her tongue slightly pokes from the corner of her lips as she comes to her conclusion of 32 after a couple of seconds.

"Is that right, papa?" D/n asks, looking up at Fyodor for approval. "Yes, you did a good job." He praises her with a proud smile, patting her head. She nods and moves onto the next question, and before she knows it, she's done! Fyodor was happy that she didn't give up and powered through, finally starting to grasp the concept. All she needed was a little more help, the help that her father was right there to give her.

A/n; AHHHH I love dad Fyodor sm like imagine him going to father-daughter dances omg I die

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some English Grammar Vocabulary

Atelic

A verb, construction, situation, etc. which does not express an inherent end point or goal.

Examples: "It is raining"; "The children are watching TV"

Catenative

A verb that can form a chain with one or more subsequent verbs

Examples: "want to go"; "hate to tell you"

False Friend

Also called false cognate and faux ami.

A word that has the same or a similar form in two (or more) languages, but different meanings in each.

This term is used in contrastive analysis and foreign language teaching.

Example: The French adjective sympathique (like Italian simpatico) often means ‘nice’, ‘pleasant’, or ‘likeable’ and is therefore a false friend to English sympathetic.

In the same way French actuel means ‘present’, not ‘actual’.

God’s Truth

An extreme view of grammar which assumes that the ‘rules’ of grammar have an objective existence in the language, and that all good grammarians will therefore discover the same facts and propound the same descriptions.

Invented by Fred W. Householder (1913–1994) in 1952.

Greengrocer’s Apostrophe

Use of an apostrophe in an ordinary plural, where it is incorrect.

Example: "Potato’s 75p per kilo."

Hesitation Noise

A sound (or sounds) not classified as a word, but used by speakers to keep conversation going.

Hesitation noises are somewhat inadequately indicated by such items as er, erm, uh, um, etc.

Hypocoristic

(Designating) a pet form of a *word; (that is or has the nature of) a pet name

Example: Auntie.

Irrealis

Of a verb, form, etc.: expressing unreality, non-factuality, extreme unlikelihood, potentiality, etc.

Examples: counterfactual conditional clauses, which contain a past tense form (e.g. If I lived to be a hundred . . . ), and

so-called subjunctive moods (e.g. If I were you . . . ) describe what is extremely unlikely or totally impossible.

Non-Word

A word that is not recorded or not established.

This may be interchangeable with nonce word, but tends to be restricted to inventions that could be unintentional errors rather than deliberate coinages:

1963 PUNCH. The aesthetically displeasing non-word ‘annoyment’.

A string of letters (or sounds) that is not an English word.

Pleonasm

The use of more words than are needed to convey a particular meaning.

Examples: "see with one’s eyes"; "at this moment in time."

Polyseme

A word that has multiple meanings.

Many English words have several meanings which are all uses of the same word that have grown apart over time

Examples:

Draw - ‘cause to move in a certain direction’, ‘produce a picture’, ‘finish a game with an equal score’

Flat - ‘apartment’, ‘note lowered by a semitone’, ‘piece of stage scenery’

Psychological Verb

A verb that expresses a psychological state.

Also called experiencer verb, mental verb, psychological predicate, psych verb; and verb of psychological state.

There are 2 types of psychological verb: those that have an experiencer as subject and a stimulus as object (e.g. I felt the cold);

those that have a stimulus as subject and experiencer as object (e.g. The cold overpowered me).

Royal We

The use of we by a king or queen to mean ‘I’.

Example: Queen Victoria’s ‘We are not amused’.

The style is now restricted to formal documents.

Tmesis

The separation of the parts of a word by an intervening element or elements.

This is not a very productive operation in English, and is largely confined to the insertion of swear words for greater emphasis, as in: "I can’t find it any-blooming-where."

The phenomenon is now usually described by using the term infix.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[crazylittlejester]

Hi!! I've got a friend writing a fic and they are having a bit of trouble grasping how to write time. I'd really appreciate it if you have any tips to share? Or maybe a sort of deep description of his personality?

hi!! (this is definitely all how i write MY Time so that includes some headcanons)

One thing about Time for me specifically that I’ve noticed in reading other fics is that there are people who write Time (quiet, stoic, comes off as dry maybe, leader type personality) and there are people who write Mask (chaotic, angry, very sweet, a little awkward), and those two characterizations of the same person seem very very different sometimes. I write an older Mask. All the core traits I give my Mask, all his little things he does and the way he reacts to things, I keep with my Time, I only make him a bit more mature because he’s 30+ not 12. He’s still chaotic, in HIS mind I don’t think he really views himself as a leader (and there really isnt a leader he just has the others’ respect because hes older), hes a bit awkward, he doesn’t have the best control of his tone so he sometimes comes off super flat even though he doesn’t mean to. He gets upset and overstimulated and he needs help sometimes too. He’s very kind and sweet and he loves the boys a lot but hes not very good at saying that because hes not the best with words so hes kinda mastered the Shoulder Pat to make up for it

I used to write a lot of fanfiction for fullmetal alchemist before this fandom and my characterization of Mask (and therefore Time) is heavily influenced by Edward Elric (if you’re familiar at all with that anime). The anger and outbursts are a disguise for genuine fear and a deep depression, and hes INCREDIBLY determined and stubborn. As an adult he doesn’t get so angry anymore and he’s better at managing his emotions, but that feeling isn’t gone entirely

but yeah thats how i write him, i love Time he’s one of my favorite POVS to write actually hehe :3

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Random Headcanons (18+)

Stealth!Donatello x reader

A/N: I decided it probably would be a good idea, to write a little for the ones I hadn’t been writing too much about, just to cover some ground. Therefore I thought it would be a fun idea to write some base “facts” about some of the Stealth!Turtles. Now, as these are based on the TMNT 2003 Unused Production Art, there isn’t really much known about these (at least not much that I could find). I’ve therefore based this on my own idea of what the Stealth Turtles are, and what I think their roles would have been, and then writing a fanfic off of that. Yeah, just a little bit confusing. Anyway, hope you’ll enjoy🖤💜

All characters are aged up.

Warnings: Robot/android and human relations, mentioning and description of sex and sexual acts.

One thing was a mutant turtle, another was a kanabo clone of a mutant turtle. But have you ever experienced the stamina of a stealth robot, based on the personality and skill of both a mutant turtle and a kanabo clone of a mutant turtle? No? Well, holy shit, are you in for the ride of your life.

Talking about stamina when it comes to this version of Donatello, is kind of out of place. Robot Donnie doesn’t have such a thing as stamina. It’s a thing only for living beings, measuring how long they could keep going. No this Donnie could keep going pretty much forever. And if you allowed him to, he would. But the only thing that kept him from going at you all day and all night, every day and all time, was your own human needs to eat, sleep and all these other things he did not have to worry about.

But you wonder, why in all of the galaxies, would a robot be interested in sex with a human such as yourself? Well, when Darius made a robot off of two very sexual beings, and gave it a mind of its own, it didn’t take long before it developed what could be considered feelings and emotional needs, along with urges that could only be stimulated through physical acts. And with Donnie’s brilliant mind inside a robot, he wasn’t above doing a little rewiring or physical addictions on him and his metal brothers, to make such activities with living beings possible. Luckily for Donnie and his brothers, the society of the year 2105, was very accepting of relations between robots, androdis, aliens and humans, allowing them to gain their own experiences - of course without Darius’ knowledge.

Stealth Donnie found the human body very interesting. During sex or sexual acts, he genurally enjoyed watching his partners reactions. And your reactions was more than just interesting and fascinating to Donnie - it was straight up addictive. The way you whimpered and moaned beneath him and his - at times - rigited movements, made him feel like a real living being. As if he wasn’t made of cold metal and steel, but that he was a real and loveable person, who you had decided to put your love and attraction onto.

Donnie enjoyed putting you in different positions, seeing how each of them had their own effects on the pleasure you received. He always took notes on the things that you liked and disliked, using the data to make sure that each time you were together, would bring up pleasure in ways you had never experienced before.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Yk all do considering… What if you blatantly just did NB x NB with a vampire and werewolf. Make it as spicey as you want right but either way hey lean into the gender neutral thing! There’s like 𝘯𝘰 rep of non binary on non binary action. Enemies to allies to friends to lovers type beat too. Either way hope ur doing well ik it’s trying times rn but yah 🖤

(In reference to this post I think)

It's not the gender neutral pronouns themselves that are the problem, so much as more the trying to leave a character's physical description as vague as possible.

When I'm writing they/them pronouns, it is rarely about how a specific character identifies, and more about the fact that I'm writing short pieces on the internet and not specifying the sex/gender of the characters means people's imaginations can do what suits their desires.

Of course non-binary people exist, have sex and deserve to be able to read smutty scenes that represent that. But real life non binary people still have bodies. They don't float in a middle ground where people can picture any sex/gender/appearance that they want.

It's a purely writing craft issue, in that unlike a lot of scenes where your physicality can be ambiguous, sex involves physical body parts in a way that makes it is very hard to therefore write a concrete spicy scene if you do not give your characters some level of specificity. E.g. you have to at least commit to a certain extent on how sex actually works with your characters. It's not about their identity so much as 'okay, but what are they actually doing? What is happening?'

There's a reason, for example, character x reader fiction still tends to specify the sex/gender of the reader often.

I don't think you need to go into in-depth details about those body parts to write a good spicy scene, but you do need to decide what they are.

You can't have scrodinger's smut, though wouldn't that be something!

(I hope this doesn't read as me jumping on your ask or anything! It's a great idea. I'm just trying to explain the particular potentially niche issue I'm having haha)

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Being Roger's sister and falling for Rayleigh would involve...

Silvers Rayleigh x Gol!reader. Modern AU. Featuring aroace icon Gol D. Roger! (moodboard)

NSFW. Description of pregnancy scare, mentions of past cheating and verbal abuse.

*****

💜 You and Roger are twins, and have been extremely close since childhood, to the extent that people commented that you were the two halves of a single beating heart; always ready to pull the other towards a new adventure or danger, but also to support your sibling and defend them with your life. You love Roger more than anyone else in the world; he's such an important part of your life that without him you wouldn't be yourself anymore, and you know without the need to ask that your more extroverted brother, so at ease in his own skin and able to make friends with practically anyone he wishes to, feels the same for you. As long as the other breathes, neither of you will ever feel alone. 

💜 Your relationship remains solid and affectionate even after Roger decides, with your complete support, to relocate to the distant Loguetown to accept a prestigious work offer. You and your brother call and write to each other every day, but you do miss each other, and the few days Roger comes back home every year for Christmas are not enough. You are both adults, perfectly able to live a productive and happy life without the need for your sibling to hold your hand and intervene to help at the first sign of trouble, but you both feel you’d be much happier if you could spend your lives side by side like you did during your youth. 

💜 “You should move in with me, so we can spend as much time together as we want. You wouldn't even have to look for a place to stay, since my apartment has a second bedroom. The company you work at has just opened a branch office in Loguetown, right? Why don't you request a transfer?” your brother suggests one night during yet another hours-long video chat. You agree it's an excellent idea, and on the next day you talk to your supervisor asking to be reassigned to the new office in Loguetown. It takes four long months, but finally your request is accepted, and you happily pack your bags for the move. 

💜 Roger is, as you expected, elated to have you moving in with him. He meets you at the train station, his beloved straw hat as usual on his head, and you waste no time before embracing, both happy to be reunited. “It’s so good that you're here; I missed you very much.” “I missed you too, Roger; it'll be like the old times!” Your brother accompanies you to the apartment -which is less chaotic and untidy than you expected from the house of a single man; well, a little less at least…- and then he has to leave to return to work. 

💜 “It's fine; I'll get settled and then we can have dinner together when you return.” you propose, and Roger kisses you one last time before leaving you alone. Since you'll only start working at your new office in two days and are therefore not in a hurry, you decide to take your time unpacking in your new room and then cooking dinner for you and your brother, for the first time in years. “But first, I'll take a bath; I really need it, after a whole day spent on the train.”

💜 Half an hour later you feel much better, clean and relaxed - so relaxed, in fact, that while you enjoyed the warmth of the water filling the tub, you didn’t hear the sound of the apartment’s door opening and then closing again. You have just finished drying yourself and put your panties on, and are just retrieving your bra from the pile of clean clothes on the shelf when the bathroom’s door opens, and you find yourself face to face with a man you have never seen before, who stares back at you, slack-jawed, a telltale blush rising on his face as his eyes fall on your almost completely naked body. There is a brief but poignant moment during which you’re both too taken aback to react; then: “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

💜 This is your first meeting with Rayleigh, your brother’s best friend who Roger allowed to use his bathroom since water had been turned off in his own apartment, and who, while well aware that his friend’s sister was moving in, had completely forgotten you would arrive today and would therefore have to use that very bathroom as well. A memorable first meeting, that’s for sure.

💜 Of course, you know all about Rayleigh already; he and Roger have met soon after your brother’s move to Loguetown, and the two were immediately thick as thieves, to the point that your brother seemed physically unable not to mention his new best friend at least once every time the two of you spoke over the phone or he wrote you an email. “Rayleigh told me this; Rayleigh and I did that.” and so on; you heard so much about him that it was almost as if you had actually met the man in person. You were happy Roger, who was missing all his friends back home and you above all, had met someone he liked and found companionship in, even though part of you couldn’t help feeling a little jealous of this man who had become almost as close to your brother as you were. “I can’t wait to introduce the two of you; you’ll love Rayleigh, I’m sure.” Roger had told you a week ago as you discussed the details of your move to Loguetown; he was more right than any of you could imagine at the time, even though it would take you some time to realise it. 

💜 "I am so sorry; I should have knocked, but I had completely forgotten you would come today…” Rayleigh admits when you meet him in the living room, decently dressed once again; he seems sincerely apologetic, and you don’t want to start on the wrong foot with a man who is so important for your brother and you’ll have to meet regularly from now on. “It’s fine, I know it was an accident; let’s just forget about it.” you propose, and then you leave Rayleigh to his bath. Later, you tell him he’s welcome to stay and wait for Roger, since he should be back soon, but he kindly assures you he’ll see your brother at work tomorrow as usual, and that the two of you should have the evening to ourselves. “I’ll see you soon, Roger’s sister.” “I have a name, you know…” “Sorry, sorry; I’ll see you soon, (name).”

💜 By the time Roger is home, you have finished unpacking and even prepared his favourite meal for dinner in celebration. “So you have met Rayleigh, eh? Isn’t he the best?” he asks, completely unbothered by the fact that his friend’s first impression of you was your almost naked body; Roger is asexual, and not only he has never been interested in a relationship of his own, but sometimes he seems to forget romance and sex even exist “By the way, this tastes amazing, (name); I missed your cooking.” “Only my cooking? I’m so disappointed…” “You know what I mean; it’s good that you’re here, I hope you’ll like living in Loguetown.” You share a smile, both well aware that you would be fine living anywhere as long as you and your brother are together and can count on each other.

💜 The first weeks of your stay in Loguetown are hectic but happy. You get settled in your new office, meet your new colleagues, and spend as much time with Roger as you can; your brother accompanies you to explore the city, introduces you to his friends, and does his best not to fall behind on the chores you are now sharing. The years you have spent apart disappear like a bad dream upon awakening; what you shared in your youth has persisted, and you are still the two halves of a single heart, each other’s rock and shield, confidante and supporter. Having your brother as a roommate is not always simple -he doesn’t always clean after himself, discards clothes almost completely when it’s hot and snores loud enough to be heard through the walls- but you genuinely enjoy spending time with him, and happily let him pull you along on his adventures, like you did when you were kids.

💜 And then, obviously, there’s Rayleigh, who as you expected becomes a fixture of your life. Roger, while more clever than some people give him credit for, is sometimes too generous and kind for his own good, which is something people try to exploit, and you’re immediately reassured by the clear evidence Rayleigh is not that kind of person - far from it. The friendship between him and Roger is firm and sincere, Rayleigh’s more reflective personality balancing your brother’s bursts of energy; he’s clever, friendly, polite, not the sort of person who ignores you when he comes visiting Roger - which is something some of your brother’s friends back home did, and that you highly disliked. Without the need to discuss and make plans, the three of you reach an equilibrium: Roger spends some time with you, some time with his best friend, and some with both, you and Rayleigh soon finding out you naturally get along, genuinely enjoying each other’s company rather than enduring it for Roger’s sake. 

💜 In time, you come to consider each other a good friend, without, at least at first, considering the possibility of your relationship developing in a different direction. Rayleigh is attractive; anyone who is not completely blind would easily see it, and what’s more, he’s exactly the sort of man you usually appreciate: tall and strong, a nice smile, endowed with the sort of quiet confidence in himself that brings others to instinctively respect him and at the same time to feel at ease in his presence. You have the chance to see firsthand how strong he is one day, after you have twisted your ankle in a small domestic accident, and he insists on picking you up -as easily as if you weighed nothing- to carry you up the stairs that lead to the apartment. Sometimes, when the three of you squeeze on the sofa in front of the TV, you can’t help but feel the warmth of his body through his arm or thigh pressed against yours; he’s not doing anything improper, but that contact feels undeniably intimate, enough for you to have to stand and retreat to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face to hide the fact that you are blushing. 

💜 Rayleigh, in turn, is acutely aware of how attractive you are; how could he not, given your memorable first meeting, an image he couldn’t forget even if he wanted to? (and he doesn’t.) He’s deeply ashamed of his blunder, even though you have readily forgiven him, so he tries his best not to dwell on it, but at times, when his hand touches yours as he passes you the remote, or you bump into each other at the door, the memory of your naked body fills his mind, and then he has to quickly excuse himself to take a few deep breaths. Picking you up to carry you up the stairs brings you close enough he can perceive your scent, a nameless, pleasant smell that makes him dizzy for a moment, or maybe it’s the sensation of how soft your body feels in his arms. He knows you’re not actively flirting with him, and that is what makes him so acutely aware of you, of the way you sometimes sway your hips gently when you’re busy at the kitchen counter, as if dancing to a music only you can hear, of how good your legs look when the summer heat forces you to wear shorts and even sometimes -the first time Rayleigh’s heart leaps in his throat- a miniskirt.  

💜 Your secret feelings for each other develop more or less simultaneously, and at first neither has the courage to fully confront them - specifically, to consider the possibility they concern the heart as well as other parts of the body. You are both adults, a very handsome man and a very beautiful woman, and you spend a lot of time together; it’s probably natural that you developed an attraction for each other. That’s all that it is, an attraction, a superficial, merely physical impulse that will no doubt fade after a while, and that you better ignore, lest it make things awkward between you, and even more importantly with Roger. You are both confident your brother wouldn’t mind the two of you dating, maybe he would be even happy for you, but what if you were to break up, or to fight? Neither of you wants to force Roger to side with one of you against the other, but splits can be very messy, and the last thing both you and Rayleigh want is to ruin the deep relationship Roger has with the other. So no, it’s better to leave things as they are, and keep your impulses to yourselves; you work much better as friends anyway.

💜 What neither of you knows is that Roger, who you both are sure is in the dark regarding your feelings and desperately want to keep it that way, is perfectly aware of what is going on. He does, after all, knows both you and his best friend better than anyone else, and while completely uninterested in matters like romance and sex himself, has immediately noticed your growing attraction to each other, the way you immediately light up every time Rayleigh walks in the room, and how he smiles to himself when he looks at you. It’s clear that you like each other, and while Roger had never considered the possibility before, simply hoping you and Rayleigh would become friends so that the three of you could spend time together, he’s immediately enthusiastic about the idea. He’s been worried about you, who after a disastrous relationship a few years ago with a man who didn’t deserve you have sworn to remain celibate for the rest of your life, and also knows Rayleigh is not fully satisfied with his current situation of a new woman every month; the two of you getting together would solve both problems.

💜 And so Roger decides to act as a Cupid for the two people he loves the most, creating the right circumstances for the two of you to get together. He has already found the perfect opportunity; a new jazz bar has just opened in town, a type of establishment he knows both you and Rayleigh are fans of, even though he’s not. So one night, as the three of you are eating pizza on the sofa in front of the TV, he offhandedly mentions he has heard about this new place in town, a jazz bar, and why don’t we go take a look sometime? Both you and Rayleigh are immediately enthusiastic, as well as intrigued to discover you have similar musical tastes, and so plans are made for the three of you to visit the jazz bar over the week-end.

💜 Then, on the day you had planned to go, Roger starts complaining he is not feeling well, and even enlists his friend Crocus, a doctor, to tell you he’s sick - nothing to be alarmed about, just a bit of a cold, but he better remain home for a couple days and take a syrup Crocus has already supplied - and then taken back. You and Rayleigh propose to postpone your outing until next week -after all the bar is going nowhere, and your brother had been the one to propose you go- but Roger insists that he doesn’t mind, that he doesn’t want to waste your evening as well as his own, and since Crocus -who is accompanied by his pet Saint Bernard, Laboon- has accepted to remain to keep him company, he doesn’t need the two of you to keep vigil over him. You and Rayleigh share a look, suddenly unsure. “So… you wanna go anyway?” “Sure, why not?”

💜 And so it is that you and Rayleigh spend an evening alone, for the first time. At first both feel a vague awkwardness; this is not a date, you’re both well aware, you’re just two friends who hang out together like you’ve already done, together with others, so many times, but the tension between you is undeniable, so much that you struggle to look each other in the eyes. Fortunately, things get better when you reach the bar, a very nice place downtown; you sit together at a table, order your drinks, and the music helps you both relax. You and Rayleigh spend a very pleasant evening listening to some very good jazz and talking; you’ve never struggled making conversation, but tonight, both because of the relaxed atmosphere of the bar and given the absence of other people you would have to also focus on, you seemingly can’t run out of things to say. You discuss your tastes in music and your jobs and about a certain movie Roger has dragged the two of you to watch last week, but also about your past, your hopes for the future, and all the things that led you to become the people you are today.

💜 It’s pleasant, comfortable and compelling at the same time, and it doesn’t end when you leave the bar, since Rayleigh asks if you want to grab a bite before going home and you happily accept, both because you are famished and because you want the pleasure of being in his company to last as long as it can. You sit in a nearby diner, and the vivid conversation you have shared fades off in an easy silence only broken by the occasional, soft-spoken comment, and the smiles you can’t help but share above your plates. You protest when Rayleigh insists on paying for both of you, but he assures you it’s fine. “Then I’ll pay next time.” you insist without thinking, since you had not discussed the possibility of repeating the experience, but given the happy, relieved smile Rayleigh answers you with, you feel you have no reason to regret your impulsivity. It’s very late when you finally return home; Rayleigh insists on walking you to the door, and you thank him with a kiss on the cheek. “So… this was very nice. I’ll see you soon, alright?” “Yeah, sure. I… I really had fun.”

💜 You feel guilty when, closing the door behind you, you realise you haven’t thought about your brother -a healthy young man, cared for by a capable doctor, but still sick- for the whole evening, but you find a note from Crocus on the table, saying that Roger is fine and he left only a few minutes ago. “How was the bar?” Roger asks innocently on the next day, and you realise you actually paid very little attention to the music, too engrossed as you were in your conversation with Rayleigh - and in him. 

💜 You tell yourself not to get your hopes up, since the fact that he has enjoyed your evening together as much as you did doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to do it again, but exactly one week later Rayleigh texts you to propose you return to the jazz bar together, and you happily accept. “I know it’s not your kind of place, but you’re welcome to come, you know.” you tell Roger, and when he says that if you don’t mind he’d rather do something else, you find that you actually feel relief at the thought you and Rayleigh will be alone, and that is something you can’t quite make sense of. Not even the most affectionate sister would want a brother to tag along on a date, but you and Rayleigh are not dating, those are just… outings between friends, an occasion to spend time with someone who enjoys jazz as much as you do, nothing to feel protective, or even jealous, about… 

💜 But then, why is that exactly what you feel? Why do you feel tense when you see a woman sitting at a table near yours eyeing Rayleigh appreciatively, even though he’s openly ignoring her? Why does your heart leap at the simple touch of Rayleigh’s hand, that has taken yours to help you descend a steep set of steps since you’re a little unstable on your heels? You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the chaste intimacy of your time spent together coupled with Rayleigh’s undeniable natural charm, but in the depth of your heart you know the truth is very different… that you are developing feelings for your brother’s best friend.

💜 Your outings at the jazz bar soon become a regular occurrence; you go together, alone, spend a couple hours there and then go grab a bite at a diner or a burger joint. Nothing special or exciting, many would consider, but those soon become your favourite moments of the week, something you actively look forward to and are excited about. You enjoy Rayleigh’s company and you know he enjoys yours, the way neither of you feels the need to fill the silence you share and at the same time, you never run out of things to talk about. You are attracted to him, soon it becomes impossible to ignore it, but while you can’t help wishing your relationship will one day develop into something different from friendship, you’re also perfectly happy with what you have and are now. 

💜 Your growing affection for Rayleigh is the first matter in your life you feel the need to keep secret from Roger. You have always shared everything, but since Rayleigh is his best friend,  and you still have no reason to believe he cares for you the way you do for him, you decide you don’t want to risk making things awkward, or worse tense, between the two of them. You wonder whether Roger, who knows you better than anyone else and has always been able to say when you liked someone, has perceived your interest for Rayleigh; you doubt that, since he makes no mention of it, beyond the occasional question about you enjoying the jazz bar. At times, you are tempted to ask whether Rayleigh ever mentions you while the two of them are together, if he has confided in his best friend that he has developed feelings for you. But if he has, Rayleigh has probably asked Roger to keep it for himself, otherwise your brother would have told you; so you decide to keep your doubts to yourself, wondering whether you should bite the bullet and tell Rayleigh what you feel or it’s better to wait for him to make the first move. 

💜 By the time your relationship finally changes, you and Rayleigh have been regulars of the jazz bar for roughly four months. In the meantime, you have declined an invitation to go out with a colleague you would have otherwise been happy to accept, and Rayleigh has stopped bringing women home ever since he started seeing your face rather than theirs as he had sex - a sight that both aroused and filled him with shame. The time you spend together has made him more and more aware of his growing attraction, a situation he doesn’t know how to deal with; he is almost sure Roger would have nothing against the two of you dating, but knowing how close the two of you are, and how protective your brother is of you, he’s afraid to make things awkward for all three. Moreover, Roger once told him once your latest partner was an asshole who had been verbally abusive and even cheated on you; it’s possible that you might be uninterested in, or not ready for, a new relationship. 

💜 Soon it’s Rayleigh’s birthday, which he celebrates with Roger and his other friends, including you; you gift him an old vinyl record of his favourite jazz singer, something that he had been searching for years and thought impossible to find. He remembers mentioning the matter to you just once, in passing, months ago; that you remembered, and took pains to get him something you knew he would appreciate, matters to Rayleigh more than he could express in words. He can’t thank you the way he wishes to since the apartment is packed with people, but he takes your face in his hands and kisses your forehead softly, the touch sweeter and more intimate than anything you have ever experienced. “Thank you, (name); truly.” “Don’t mention it; I know you have been looking for it.”

💜 “I have been looking for you.” It’s a sudden realisation, a moment of clarity you both experience at the same time as you look at each other, Rayleigh’s hands lingering on your face for a moment before he lets them fall, the delicate touch that makes you shiver “You are what I need. You are what I want. Only you and no one else.” Neither speaks it out loud, but the sensation is almost physically intense, as if you had mentally shared it, and when your eyes meet, both you and Rayleigh know you feel the same. 

💜 The jazz bar closes because of a fault in the power system; two days later, on an evening you had planned on spending alone at home with a good book and a cup of tea, Rayleigh calls you. “Do you want to have dinner?” “Roger is at work.” you point out, since having dinner together is something you have until now done with your brother and other friends; you hear Rayleigh laugh softly. “I know; that’s why I asked.” he explains pointedly, making you blush. “Why don’t you come here? I’ll prepare something good.” you quickly propose. 

💜 Rayleigh arrives an hour later; he’s brought dessert, and flowers - something no one else has ever done for you, and that fills your heart with joy. He keeps you company as you cook, insisting you need no help and he deserves to relax since unlike you he did work today, and as he sits at the counter, nursing a drink and as he observes you he’s struck by how natural that state of things feels - the two of you at home together, relaxing and preparing dinner as you discuss your day and make plans for tomorrow. Rayleigh has been to your and Roger’s apartment a thousand times, but for a moment it’s like that house is his as well - his and yours, where you’re living together as a couple, maybe even raising a family…

💜 "I can feel you staring.” you point out, amused, without turning “What are you thinking about?” “That for some reason any time I’m alone with you there’s music involved.” he answers, without missing a beat. This time the music in question is not jazz, played live by some talented but underpaid musician at the bar, but comes from your laptop on the table: a classic piece. You explain that you like listening to music while you cook or take care of some other house chore, and Rayleigh admits it’s nice, especially since classic music is something most people your age are usually unaccustomed to. “Dance with me.” he adds then suddenly, while you’re busy checking the content of the oven. “Excuse me?” you ask, turning to look at him, and Rayleigh is smiling, his hand extended in offer. “Come on; let’s dance. We have the music, we have the space; dinner can wait for a minute.”

💜 His smile makes it clear, as if you had any reason to doubt, that you’re not forced to accept if you’re not comfortable with it, but a moment later you’re dancing, surrounded by the kitchen’s furniture, the half-finished meal you have been working on for more than an hour completely forgotten, and the soft notes of the music filling the air. This is not your first time dancing, you’ve gone to clubs and parties like most women your age, but it feels different - soft, intimate, chaste but charged with a nameless tension that makes your heart pound, and goosebumps appear on your skin every time your body and Rayleigh’s brush against each other; you’ve wrapped your arms around his neck, his warm hands cradling your hips. “This feels nice.” you murmur after a while; you remember reading somewhere that a dancer shouldn’t stare at their feet, but meeting Rayleigh’s eyes is suddenly the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, even though you can still hear him smile. “It really does.”

💜 You stop when the music does as well; Rayleigh takes your face in his hands, and you forget how to breathe. “You are so beautiful, you know?” he asks, his dark eyes full of tenderness and desire, and you would like to answer that yes, you do know, does he think no man has ever paid you a compliment before?, but you can’t, because he’s going to kiss you, he’s about to, any second now, and now you’re closing your eyes and tilting your face to offer him your mouth… 

💜 … and then the oven buzzer sounds, making you both jump. “Oh, I have to drain the pasta!” you say, and Rayleigh sighs, both amused and exasperated, and holds you close for a moment more before letting you go. Despite that moment of awkwardness, the dinner is a success; Rayleigh appreciates your efforts, and the conversation flows natural and relaxed between you. Having eaten dessert, Rayleigh insists on helping you do the washing-up; it’s then, as you pass him a clean plate to dry and then put back in the cupboard, that you can’t help but ask: “Is dancing something you do with all your girlfriends?” Rayleigh is a bit taken aback, but you assure him you are not blaming, or judging, him; you just want to make things clear, since you like him too much to be nothing more than an item on a list. 

💜 Rayleigh smiles. “So you do like me.” “Come on, don’t tell me you’re surprised. I’m not asking you to promise to be with me forever, just… I’d like to know whether you see us still seeing each other in a month or two, because otherwise we better stop here and remain friends.” Opening your heart like this, expressing your deepest and most intimate emotions, feels scary, but it’s also a relief, not least because you know Rayleigh will not take advantage of your feelings; you see him reflect on your words for a while, until the dishware has been put back in the cupboard, and he’s drying his hands on a rug. “I do see the two of us still seeing each other in a couple of months; at least I hope we will. Hell, I hope we’ll still be together in a couple of years.” he considers “I know saying none of the other women matter, what I feel for you is different sounds corny, but… well, that’s the truth. And I’d like to show you if you let me.” He looks vaguely awkward, rubbing the back of his head as he bites his lip - a far cry from the usually self-confident man you have learned to know in the last year, and that fills your heart with tenderness.

💜 “I can let you.” you assure him, circling his neck with your arms once more, bringing your face close to his “In fact, I can’t wait to see how you’ll convince me of how completely besotted and enamoured with me you are…” “Hmm, don’t flatter yourself…”  

💜 And then finally, finally you are kissing, avidly and passionately, laughing as your mouths chase after each other and Rayleigh’s hands on your hips lift you to sit on the counter. You feel him grin into the kiss, his fingers playing with your hair; kissing Rayleigh feels like a cup of fresh water after a lifetime of thirst, like the warmth of a fire on the coldest day of the year. It’s sweet, gentle and possessive, intense in a way that makes your head spin. You hear Rayleigh moan when you gently bite his lower lip. “You little vixen.” he murmurs, out of breath, and a moment later his tongue is taking possession of your mouth, and you are the one trembling under his touch. 

💜 By the time Roger gets home that night you’ve already gone to bed, and when he opens the fridge to find something to eat, he is pleased to find a portion of your favourite pasta dish - something you usually prepare when you have guests or something to celebrate. Roger smiles to himself as he retrieves the plate from the fridge; you must have invited Rayleigh over taking advantage of his absence. Well done, (name), he thinks to himself, but he avoids asking either of you about it, content with letting things develop naturally. 

💜 You and Rayleigh meet for your first official date on the next day, for dinner and a movie - or at least that was the plan, that is immediately abandoned in favour of an evening spent making out on the sofa in his apartment, and a take-away meal you feed each other. You talk for a while, agreeing to begin an exclusive relationship that you will keep secret, especially from Roger; neither of you feels completely comfortable with keeping a man you both love so much in the dark, but you don’t want to make things awkward in case things between you don’t work out -it might happen, you are both forced to admit; no matter how much you care for each other, attraction and a good friendship don’t always translate into a solid, healthy relationship- and are also not completely sure whether he’d approve, even though the last thing you want is to exclude him from your lives and make him feel like a third wheel. “Let’s keep things to ourselves, shall we? At least for a little while.” Rayleigh proposes as he does his best to suck a love bite on your neck while you, sitting on his lap, play with his hair “Hmm, I haven’t had a secret girlfriend since I was in fourth grade…”

💜 A secret relationship is exciting, you have to admit; you and Rayleigh go on dates and spend time together like any couple, but there are also moments in which having to hide it adds an unexpected thrill to your relationship: hushed kisses stolen every time Roger walks out of the room to grab a snack or go to the bathroom, meeting for dinner when he’s working late, having each other’s number saved under a different name in case he catches a glimpse of the texts you exchange. Your friends, also in the dark regarding the fact that you’re seeing each other, occasionally note that serial-dater Rayleigh has been single for a while and wonder why someone as nice as you can’t get a date; you usually sidestep the issue, avoiding to answer or commenting that you simply haven’t found the right person yet, and then your eyes meet across the room, and you both smile, well aware that you have, and you couldn’t be happier. 

💜 “I never thought to ask; why is that Roger has the initial D in his name and you don’t, even though you’re siblings?” “Ah, that is the million berry question…”

💜 Intimacy is one of the matters you and your partner decide to discuss at the start of your relationship, just to avoid misunderstandings and disappointments. You are pleased to discover that Rayleigh is as attracted to you as you are to him, but, the two of you agree, it’s better not to rush into sex; you can spend time together, get used to your new relationship, and establish boundaries once you are more at ease with each other. You both want sex to mean more than physical contact, and your relationship to be built on a deep emotional connection as well as the promise of shared pleasure. “We have all the time in the world; let’s just enjoy what we have.” you propose one day as you reluctantly get up from Rayleigh’s bed and fix your clothes, fighting the impulse to just lie in his arms, kiss him and discover how loud you can make him scream your name while the two of you are still fully clothed. Rayleigh sighs; he has never forgotten how lovely and enticing you looked that first time he saw you, naked save for your panties, but no matter how good it would feel to worship your beautiful body the way you deserve and feel himself inside you, he wants to prove you how much he sincerely cares for you and how happy he is the two of you have found each other. “Of course; as long as we can spend time together, I’m happy.” 

💜 You become intimate exactly three days later, while Roger is away camping with some friends -you and Rayleigh were also invited to go, but were able to find separate, believable excuses- and you consequently have the apartment to yourself. He buys you dinner at a nice place, you take a stroll hand in hand through the city park, and before you realise you are pulling him into the apartment and then into your bedroom, clothes falling on the floor around you before -ooohh…!- Rayleigh kneels to kiss your core. “You taste so sweet.” he murmurs looking up at you, and soon you’re even less dressed than you were on your first encounter, and you are the one screaming Rayleigh’s name, clawing at his back -something you’ll later apologise for, even though he assures you there is no need; in fact, he’s quite proud he’s carrying the signs of your ardour on his skin- while he moves above you, kissing every inch of your body he can find. 

💜 Once your passion has sated, Rayleigh stands from the bed to go clean himself, and brings you a damp towel and a water bottle, making sure you are comfortable. “So, that happened.” he begins slowly as he sits on the edge of the bed, and you smile at him, pleasantly sore and still hungry for what your partner was so generous in giving you “Any regret?” “At the moment I wouldn’t be able to be sorry about something if I tried.” you admit “And… well, I know this wasn’t what we planned, but I am very happy.” Rayleigh is happy as well, especially after you ask him to stay the night, and he spends the next eight hours holding you in his arms, falling asleep with the scent of your skin filling his senses; on the next morning you bring him breakfast in bed, and neither of you raises for the next four hours. In your heart, you both fear you are moving too fast and it would have been better to wait some more before becoming intimate, but it was so sweet, your bodies moving as if they had known each other a thousand times before… why get worried, when you have something so beautiful and special to find joy and pleasure in? 

💜 And you do; you do feel joy and pleasure in sex with Rayleigh, who soon proves to be the as gentle and passionate a lover as you had hoped him to be. While not exactly submissive, at least as a rule, Rayleigh is the sort of man who finds his pleasure in giving it to others, and exerts his power through service rather than domination. “Come on, (name); is two your limit? You’ll have to do better than that if you want my cock before the end of the night.” he murmurs, damp lips barely detached from your core; he’s told you many times how sweet you taste, and soon the compliment doesn’t only refer to the flavour of your lips “Can you scream my name, darling? I want the neighbours not to be able to look at me in the face tomorrow; if you’re loud enough, I’ll let you tie me to the bed. I want to see your beautiful body above mine, you know how crazy it drives me to see your tits bouncing…” 

💜 Your breasts are the part of your body he likes the most - to kiss, to bite, to lick, to fuck with his cock snuggled between them, to rest his cheek against as you cuddle on the sofa, to admire as they jiggle when he asks you to walk around the apartment naked, to stimulate so that he can see your nipples through your shirt. “You’ve got the most gorgeous boobs in the world.” he murmurs as he fills his hands with them, you sitting on his lap “I want to spend the rest of my life playing with them…” The part of his body you like the most are his hands, large and strong, well-groomed and calloused, the touch both gentle and vigorous when the situation calls for it; you like to see him cradle your waist in them or hold you in place as his hips pound against yours, the way one of them rests on your waist to pull you close, possessiveness tensing his touch, and how he runs then along your naked skin, as if he were savouring it through touch before enjoying your lovemaking. “Sometimes you only need to touch me to feel aroused. Even if you’re just helping me descend some stairs, or handing me a pen; I feel your hands on me, and my skin is on fire.” you confess one night, drunk with pleasure, as you catch your breath together lying on Rayleigh’s bed, and he smiles, both smug and awed. “I better touch you as much and as long as I can, then.”

💜 Rayleigh’s favourite position is anything with you on top, straddling him, but he sometimes hugs you from behind, pressing his erection against you, and a minute later you’re bent over the bed, the table, the kitchen counter or any surface can give you the necessary support, skirt lifted or trousers lowered to expose your ass, moaning his name as he pounds into you. You like to do it standing against the wall, or the more soft, intimate sex, legs intertwined as  Rayleigh’s weight presses you against the mattress and he starts slowly, gently moving against you, your mouths meeting in a kiss as you run your fingers through his hair to keep him from breaking it. 

💜 He likes the scent of your hair, having you sit on his lap, stealing kisses in the darkness of a movie theatre. You like taking his glasses off before a kiss, snuggling against his side, and surprising him with lunch at work (“Nothing for your poor, starving brother?” “Oh, stop it, Roger, here’s yours.”). You experiment with toys together, you both arrive late at work because of morning sex, he buys lingerie for you, you spray cream on his torso to then lick it clean. You have sex in both of your homes, at work, in the car, in the open. 

💜 Rayleigh is disappointed when you tell him you don’t feel comfortable with nudes, knowing all too well how easy it is for a phone to be stolen or hacked, but his mood is immediately improved when he starts receiving some very explicit texts when you’re apart, to the point that in a couple of occasions he has to excuse himself, and reach the closest bathroom, or even a storage closet while he’s at work, to rub one out, his free hand holding the phone and his teeth biting his lip to keep a scream from escaping. He occasionally returns the courtesy, his words, both lurid and romantic, a promise your partner never fails to keep. 

💜 He finds out you were part of the cheer squad in high school, and he’s enthusiastic about the old pictures you show him, confessing he had a thing for cheerleaders as a teenager - and not only then. A quick trip to your family home later -thank God your mother never throws anything away- and you have a new outfit, pompoms included, to welcome your partner home, who is immediately grateful. 

💜 It’s not all sex, though. There are the long walks you take around the city, your hand held in his as you naturally learn to move at the same pace; the evenings spent cuddling in front of the TV, the warmth you share much more pleasant than the one a blanket or a heather could produce; the way Rayleigh likes to fall asleep with his cheek resting against your chest, for no other reason than the possibility to listen to your heartbeat; the comfort wearing an old shirt of his brings you when you’re apart, the softness of the fabric under your hands reminding you of the way he has to touch you, delicate and reverent as if you were some precious treasure. With none of your previous partners intimacy has ever meant so much for you - the quiet, crystal-clear awareness of what you share, of the feeling that is different from friendship and much deeper than desire or passion, and that has brought so much joy into your lives. 

💜 Your desire to keep your relationship secret from Roger is equally short-lived. Barely a month after your first night together, you and your partner are together in the living room, you sitting on the table in your underwear with your legs wrapped around Rayleigh’s hips. You have completely lost track of time, and are therefore taken completely aback when the apartment’s door opens, and a moment later Roger steps in the room. “What the fuck, you guys?!”

💜 You are both completely mortified, especially when a vaguely aghast but still smug Roger points out that he knew already you had started seeing each other, and is even able to say exactly when your relationship started, the night Rayleigh came over for dinner and you prepared your famous pasta. “Couldn’t you take this somewhere else, though? (name), you have a perfectly usable bed just ten feet away, and we eat on that table! Rayleigh, no, don’t turn, there are parts of a man’s anatomy regarding which even a best friend ought to remain in the dark…”

💜 Roger moves to go to his room, leaving you the necessary privacy for your affair, and seems to find it strange that both you and your partner want to talk. “About what?” “You are… alright with this? We don’t want to make things weird, or that you might disapprove…” He shrugs, simply says he’s happy for you, and the fact that you’re now a couple doesn’t really change things for him. “We’re still hanging out together, yes? All three of us, I mean, and me with both of you.” he asks, not particularly worried, and after you and Rayleigh have reassured him in this regard, he says that it’s fine and he’s gonna go take a nap now, why don’t you get some pizza for dinner?

💜 “I feel a bit dumb.” you admit once you and your partner have been left alone. Rayleigh nods; the fact that the issue you have both been agonizing over for weeks literally resolved itself with no drama, in less than two minutes, feels a little unreal. “Me too; and relieved, as well. Do you wanna go to your room?” “Yeah, sure.” He picks you up to carry you to your bed, and two hours later the three of you get some pizza to eat as you watch a movie.

💜 You soon discover that promising yourselves, each other, and Roger that you and Rayleigh’s relationship wouldn’t lead you to neglect him soon prove to superfluous, simply because both you and your partner love your brother and sincerely enjoy spending time with him, not to mention Roger is not the sort of needy person who constantly demands the attention of his loved ones, not even from the two people he is closest to in the world. Your brother is perfectly fine with the two of you spending the night together, or ditching him for one night to go on a date, and he doesn’t feel the need to threaten Rayleigh with the classic If you hurt her I hurt you discourse. Why should he, when he knows the sort of man his friend is and can see firsthand how happy he makes you? 

💜 This is not to say Roger is completely at ease with hearing about you and your partner’s love life…

“What’s this thing you have bought?” “It’s lube; Rayleigh tries to be gentle, but when one is as hung as he is, he can’t fit fully inside without help…”  “Oh my God, (name)...!” 

“Why are you still standing? Your chair is over there.” “I know, but your sister bought a strap-on two days ago, my bottom still hurts…” “Rayleigh…!”

💜 … but accidents are far and between, since you and Rayleigh make sure to only enjoy your sex life behind closed doors, or at least when you’re alone for the day. Roger sometimes retaliates by asking, out loud and when you’re surrounded by your friends, when you’re planning to tie the knot, or to make him a proud uncle, and grins when both you and Rayleigh blush. 

💜 “So, we’re sort of brothers now, you and I.” Roger comments one night as the two of them are enjoying a beer on the terrace, alone since you’re busy with work; Rayleigh reflects for a moment before smiling into his drink. “I think we have been brothers for a while already.” he points out; they share a smile, their bottles clink, and a companionable silence falls on them. 

💜 You and Rayleigh discuss your exes. You are ashamed to admit you let your former partner abuse you verbally for several months and only broke up with him after you discovered he had cheated on you: Rayleigh sighs, and he promises that he’ll do better, even though the bar is so low it doesn’t really require an effort on his part. You know he dated several women before you, and while you don’t blame him for it -he’s an adult, you weren’t together yet, and you can’t very well blame other women for wanting to be with him, can you?- you have to admit the thought does make you worry a little, the most uncertain part of you fearing he could lose interest in you like he has done with most of them, or decide he’d rather go back to one of his exes. “Listen, (name); do you trust me?” “Of course I do.” “Then believe me when I say I feel much more for you than I have for any woman I have met before. Why would you focus on the past, when we have a future to build together?”

💜 A couple of months later, you and Roger take a day to yourselves; you visit a flea market, eat ice-cream, drive around singing along with the radio, like you used to do when you were teenagers, going on adventures that brought you no more than twenty miles from home, with the car you had borrowed without asking from your parents. “I have missed this.” you murmur at some point, back pressed against the side of the car while Roger, his beloved straw hat protecting him from the sun rays, pays at the gas station’s self-checkout; he grins. “I have too; but we won’t anymore.” “Yeah, good idea.” In those moments, no matter how much you like Rayleigh and enjoy his company, you don’t miss him; your brother is and remains the other half of your soul, your best friend, the one who knows your heart and mind as well as and even better than you do. As long as he’s alive, you know you’ll never be alone. 

💜 You return home late, passing through Rayleigh’s neighbourhood on your way to the apartment. “Shall we stop? You want to say hello?” Roger proposes; “No, it’s fine; I’ll text him we’re back, and I’m meeting him tomorrow for lunch.” you answer serenely. No matter how much the two of you enjoy each other’s company, neither wants to be the sort of clingy partner who demands the totality of the other’s time and attention, and you trust he won’t take advantage of your day out to meet another woman behind your back. “Alright.” Roger simply says, driving past your partner’s apartment complex, but you know him well enough to perceive he’s not completely at ease - rather, that he’s trying to find the words to express something that maybe isn’t even fully clear in his heart. “Roger, what’s wrong?”

💜 It takes your brother a minute to answer, his eyes fixed on the street. “Are you happy? With him, I mean.” he begins slowly, his expression hidden by the night’s shadows you’re driving through “I mean, I know every couple fights now and then, and he’s a good man, and that you’ve only been together a couple of months, but… are you happy, (name)?” 

💜 He’s afraid, you realise with a pang. Your brother, a man who at times looks too reckless and life-avid to know fear, is scared - not for himself, but for you, because he knows how much pain you have already experienced because of partners who didn’t respect you; and he also knows how much you actually care for Rayleigh, and how losing him, even for no fault of yours or his, would break your heart. “I am.” you murmur, resting your hand on his and soothingly as if you were talking to a child who woke up screaming from a nightmare, and not a man who is the same age as you, and probably much smarter and braver “I am happy with him; deliriously so, Roger. There’s nothing you need to worry about.”  

💜 “Alright.” he murmurs, still without looking at you, as if ashamed of his doubts; having left the car you share a hug, and hold hands as you reach the door.

💜 Like Rayleigh had predicted and hoped, you’re still together a year later, your relationship solid and affectionate; unfortunately, this is when you encounter your first crisis - a pregnancy scare, that terrifies both you and Rayleigh. “What are we gonna do?” you ask him, and maybe for the first time your partner has no answer. In his heart, he knows he’s not ready to have a child, and while he doesn’t want to abandon you with an issue you created together he can’t help feeling there’s something wrong about bringing into the world a child who was not wanted. What if you end up losing each other because of this? He’s never been happier than in that year you shared, and he doesn’t want it to end, but what if it does…?

💜 “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together.” he promises softly, sitting on the edge of your bed with his arm draped across your shoulders, the position allowing him to perceive you are literally shaking with fear “And whatever you decide to do, I’ll respect it, you have my word.” You nod silently, the positive pregnancy test still in your hands, and hide in his embrace as you try to imagine a future that has never felt so full of doubts and uncertainties. You still have a little time to decide what to do, and you and Rayleigh spend much time talking and discussing the different options; “I am so sorry for this.” you murmur, and your partner, while tense, simply kisses your brow and tells you it’s fine, he’s not angry, and just wants to do what’s best for both of you - a much better reaction than the one a couple of your female friends had in the same situation, according to what you have been told. You’re not ready to be a mother, you don’t want to be a mother, at least for the time being, but at night, as you lie in Rayleigh’s bed and feel the soothing touch of his hand on your hip, you think that one day, when the time is right and the circumstances are as well, he will be an amazing father…

💜 And then all the fear for the future, all the stress and guilt and anxiety, meet an abrupt end when, only a few hours before your first doctor appointment -you told Rayleigh you could go by yourself, but he insisted on asking for some time off at work to be able to accompany you- your get your period, sudden and abundant, and the doctor confirms that you needn’t worry about deciding whether terminating your pregnancy or keep the baby anymore. Neither you nor Rayleigh talk during the drive home, but once you’re together in his apartment you hold each other and both shed a few tears, whether of relief or disappointment or simply to express the surge of emotion bursting from your hearts you couldn’t tell. “This is good, right? I mean, this is what we both wanted.” you tell him, and your partner nods silently, and it’s true, one-hundred percent true, you should be happy, you are happy, but then why do tears keep running down your cheeks…?

💜 “We are… fine, right? The two of us, I mean.” Rayleigh asks hesitantly after a while, and some would say he simply did what was expected of him as your partner and father of the child, remaining with you and promising to support you whatever you decided to do, but you do feel grateful for his comfort, for his quiet and solid presence by your side and for the way he did his best to reassure you even though he was terrified himself - you feel grateful for having him as part of your life. “I love you, you know?” you murmur; you’ve never told him before, even though at the moment you don’t realise it “So damn much.” “I love you too, (name); and whatever happens I promise I’ll never leave you.”

💜 Three more years pass; on the day of your fourth anniversary, as a gift, Rayleigh gives you an envelope that contains the purchase contract of a larger apartment in the same neighbourhood; the contract is not signed, but it has been compiled in both of your names. “It’s fine if you want to think about it, I have some pictures of the place…” “Yes! Yes, of course I want to!” you exclaim happily, throwing your arms around him; Rayleigh picks you up to spin you around, and exactly a week later, once you’ve visited the apartment and had a talk with your bank, you officially buy it together.

💜 Roger is obviously happy for you; the truth is Rayleigh discussed the matter with him before broaching the topic with you, and your brother encouraged him to do it, confident it would have made you happy. “I will miss you, though.” he mentions quietly as he helps you pack your things for the move “No, you won't.” “What do you mean? Of course I will, we have lived together for five years…” “You won’t get to miss me, Roger, because you’ll still meet me, and him, every day or almost.” you assure him decisively “Keep your friday nights free from now on, alright?” “Yes ma’am!” 

💜 When you return to the new apartment after the move, Rayleigh picks you up to carry you through the threshold; there are still boxes around, some pieces of furniture are missing and the gas won’t be installed until tomorrow, but as you look around yourself, and no matter how much you have liked sharing the apartment with your brother and still think fondly about your family house, you are more than happy, you are thrilled, to begin this new chapter of your life. “Welcome home, (name).” Rayleigh murmurs fondly as he pulls you close, and you smile, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I am home.” you agree “And I always will be, as long as you are with me.” 

[changenameno]

Fingerblast PART 1

(Complete, link for the second part, down below ⬇️)

Summary:

It’s the middle of summer and therefore incredibly hot. Of course right then something had to be wrong with your AC. How fortunate for you that a handyman can come right over…

Pairing: Syverson x Short Fem. Reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, cursing, explicit description of sex, thirst trap named Sy, teasing, size kink, chasing?, choking (if you squint?), p in v (use of y/n = Your first name) -> most of these warnings apply to the second part

Word count: 1.3 K

A/N: Okay here goes my first attempt at writing smut…This is way longer than I intended it to become, whoops. Honestly this just came to me while stumbling over a song (aka the title of this specific fic 🤣). Also I think this reads a little like a bad porn video SORRY…but anyway….here goes nothing🙈😅….

It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/reblogs are very appreciated…Thank you❤️✨

!Syverson is not my own creation (unfortunately)! And the song/lyrics don’t belong to me either!

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PART 1

It hadn’t even been twenty minutes since you’ve called but apparently the handyman had just arrived, if the heavy rumble of tires on gravel was anything to go by. So you made your way onto your porch, because honestly it didn’t make any difference if you’d wait in- or outside.

The heat had been crawling into your house since sunrise and now it was nearly more stifling inside, than out on your shaded porch. And at least here the stone beneath your bare feet was somewhat cooling.

You squinted at the huge red pickup truck now parked not far from your house.

Whoever was still seated inside was listening to music, clearly above a healthy decibel level, because you could hear it blasting even from where you stood quite a distance away.

At that exact moment the door swung open and you heard just a snippet of the song still playing, “Use my index, I can use my thumb.

Even use my pinky, it'll make you come. Close your eyes, it'll happen real fast

I just got you off with a fingerblast…”.Before you could hear more the door of the truck shut loudly. The sudden noise almost startling you.

Shaking your head you tried to compose yourself after overhearing what must have been a most charming song. You took a step forward, hell bent on pretending you hadn’t heard anything. Only now you’d noticed the mammoth of a man that had existed the truck.

Chiding yourself on how you hadn’t noticed him before.

You wrote it off as shock, because how else could you not have noticed the biggest fricking man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Said man raised his left hand in greeting, while pushing his sunglasses up on his shaved head with the other. He wore a red T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. Realizing you stared way too long at the handsome stranger without reciprocating his greeting, you quickly waved back; albeit a bit too late, as he had already turned his back to you.

Fortunately for you, he took his sweet time getting to his toolbox or whatever. Giving you the perfect opportunity to stare some more and that you did.

Good god, how did his shirt not rip when he moved? All that muscle had you salivating.

As he turned towards you, with his toolbox in hand, you couldn’t help but notice the ominous bulge in his shorts.

And then one thought lead to another, having you think about, how something entirely different would most certainly rip, upon his movement. That image had you clenching and swallowing thickly.

“Hey, I take it, you’re hav’n problems with your AC?” he drawled in a rough southern accent. You didn’t trust your voice, lest only a squeak would leave you, so you shook your head yes.

“Alright then, may I come ‘n?” He continued, an amused expression on his face, after you didn’t make a move to let him past you or into your house.

Finally you found your voice again, “Mmh yes, please do come…in,” you finished awkwardly, wanting to hit yourself for behaving like a middle schooler with a major crush.

It didn’t seem to bother him though, he simply chuckled deeply and entered your living room. As he walked by, you caught a whiff of his colon along with what must be his own natural musk, making you swoon on the spot. Damn it, he even smelled fucking fantastic.

From inside he called, “The name ‘s Syverson by the way, if you were wonderin’. But everyone calls me Sy anyway.”

Taking a second to draw a deep breath to calm your nerves and more accurately calm your ovaries, you headed in, after him.

He was standing in the middle of your living room, toolbox standing on your little coffee table, taking in your interior. Shaking your head, as if you could rid yourself of any indecent thoughts, you studied him once more.

Sy was big in every way possible, from his height, to his built and presence. Easily taking over your normally at least middle sized living room, making it seem shrunken.

This time you were a little bit more prepared when his sparkling blue eyes landed on you. Smiling you replied, “I’m y/n. Thank you for being here so quickly. The AC is right over there.” With a wave of your hand, you gestured in the direction of your adjacent kitchen, where the damned thing was let into the wall. He picked up the toolbox once more, before he followed closely behind.

As you lead the way into the kitchen, you could feel him staring at you hungrily, making you shiver from anticipation alone.

Sy swallowed thickly as the white dress you wore, showed even more of your pretty legs, with every bouncy step you took. Once in the kitchen you pointed up, at the opened AC. “I don’t know what seems to be the problem, normally if I do this…” you tried reaching the green button, even going as far as getting on your tiptoes, to show him, what normally did the trick.

As if hypnotized, he kept staring at the hem of your dress continuing to ride up, now almost getting a glimpse of your perfectly white panties. Fuck it, he thought as he drew impossibly closer, putting the toolbox on the kitchen counter in one swift movement.

You squeaked in response, when you felt his broad chest collide with your back. Before you could lose your balance, a beefy arm pulled you back by your midsection and against his sturdy body. A hot breath tickled your ear as he growled, “Darlin’ that dress of yours, might be a tad short for what you had in mind.”

His deep, lust filled voice made you reckless so you purred right back,” Mmmh I think it’s quite perfect for what I had in mind, no?” To emphasize your point, you pushed your rear purposefully against his groin, making him growl some more. “Careful there sweetheart, once the beast is awakened, it got a hankering…and…for one thing only.” You could undoubtedly hear his cocky grin. So you playfully replied, “Oh no, we certainly don’t want that now, do we? You know what they say, about sleeping dogs …”

Following your teasing you grabbed his arm and swiftly pulled it away to be able to slip from his grasp. Striding over to the door, making sure to sway your hips, all the while stifling your giggles. When you turned around, lightly leaning against the doorway, Sy still stood unmoving, glaring at you with dilated pupils. He was sure he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted to have you.

One more push and you knew you had him right where you wanted him. You bit the insides of your cheeks, trying to conceal the gleeful smile forming on your lips. Deliberately slow you blinked up at him, readying yourself for what you were about to do next, “Catch me if you can…” You didn’t wait for his reaction, you just bolted through the doorway and straight up the stairs.

PART 2

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[blorger]

Good evening team, thank you all for being here. We are gathered here today to discuss the unadulterated delight that is Luna Lovegood.

Luna is hands down one of my favorite characters: not only does she march by the beat of her own drum but she's endlessly kind and understanding in a way that JKR's other characters just aren't. In a book series that permeates meanness, Luna is a much-needed breath of fresh air.

I hardly think I'm alone in feeling like this; in orbiting around the fandom for years, I've gathered the impression that Luna is universally beloved. There's no anti-Luna factions of the fandom, no one is writing Luna-critical meta and I've yet to see a negative depiction of her in fics (this is not a request to be proved wrong btw).

Come, dear reader, and join me in appreciating what is perhaps one of jkr's best characters (no doubt unintentionally); let us take a journey through canon in this,

pt.1 : WHO IS LUNA?

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Luna Lovegood is introduced to us on the train ride to Hogwarts in book 5; this is how she is first described:

This is the first (and last) time we are given a detailed physical description of Luna: she has long, unkept dirty-blond hair, very pale eyebrows and protruding eyes.

The only part of that description that gets regularly mentioned from this moment on is her eyes, no doubt to constantly remind us that she's supposed to be a bit of a nutter (the phrase "crazy eyes" is common for a reason):

and

and

and

and

You get the jist. JKR loves to point out Luna's eyes, with strangely disturbing words to boot (is it just me or do the descriptors used for her eyes sound weirdly disgusting?); Luna's strangeness is so in-your-face it physically manifests in her appearance.

Like I previously noted with Neville, as the story's tone shifts with the advent of the second wizarding war Luna's character is treated less and less cartoonishly; in tandem with that, the eye mentions gradually dwindle down. So long weirdly evocative eye descriptions, a Good Guy apparently can't be Good and look goofy at the same time.

MOVEMENT

and

and

and

Walking is for the common folk, Luna glides and drifts; she appears suddenly and she ambles away just as mysteriously. Her movement's nature contributes to our general impression of Luna: she is less like a schoolgirl and more like a mystifying force of nature.

TONE

Through a very rigid study (I kept a tally of all the descriptors used for Luna's voice) I have come up with the 5 most Luna-ish tones:

Luna's speech provides a succint summary of her character: she's easygoing and imperturbable, a dreamer who lives in her own world.

A notable exception to this occurs whenever she talks to Hermione. Most of the two's conversations involve a clash about Luna's beliefs of some sort (something I will go into more detail on later), therefore her speech fittingly changes from dreamy to stern: in these instances Luna speaks coldly, witheringly, solemnly and angrily. It seems that there are limits to what Luna is willing to overlook and Hermione runs into every single one of them.

Luna's tone also changes in dangerous (and somber) situations; in these instances she speaks hopelessly and sadly and she whispers in the Department of Mysteries and the Malfoy Manor dungeons (this is notable because no-one else around her is whispering).

BIO

Luna Lovegood (provisionally named Lily Moon and intended to be a yearmate of Harry's in early drafts) is the only child of wizard conspiracy theorist and Quibbler editor Xenophilius Lovegood and the late Pandora Lovegood, mad scientist extraordinaire.

Luna lost her mother at an early age, something that has undoubtedly had a profound effect on her, but she appears to have a very close relationship with her father. This is something that can be observed not only from just how distraught Xenophilius is at his daughter's kidnapping in DH

and

but also by how they address eachother: Luna is the only person in the books who regularly calls their father "daddy" and, in their only scene together, Xenophilius openly displays affection for his daughter by calling her "my love".

The Lovegoods reside in or near Ottery St. Catchpole; we know this through their very first mention in the books, when their neighbours Arthur Weasley and Amos Diggory discuss their whereabouts at the beginning of GoF:

"there", in this instance, is Dartmoor, host of the 1994 Quidditch World Cup (yes, apparently Luna was at the world cup final).

Luna is a year younger than Harry, she's is a Ravenclaw student and a known eccentric who is perhaps best known among her classmates for her eclectic sense of style and her many bizarre convictions.

LUNA'S BELIEFS

Luna is shown to believe unquestioningly in her father and the stories he publishes on the Quibbler, a newspaper of dubious veracity that seems to mix serious investigative journalism with far fetched conspiracy theories. Many of Luna's beliefs seem to center around the existence of various magical creatures and, though they are often hotly challenged by Hermione Granger, we are given no conclusive proof of their veracity... though we can hazard a guess, since Hermione is one of jkr's designated truth tellers and all around exposition machines (together with Dumbledore).

Luna believes in the existence of:

the Blibbering Humdinger

the Crumple- Horned Snorkack (possibly reside in Sweden, have self-mending horns that can be mistaken for an Erumpent's and also explode)

Heliopaths (spirits of fire, "great tall flaming creatures the gallop across the ground burning everything")

Nargles (often infest mistletoe)

the Umgubular Slashkilter (implied to be dangerous, Fudge is said to own one)

Aquavirus maggots (apparently bred by the ministry)

Wrackspurts (invisible, "they float in your ears and make your brain go fuzzy", their presence can somehow be sensed)

Gulping Plimpies (can be warded off by gurdyroots, the radish-like bulbs Luna often wears as earrings)

an unnamed creature (purple and hairy, has tiny little ears like a hippo, can be summoned by humming, preferably a waltz)

Conspiracy theories backed by Luna:

Cornelius Fudge has had several goblins assassinated in order to gain control of Gringotts

Cornelius Fudge uses the Department of Mysteries to develop terrible poisons that he uses to off anyone who disagrees with him

Sirius Black is secretly innocent and also actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of the Hobgoblins

Rufus Scrimegour is secretly a vampire

the Aurors and other unnamed ministry insiders are working to take down the Ministry of Magic from within "with a combination of dark magic and gum disease"; this is known as the Rotfang Conspiracy

Miscellaneous beliefs held by Luna:

the existence of an illness called Loser's Lurgy; Zacharias Smith appears to suffer from it during the quidditch match Luna commentates

garden gnomes's bites have many benefits and can gift you unexpected talents. Xenophilius informs Luna of this at Bill's wedding and we can assume that Luna believs him.

This concludes part 1, join me next time as we examine other people's opinion of Luna and her relationship with her friends.

xoxo