#even when things are urgent. people are understanding and nice

[spacebell]

I’ve had a couple of funny interactions at work that make me feel lighter

[elryuse]

One Day In Bahamas

Jennie X Male Reader

Tags : Strangers to Lovers, Naughty Activities, Slight Exhibitionism, Kissing, Light Spanking and Choking, Creampie, Slight Dominant Jennie Words : 2.296 Words

The plane touched down in the Bahamas, and you stepped out into the warm, salty air. The sun kissed your skin, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore filled your ears. You had planned this trip for months, envisioning it as a wild adventure with your friends. But life had other plans. One by one, they’d bailed—work, relationships, sudden bouts of responsibility. And now here you were, alone, with nothing but your suitcase and a sinking feeling of disappointment.

You checked into your beachfront resort, the kind of place that made you feel like you were living in a postcard. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, and the pool sparkled like liquid sapphire. You dropped your bags in your room, changed into swim trunks, and headed for the beach. Maybe the ocean could wash away the loneliness.

You stretched out on a lounge chair, the sun warming your skin, when a shadow fell over you. You glanced up, squinting against the brightness, and there she was. Jennie. You recognized her instantly, her face a fixture on your screen for years. But seeing her in person was something else entirely. She was wearing a swimsuit-style bikini that hugged her petite, toned body perfectly—black with red accents that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and her lips curved into a playful smile as she looked down at you.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, her voice melodic, tinged with a hint of mischief.

You blinked, unsure if this was real or some sun-induced hallucination. “Uh… sure,” you managed to stammer, gesturing to the empty lounge chair beside you.

She sat down, crossing her legs gracefully, and tilted her head to look at you. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind. Vacation not going as planned?”

You laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. “You could say that. My friends bailed on me last minute. So it’s just… me.”

Her eyes sparkled with understanding. “Sometimes being alone isn’t so bad. You might even discover something—or someone—you weren’t expecting.”

The way she said it sent a shiver down your spine. Was she flirting? Or was this just Jennie being Jennie—charming, effortless, impossible to read.

The two of you fell into easy conversation, talking about everything and nothing. She was funny, quick-witted, and surprisingly down-to-earth. You found yourself laughing more than you had in months. Hours slipped by, and before you knew it, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.

“I should probably head back,” she said, standing up and stretching. “It was nice meeting you.”

You hesitated, not ready to let the moment end. “Hey, Jennie… would you want to get dinner or something? If you’re not busy, I mean.”

She turned to look at you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Dinner led to drinks, and drinks led to walking along the beach under the moonlight. The air between you was thick with something unspoken, something electric. You could feel the tension building with every step, every glance, every accidental brush of your hand against hers.

“You’re different,” she said abruptly, stopping and turning to face you. “I mean, I meet a lot of people, but you… you’re not like them.”

“Is that a good thing?” you asked, your voice low.

She stepped closer, her eyes locking with yours. “It’s a very good thing.”

And then she kissed you. Her lips were soft, warm, and tasted faintly of the cocktail she’d been drinking. Your hands found her waist, pulling her closer as her tongue teased against yours. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more desperate. She broke away first, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

“Let’s go back to your room,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the waves.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The walk back was a blur, your heart pounding in your chest as you fumbled with the keycard to your room. The door clicked open, and she pushed you inside, her hands immediately going to the waistband of your swim trunks. She pulled them down, freeing your cock, and sank to her knees in one fluid motion.

Her lips wrapped around you, and you let out a groan, your hands tangling in her hair. She took you deep, her tongue swirling around the tip before she pulled back, only to take you in again, deeper this time. Your knees weakened as she worked you with her mouth, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was savoring every second.

“Jennie,” you gasped, your voice ragged. “You’re driving me crazy.”

She looked up at you, her eyes dark with desire. “Good. That’s the point.”

Her hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as she took you all the way, her nose brushing against your stomach. You moaned, your fingers tightening in her hair as she started to move, bobbing her head up and down with increasing speed. The sensations were overwhelming, every nerve in your body on fire.

She pulled away suddenly, standing up and pushing you onto the bed. “My turn,” she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

She straddled you, grinding against your cock as she leaned down to kiss you again. Her hands roamed over your chest, down your sides, and then she reached back, giving your ass a sharp smack. You gasped, the sting mixing with the pleasure in a way that made your head spin.

“You like that?” she teased, her voice dripping with mischief.

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She laughed, a low, sultry sound, and leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Good. Because I’m just getting started.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond. Her hands moved with purpose, untieing the strings of her bikini top in one fluid motion. The black and gold fabric slipped away, revealing her supple breasts, the tips already stiffening in the air. You couldn’t help but stare, your breath hitching as she smirked, fully aware of the effect she had on you.

“Eyes on me,” she teased, her voice low and playful. Her fingers trailed down her body, pausing just above the waistband of her bikini bottoms. With a deliberate slowness, she peeled them off, letting them fall to the floor. Her bare skin glowed in the soft light, every curve and line of her petite, toned body more mesmerizing than the last.

She stepped closer, her hips swaying with an almost hypnotic rhythm. “Do you like what you see?” she asked, her voice dripping with confidence. You nodded, your throat dry, your cock throbbing with want. She giggled, a sound that was both innocent and devilish, before sinking to her knees in front of you.

Her hands rested on your thighs, her fingers digging in slightly as she leaned forward. Her breath was warm against your skin as she kissed the tip of your cock, her lips soft and inviting. You groaned, your hips twitching involuntarily. She glanced up at you, her eyes dark with desire. “Good,” she murmured before taking you into her mouth.

The heat of her lips wrapped around you, and you felt your entire body tense. Her tongue swirled around the shaft, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she was savoring every inch of you. Your hands gripped the sheets, your knuckles white as she took you deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate you. She moaned softly, the vibration sending shivers down your spine.

Her rhythm quickened, her head bobbing up and down as she worked you expertly. Her hands gripped your thighs, her nails leaving faint marks as she took you deeper, her throat tightening around you. You could feel the pressure building, the pleasure overwhelming, but she pulled away just before you reached the edge.

“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice breathless but firm. She stood up, her eyes locking with yours as she climbed onto the bed. She straddled you again, her wetness pressing against your cock. She leaned down, her lips brushing against yours as she whispered, “I want to feel all of you.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Your hands gripped her hips, guiding her as she lowered herself onto you. She gasped as you filled her, her nails digging into your chest as she adjusted to your size. She began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm that left you breathless.

Her lips found yours again, her tongue tangling with yours in a kiss that was as hungry as it was tender. Her hands roamed over your body, exploring every inch of you as she rode you with increasing intensity. You could feel the tension building, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable, but she didn’t let up.

One of her hands moved to your neck, her fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly. She squeezed, just enough to make your breath hitch, and you could see the mischief in her eyes. “You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice a mix of dominance and affection. You could only nod, your entire body consumed by her.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “I want to hear you beg.” Her words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you found yourself murmuring her name, your voice trembling with need. She laughed softly, her breath hot against your skin, and you knew that this was just the beginning.

Her breath was hot against your ear as she whispered, “Turn me over.” Her voice was low, commanding, yet laced with a teasing undertone that sent shivers down your spine. You didn’t hesitate, your hands slipping from her hips to guide her onto her knees. Jennie's back arched, her hips raised, and her ass was presented to you like an offering. The sight alone made your cock throb, still slick from her tightness, and you couldn’t resist running a hand over the curve of her cheek.

Her skin was warm, glowing under the soft light filtering through the curtains. You gave her a light smack, the sound sharp and satisfying, and she let out a gasp that quickly turned into a low, throaty moan. “Harder,” she demanded, her voice trembling with need. You obliged, spanking her again, firmer this time, watching as her body jolted forward, her pussy clenching around nothing.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark with desire, and smirked. “Is that all you’ve got?” she teased, her tone dripping with playful defiance. You knew she was goading you, testing your limits, and it only fueled the fire burning inside you. You spanked her again, harder still, and this time her moan was unrestrained, her body quivering as she pressed her hips back toward you.

“Fuck me,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper but laced with urgency. You didn’t need to be told twice. Positioning yourself behind her, you grasped her hips and pushed into her in one smooth, forceful thrust. She cried out, her hands gripping the sheets as you filled her completely. The way her walls clenched around you was intoxicating, and you could feel every inch of her as you began to move.

Your rhythm was slow at first, deliberate, each thrust drawing a moan from her lips. But the more you moved, the more you lost yourself in her. Her ass bounced with every push, the sound of skin against skin mingling with her gasps and whimpers. You reached forward, your hand wrapping around her throat, and she let out a choked moan, her body trembling under your touch.

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice ragged. “Just like that.” Her words spurred you on, and you picked up the pace, your hips slamming into hers with a force that made the bed creak. The sound of her pleasure was music to your ears, and you could feel the tension building, the coil in your stomach tightening with every thrust.

Your hand moved back to her ass, spanking her again, and this time she keened, her body arching as she pushed back against you. Her pussy tightened around you, her walls gripping your cock like a vice, and you groaned, the sensation almost too much to bear. “You’re so fucking tight,” you muttered, your voice strained as you fought to keep your rhythm.

“Good,” she panted, her voice husky. “Then don’t stop.” Her words were a command, and you obeyed, your thrusts becoming more erratic as you chased your release. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, and you could feel her body tensing, her orgasm building just beneath the surface.

You leaned forward, your chest pressing against her back as your lips found her ear. “Cum for me,” you whispered, your voice rough with need. She shuddered, her body convulsing as she came, her pussy clamping down on you so hard it almost hurt. The sensation pushed you over the edge, and with a groan, you buried yourself deep inside her, your release flooding her as her walls milked every last drop from you.

For a moment, everything was still, the only sound the ragged breaths escaping both your lips. Then she turned her head, her lips finding yours in a kiss that was as tender as it was passionate. When she pulled away, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes, and she smirked. “You’re not done yet, are you?” she asked, her voice teasing but with a hint of challenge.

Your cock twitched inside her, still hard, and she laughed softly, her hips grinding against you. “I didn’t think so,” she murmured, her tone dripping with satisfaction.

[skythealmighty]

can you imagine if like. object show characters were active on tumblr . i mean fans on here but his account is dead so. i mean itd be fun

#rocket talk #roc save #Fan come Back we miss you

(0 notes)

💥 fans-fantastic-features Follow

OH MY GOD NEW TPOT EPIWODHWND IM GONNA GO INSANE ONE!!! TELL ME YOUR SECRETS ONE!!!!!!

1️⃣ theoneandonly Follow

:)

💥 fans-fantastic-features Follow

HELLO??

#oh my god HI . THIS IS LIKE IF A CELEBRITY CAME UP TO ME IN PUBLIC. #ARE THE OTHER ALGEBRALIENS ON TUMBLR??? #/WHAT/

(3 notes)

🧪 test-tubular Follow

My best friend is pacing around my lab. I think a new episode's come out on one of his shows...

#I love him (/p) but he's going to become an unskippable cutscene very quickly

(0 notes)

⛔ nowaynuhuh Follow

i love shrimpy but it feels like he rlly doesnt ... get what i mean you know 😔 at least hes trying to cheer me up? i just wish i had someone to really talk to when it comes to these weird things i keep seeing

💼 emotional-baggage Follow

hey, i completely understand how you feel! im going to be busy the next few days with a finale, but ive sent you a dm if you need someone to talk to ^-^

⛔ nowaynuhuh Follow

thanks, ill take you up on that later!

⛔ nowayhuhuh Follow

...suitcase?

#i dont think shes been online since that last post #i hope shes alright...

(5 notes)

💰 goforthegold Follow

Reblogging this every time I miss my co-hosts!

💰 goforthegold Follow

:(

💰 goforthegold Follow

:(

💰 goforthegold Follow

:(

💰 goforthegold Follow

:(

🎮 iamnotmrkrabs Follow

Are you Okay

💰 goforthegold Follow

Take a wild guess.

(512 notes)

🥈 5centwonder Follow

why do people keep messaging me about hotel things?? i barely even go in two's hotel!

🥈 5centwonder Follow

yowie, you all need a hug :(!!

#especially you baseball guy!!! #im giving everyone in the comments a nice warm soft cookie

(19 notes)

🆚️ wordswithfriends Follow

Reblog if you think Flower winning BFB was a good choice, you like cheesecake, you hate Steve Cobs, you think Platinum is annoying, you're a fan of Dr. Fizz, you watch Jasonville TV, you think Glowstick's elimination was deserved, or you're gay

#they'll never know which one #i'm gay

(3,724 notes)

🔌 electricalmusical Follow

WHY IS THERE INTERNET IN RJE AFTERLIFE HELLO

👑 kingofeverything Follow

OMG NO WAY

🎡 not-tally-hall Follow

GET OFF OF TUMBLR.

🔌 electricalmusical Follow

YOU HAVE??? A TUMBRL???????

🎡 not-tally-hall Follow

...no.

👑 kingofeverything Follow

reblog if u dont have a tumblr

🎡 not-tally-hall Follow

This is stupid.

(10,734 notes)

🍿 stevecobseviltwin Follow

imagine needing to be Consistent to be popular

🖍 magic-crayons Follow

You know it girl!!!

🍿 stevecobseviltwin Follow

AYYYEEEE

#idk who u are but we should hang out Now

(3 notes)

🟢 greenyguy Follow

🅱️alls

(42,853 notes)

🎒 liam-plecak Follow

Oh my god I finally got this thing to connect to the internet. Okay.

Hello, Tumblr, my name is Liam Plecak. I'm sorry for the tag spam, but this is an urgent enough matter that I think warrants it.

For the past year and a half, I've been trapped in another universe with little-to-no communication to anyone else. I've been reading a few posts here and there, and I think some of you might be able to help with freeing me and my friends (I think some of you have powers?). Below is an in-depth description of where I am, what happened, and who did this to me. Please, if you can help, send me an ask.

Keep reading

💥 fans-fantastic-features Follow

oh my god? liam from hfjone is fucking real????

🎒 liam-plecak Follow

I'm sorry what

[softtdaisy]

the tragedy / Charles Leclerc

summary. you loved to call everything a tragedy but the real tragedy for charles is that he lost you

words count. 1 906

what to expect. super sad, everyone is sad but pierre is engaged lmao

a/n. i guess seeing charles being sad every weekend this year had inspired me lol

F1 masterlist | criminal minds masterlist | general masterlist| request

The applause. Everyone was applauding when the couple kissed at the end of their speech. 

And you felt it right in your heart.

Love always had this effect on you. You were born a romantic.

This was the reason you agreed to organize the engagement party for them. 

Even if Pierre was a Formula 1 driver. 

Even if he was Charles’ friend.

Even if Charles wasn’t yours anymore.

The day they first asked you was on a race weekend, before they were even engaged. You were there to support Charles and had no reason to refuse. Organizing events was literally your job. And more than that, your friends knew how good you were at this: thinking about all the little details that mattered and how you could transform a good night into an unforgettable one. How or when this reputation went from your professional life to your personal days, you weren’t so sure. But you were proud of it.

When you got the second call for their engagement party, this time for real, you had broken up with Charles for more than a year already. The season had been a pure mess, and they didn’t find the time to think about it. 

They still wanted you to do it, considering you were the best at this and nobody could portray their love better than you. “But we would understand if you don’t want to do it anymore,” they said.

You hadn’t seen Charles since you broke up, and you knew there were some rumors that it hadn’t been the smoothest goodbye.

Still, you couldn’t refuse the offer of celebrating a love that was born right in front of your eyes.

You figured out pretty fast that the hardest thing wouldn’t be following the couple’s crazy ideas—and there were many—dealing with everyone’s planning, and making sure there wouldn’t be anyone missing or even remembering how the Formula 1 season could be a pure pain in the ass when it comes to people’s emotions and reactions. You couldn’t even count the number of times Pierre apologized for a mean answer to your text because he had a bad race. 

No, the hardest thing was Charles and seeing him tonight.

You didn’t see him a single time while organizing this whole party, and you didn’t even talk—Pierre got his invitation back himself. 

But you couldn’t miss him tonight.

Not when he was undeniably the most beautiful man in the room with his white shirt tucked into navy blue striped suit pants that made his legs look more muscular, with his perfect hair styled and the whole nice, good-looking guy appearance he gave.

Not when you could see the dark circles under his sad eyes, the fake smile he wore all night, and how his hands were shaky when he held his drink to make his toast. 

You wished you weren’t looking out for him every five minutes, but you were. 

You wished you didn’t have the urgent need to follow him outside when he left discreetly after the speech. 

You ignored it. Pretending it didn’t matter and that it was the perfect occasion to enjoy the night without having him around. When he would come back, you would act like he wasn’t there.

But after at least twenty minutes, Charles still hadn’t come inside. You knew it. You couldn’t see him. You couldn’t feelhim. 

You excused yourself and walked outside. Step by step. Just in case.

In case he came back and you didn’t have to run after him.

In case he wasn’t alone.

In case you just imagined his sad expression. 

None of this happened. Charles was still outside, by himself, devastated. 

But you couldn’t say anything. No, you weren’t allowed to.

When you push the doors, you meet the cold air and the small snowflakes falling from the sky. Falling on your naked arms. Falling on his dark hair. 

“What are you doing alone in the snow?” you asked, because it was the only thing that seemed right to say. It was a genuine question. One that proved you still cared—you truly did. 

Charles didn’t answer. Didn’t even move. He was leaning against the brick wall, his arms crossed against his white shirt—the only bright thing on him tonight. You noticed the way his knee kept bouncing, how he was staring at the sky in silence. His thoughts were so loud you even wondered if he had heard you. 

You did something that many would consider stupid—you chose to be brave and walked to lean against the wall, next to him. Same position but different view. The sky was beautiful tonight, but you could only look at him.

At the man you loved so much, you had memorized every piece of him. The moles on his skin, the freckles on his nose, the mixed colors in his eyes, the perfect curve of his nose. You knew everything from Charles by heart, so much that you could paint it if you wanted to. You could describe it with your eyes closed. You could write a novel about his face. 

But you won’t. It wasn’t your place anymore.

“It’s a real tragedy that his brother couldn’t come,” you whispered, only to break the silence.

That was the thing that made Charles flinch. He blinked, finally. And slightly turned his head to see you.

A tragedy. That was your thing. You loved to call everything a tragedy, even the most insignificant thing. 

The ice cream that melted on the floor? The shop that closed right when you arrived? His missing pole? His mistake during the interview? Everything was a tragedy. 

But you had a way of saying it that didn’t make it sound like it was a disaster. With a laugh when it was definitely not as terrible as you wanted to make it sound. Or with a soft smile when you wanted to comfort him. 

You kept saying that every tragedy could have its happy ending. 

Maybe that was the reason you never called your breakup a tragedy.

“You want to hear about a real tragedy?” His voice didn’t even sound like him. It sounded broken, like he had spent too much time screaming. It sounded broken, like a doll that was used and near the end of its life. It sounded broken, like Charles wasn’t even alive inside.

He closed his eyes, turning his head back and leaning it against the wall. “The real tragedy is that we are together right now, but you’re not mine.”

This felt like a knife right in your heart. You opened your mouth, and even if he couldn’t see it, he felt it. And jumped.

“The real tragedy,” he continued, “is that I have to see you with him.” 

It wasn’t fair, you supposed, to attack you on something that was all his fault in the first place. 

You broke up with Charles; you couldn’t deny it. You were the one who said it was over, the one who moved your stuff from his place, and the one who probably changed his name on your phone first. You were the one who erased the pictures on social media. 

Pictures he was watching every night until they weren’t there.

Until you erased them like you erased them.

Replacing them with pictures with your new man.

Replacing them like you replaced him, he selfishly thought. 

Because you both knew the truth. You broke up, but Charles ruined this relationship. With the sudden distance he put between the two of you. With the hours he took to answer a simple text. With his repetitive absences at moments he should have been there, when he would have been there before. 

When Charles moved in front of you, you finally noticed a new color in his eyes. Red.

“The real tragedy is knowing you’ll never be as happy as you could be with me.”

This one hurt. Because it was true and false at the same time. You were happy. But you weren’t at the end.

You were happy now. But the happiness wasn’t as big as it was with Charles. 

“You’re not…” you started.

But Charles cut you off by grabbing your hand suddenly. Almost hurting you with the way his fingers wrapped on your wrist and his rings sank into your skin. How ironic, you thought. 

“The real tragedy is that you are engaged to a man that clearly doesn’t appreciate you like I did.”

It was impossible to miss. The ring on your finger. A subtle and rather simple ring, but a beautiful one. Even Charles couldn’t deny it. But he would rather suffocate on it than have to see another second. 

Yet, he kept his hand on yours, bringing it between your face so you could see it too.

The tragedy of this engagement ring separating you two. 

“The real fucking tragedy,” he cried, “is that you are engaged to him, not me.”

You saw the first tear, the one that appeared in his eyes when he said the last two words. You watched as it grew; you watched as it left his eye, as it ran down his cheek to his mouth in a fast race—ironic, again.

But you didn’t see the ones that followed, your eyesight blurred by your own tears. 

People said you moved on too quickly. Some said you weren’t fair to your new man.

And none of them were wrong.

You did move on quickly; you said it yourself. The truth was that you didn’t give your heart to someone new. 

The truth was that someone actually picked up the broken pieces and decided to make it whole again. The truth was that he kept your heart after repairing it and cherished it. 

The truth was you suffered so much from your breakup with Charles that you chose the easy love this time. The one that was simple and sweet. 

Once or twice you laughed to yourself at how tragic it was that this man was doing everything he could to make you happy, to make you love him—and you did love him, for sure—but he would never be Charles.

Charles, the man who never fought for you. Except the day he realized it was too late. 

You didn’t answer him. You could form a single word properly, certainly not a whole sentence that wouldn’t be full of cries and inconsistency. 

Maybe it was for the better, because your lack of replies actually made Charles calm down. His fingers eased around your wrist, but he didn’t let you go. Instead, his forefinger went over your ring to touch it. 

You heard his sobs—maybe it was yours—and saw his sad smile—it wasn’t yours. 

“The tragedy,” he said in a low voice, probably speaking to himself more than to you, “is that I will always love you.” 

You had the confirmation he wasn’t speaking to you when Charles didn’t give you a single look after that. He let go of your hand slowly. 

And you watched him.

You watched as he kept his face like that, with tear stains on his cheeks. 

You watched as he turned his back to you after a minute.

You watched as he walked to his car again, leaving his friend’s engagement party—without knowing he had said goodbye when he left earlier.

You watched as the man you thought you would marry one day left you with a heart that needed to be fixed again.

📬 FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED TO THE MASTERLIST

[hellyeahsickaf]

The way addicts and chronically ill people are dehumanized is so exhausting

The normalization of this shit in medical and casual settings is genuinely mind boggling. Addicts and disabled people go through so much bullshit. I've dealt with many fucked up doctors when I just needed help

I had a kidney infection, some months back. This is always extremely medically urgent, and I was likely only hours from sepsis. I went to the hospital reporting my pain to be a 9/10. 9 because my 10 was gallstones. I experienced severe malpractice at the hospital and the doctor reported exams that never occured and false information while making me wait with nothing more than tylenol to hold me over (didn't touch the pain) and bring my fever down but that's a whole other story

They did however, deny me the pain medication I needed until it was time to go home. I'm deathly allergic to NSAIDS, but that's something an addict might say so they witheld pain relief because they'd rather me suffer just in case I'm a different kind of sick. An entire night, maybe 6 hours in the ER and they couldn't give me anything, not a small dose of morphine or one norco even a few hours prior to take the edge off of the pain while I was curled up shaking and crying. Just in case I was an addict looking for my fix, and my suffering was just withdrawals and good acting. In that case maybe I deserved it and should be denied my humanity. God forbid in that case I'm so desperate to alleviate unbearable withdrawals that I spend all night in the ER crying. Not the first time I've experienced red tape just to get relief from excruciating pain

But whatever. As per protocol I was asked to follow up with my pcp. So a few days later I called to set an appointment, but I'd also run out of norco and desperate to relieve the pain I asked if I could be filled even enough for a few days, until the pain was bearable. I had difficulty walking, laying down, and I again, can't take most pain relievers. The receptionist was nice and understanding, actually got me in touch with the doctor because she wanted me to be able to get my refill. Probably heard the pain in my voice even. She believed me

She transfers me over to the doctor and I tell him I'd like a follow up and ask if he could fill my painkillers. I would've acceped a no from him, I just needed my follow up. He asked about my condition, I told him my diagnosis and how much pain I was in

And he laughed.

Got a real hoot out of it, like he had me all figured out. Like he caught me trying to cheat the system. I must be trying to get high or make some money with a few days worth of norco as i'm nearly in tears from the pain even while calling

He tells me through his laughter "I don't prescribe painkillers for 'kidney infections'" saying it with a mocking emphasis on those words, as if I'd said "stubbed toe". Follows with "Yeah haha, bye." and hangs up on me. No follow up like I called for. Needless to say I no longer have a pcp but truly if he thought I was an addict trying to take advantage of him he should have still treated me professionally. Maybe not cackled when I said my pain was excruciating for a start

I just don't understand why the hell so many doctors can be so apathetic to people's suffering. Addicts deserve better and so do disabled people- whether you think they're addicts or not. The assumption that we're lying, trying to trick them and are feigning pain to do it is disgusting, listening to your patients is so important. And if that were the case they could have some sympathy and ask themselves what it would take for someone to go those lengths, take such drastic measures and go through that trouble to obtain those substances.

Addiction is not a moral failing. Many disabled and chronically ill people unfortunately rely on medications that have addictive properties. About 80% of heroin addicts first misused prescription drugs. However only about 4-6% of those addicted to prescription drugs switch to things like heroin. And instead of help or compassion for people who just need help (addicts or not), they just figure we're one in the same and treat us like subhuman degenerates, leeches on society. And I think people need to change how they view addiction. Doctors need to change how they view addiction

[m4rv3l-girl]

Bucky taking care of an exhausted/overworked reader after a long dayyy?(just had the worst day at work lol😭)

Warnings: None, just fluff!

The moment Y/N stepped into her apartment, every muscle in her body ached in protest.

The day had been long - no, brutal. Meetings that could’ve been emails, a coffee spill on her favorite shirt, and a particularly insufferable coworker who thought ‘urgent’ meant ‘Take your sweet time.’

Bucky Barnes had been sitting on the couch, flipping through channels aimlessly, but the second the door creaked open, he turned his attention to her. His sharp blue eyes softened as he took in the sight of his girl - slumped shoulders, dark circles under her eyes. And a scowl that could rival even his own grumpiest days.

“Doll,” he murmured, setting the remote aside. “You look like you fought Thanos single-handedly.”

Y/N groaned, dropping her bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud. “Worse. I fought the corporate machine and lost.”

Bucky smirked, unfolding himself from the couch in that effortless, predatory way he moved. For a 106-year-old ex-assassin, he was annoyingly graceful. “C’mere,” he said, already reaching for her.

She barely had the energy to move, but she didn’t need to. He met her halfway, pulling her into his arms like it was second nature. The second her face hit his chest, the tension in her body started to melt.

“You smell nice,” she mumbled into his shirt. “Like…winter and safety.”

“Not metal and violence?” he teased, rubbing slow circles into her back.

“Surprisingly, no. Just warmth.”

Bucky chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Rough day, huh?”

Y/N made a noise of pure exhaustion. “Everything was awful. And people were dumb. And my brain is fried.”

He hummed in understanding. “So, you’re saying now isn’t the best time to ask if you wanna go on a mission with Sam and me?”

Y/N pulled back just enough to give him the deadliest glare she could muster. “Barnes.”

His grin was unrepentant. “Alright, alright. C’mon, let’s get you out of these work clothes.”

“Bucky Barnes, are you seducing me right now?” she asked dryly.

“Not yet. First, food. Second, a bath. Then, we’ll see.” He waggled his eyebrows before bending down to untie her shoes for her.

Y/N sighed, letting him fuss over her. This was their routine whenever she had a bad day - Bucky going full mother hen mode, making sure she was fed, warm, and comfortable.

“Okay, tell me everything,” he prompted as he guided her toward their bedroom. “Who do I have to fight?”

Y/N dramatically flopped onto the bed. “Carol in HR. She is the devil.”

Bucky flopped down beside her, throwing an arm over her stomach. “Carol in HR, huh? What’d she do?”

“She gave me two conflicting deadlines for the same project and then told my boss I was ‘struggling to keep up’ when I asked for clarification.”

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath. “I see. And why is she still breathing?”

Y/N snorted, rolling onto her side to face him. “Because I need my job, unfortunately.”

“Fair.” He played with a loose strand of her hair, twisting it gently between his fingers. “I could scare her for you. Just a little. Maybe mention how good I am at making people disappear.”

“Bucky.”

“What? You think the Winter Soldier rep doesn’t have its perks?”

She laughed, which was exactly what he was aiming for. “I’ll handle Carol myself, thanks.”

“Fine, fine. But if she steps out of line again, I’m putting her on my list.”

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “You have a list?”

“Oh yeah.” He smirked. “Right at the top? That barista who rolled her eyes at you that one time.”

Y/N cackled. “I will never get over that.”

Bucky grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Alright, up we go. Pajamas, food, bath.”

She whined but let him pull her up. He found her comfiest sweatpants and one of his old Henleys, helping her into them like she was a tired toddler. “There we go. Cozy and adorable.”

“I am neither of those things.”

“You so are.” He tapped her nose. “Now, do you want grilled cheese or pancakes?”

“Both.”

He beamed. “That’s my girl.”

Twenty minutes later, they were curled up on the couch, a plate of grilled cheese and pancakes between them, with Bucky feeding her bites like she was royalty.

“This is the life,” she mumbled around a mouthful of food.

“Told ya,” he said smugly. “Now, let’s find a movie where nothing bad happens, and the dog lives.”

Y/N sighed happily, snuggling into his side. “Perfect.”

Bucky shifted, glancing at her with a small smirk. "Alright, up, Doll. Bath time."

She groaned dramatically, but when he tugged her up, she didn’t resist. Her limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, the weight of the day still pressing down on her, but Bucky’s touch was firm, grounding.

In the bathroom, warm steam curled through the air carrying the soft scent of vanilla and honey. The water in the tub was already drawn, shimmering under the dim glow of candles flickering along the edges. Bubbles swirled across the surface, piled high like clouds, they looked inviting and comforting. The whole setup looked so idyllic that she just stood there, blinking at the scene before turning to Bucky.

“You did all this?” she murmured, voice thick with the kind of gratitude that words couldn’t quite capture.

Bucky just shrugged, but there was something tender in the way he reached for the hem of her shirt. “You looked like you needed it,” he said simply.

Her heart swelled as he helped her out of her clothes, his touch slow and reverent, like he wasn’t just undressing her but peeling away the weight of her exhaustion, one layer at a time. When she was bare before him, he didn’t rush, just let his fingers skim over her shoulders, his lips ghosting across her temple in a whisper of warmth.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping out of his own clothes save for his boxers before sinking into the water first. He exhaled a quiet sigh as the heat soaked into his skin, his muscles relaxing almost instantly. Then, with careful hands, he reached for her.

She let herself be pulled into the water, sighing as the warmth enveloped her, easing the tension that had knotted itself into her muscles throughout the day. Bucky guided her between his legs, and the moment she settled against his chest, she felt herself melt. His arms came around her, his vibranium hand cool against the heat of her skin, drawing soft, absent-minded patterns along her arm.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of the water, the distant hum of the city outside, and the steady, reassuring rhythm of Bucky’s breathing against her back. She could feel his heart, steady and strong, beating against her spine.

“You okay, Doll?” he murmured against her temple, his voice low and full of something she couldn’t quite name.

She let out a sleepy hum, eyes fluttering closed. “M’perfect.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound deep and affectionate, reverberating through her where she rested against him. “Glad to hear it.”

His lips brushed against her damp hair, pressing a lingering kiss there before he reached for the loofah, dipping it into the warm water. He started with her shoulders, rubbing gentle circles into her skin, washing away the tension like it was something tangible. His touch was firm but soothing, working out the stiffness that had settled deep into her muscles.

She sighed under his touch, eyes slipping closed as the steady rhythm of his movements lulled her into a state of pure contentment. “Gonna fall asleep right here,” she mumbled, half-dazed.

“That’s the plan,” he murmured, a smile evident in his tone. He continued his ministrations, taking his time as he massaged the soapy loofah down her arms, across her collarbone, down the gentle slope of her back. His vibranium fingers followed in its wake, tracing light, lazy patterns that sent shivers down her spine.

As he worked, he pressed small, lingering kisses along the exposed curve of her shoulder, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Each kiss was a quiet reassurance, a promise that she was safe, cared for, cherished.

“You always take such good care of me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Bucky paused, resting his chin against her shoulder. “Of course I do, sweetheart,” he said softly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s what you do when you love someone.”

Her heart clenched at the simplicity of his words, at the way he said them with such quiet certainty. She turned slightly in his arms, just enough to meet his gaze. There was something unguarded in his expression, something raw and achingly sincere.

She reached up, cupping his face, her thumb brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “I love you, too,” she murmured.

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his grip on her tightening just a fraction before he exhaled, a slow, shaky thing. He nuzzled into her touch, his lips brushing against her palm before he turned his head to press a kiss there. “Yeah?” he murmured against her skin.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

Bucky let out a soft chuckle, wrapping his arms more securely around her as he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, the water still warm around them, the bubbles slowly dissipating. Eventually, Bucky reached for a cup, filling it with water before tilting her head back slightly. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

She did as he said, trusting him implicitly as he poured the warm water over her hair, his fingers threading through the strands with the gentlest touch. He took his time washing her hair, massaging her scalp with steady, soothing movements that made her practically purr.

By the time he was finished, she felt weightless, like every last trace of stress had been washed away along with the suds.

Bucky shifted slightly, reaching for the soap. “Your turn,” she murmured sleepily, turning in his arms so she could return the favor.

He raised a brow, smirking. “I think I like being pampered more than I should.”

She laughed softly, rolling her eyes as she lathered the soap between her hands before running them over his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of his muscles. “Big bad Winter Soldier likes bubble baths. Who would’ve thought?” she teased.

“Only when my best girl is in them with me,” he shot back without missing a beat.

Warmth spread through her chest, and she didn’t bother fighting the smile that tugged at her lips. She took her time washing him, running her fingers through the short strands of his hair, over the defined muscles of his back, down his arms. When she reached his vibranium arm, she hesitated for only a moment before pressing a soft kiss to the cool metal.

Bucky went still, his breath catching for the briefest second before he let out a quiet exhale, resting his forehead against hers.

“I love you,” she whispered again, just because she could.

His grip tightened on her waist, like he needed to anchor himself to the moment. “Love you too, Doll,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

Eventually, the water started to cool, and Bucky pressed one last kiss to her shoulder before reluctantly shifting. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you dried off and into bed.”

She sighed dramatically, making no move to get up. “Carry me?”

Bucky chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly before standing and lifting her effortlessly into his arms. She let out a sleepy giggle, tucking her face into the crook of his neck as he stepped out of the tub, wrapping her in a fluffy towel before grabbing one for himself.

As he carried her into the bedroom, she sighed contentedly. “Best night ever.”

Bucky grinned, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I plan on making this a regular thing.”

She hummed, already half-asleep in his arms. “M’not gonna argue with that.”

Bucky just chuckled, holding her a little tighter, savoring the warmth of her in his arms, the quiet, perfect peace of the moment. For the first time in a long time, everything felt right. And as he tucked her into bed, wrapping himself around her like he never wanted to let go, he knew there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

——————————————————————————————————

I got you, Hun! Hope you enjoyed it. 😉🫶

[featseungmin]

agape || bc

bang chan x female reader

agape - (noun, origin: greek) to love a human being by accepting that person's existence as it is given; unconditional, selfless love

✦ Summary: Sometimes the monsters aren’t what they say. ✦ Genre & Tropes: dnd au, fantasy, angst-ish, fluff-ish, strangers to ??, hurt/comfort ✦ Word Count: 8,059 ✦ Warnings: mob mentality, fighting monsters, murder, blood, bruises and other injuries, old men who are scared of things they don’t understand, cursed!reader, rage mode!chan, burns

✦ Notes: shout out to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta-ing and listening to me complain about this entire au. major thanks to @eerieedits for the absolutely gorgeous banners

part of my city of blood dnd au. check out the rest here.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The pounding on the door startles you. It’s late, and you’re just settling down for rest. But the banging interrupts your routine. For the briefest of moments, you consider just ignoring it. But it sounds urgent, and quite frankly, it’s annoying.

When you peek out the window to see who it is, you’re met with a pair of intense, mismatched eyes, one dark, one light. 

You’ve known Chris for a week now, as he’s been in the area helping with odd jobs. Even if you got off to a rocky start, he’s been nice enough, though surely people around town have been talking to him. But now, he looks anxious. There’s a furrow to his brow and a worry in his eyes that have you concerned. His hair is mussed, as if he’s run his hand through it one too many times.

When you open the door, he practically throws himself against it. “Oh thank god.” He grabs your hand, squeezing gently. He doesn’t flinch away, even though you’re sure that your skin is icy. “We have to go.”

His touch is warm. “Chris, it’s midnight.”

There’s a slight tremble in his grip. He must hear something, because his head whips around to the left. His eyes narrow, and his free hand moves to rest casually on the hilt of the scimitar hanging on his hip. 

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says cryptically, as if it answers any of the questions bouncing around in your head. 

Quickly, he steps inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t take his cloak off, even though you’re sure that it’s warmer in your home than it is outside. You stand there dumbly, watching as he speeds around your living room, closing the curtains, peering out into the night as if some monster is going to leap from the forest at any moment.

“Chris, slow down, what-”

“They’re coming.” He crosses the room in two large strides. His hands grip your shoulders, and again, your mind clocks that he doesn’t recoil from the contact. “I don’t know why. But I managed to beat them here. We have minutes. I… I don’t know why they’re doing this.” Something foreign clouds his eyes. The way he tilts his head and scrunches his face, it looks almost like he’s in pain. “Pack light. We have to get out of here.”

There’s a moment where your mind slows, like you're stuck in a sea of molasses. They’re… coming. They’re coming? He doesn’t know why, but they’re coming. They’re coming and you have to leave.

Oh shit.

Your mind kicks into overdrive. Bag. You grab it from under your bed. It’s old, and well-worn, but it’s supple leather and holds more than it looks like it should. You point to a cabinet in the kitchen, and Chris opens it dutifully while you open your drawers and start stuffing clothes into the bag. He tosses you a waterskin and a tinderbox, and you shove those in, too. 

Something in the woods startles a small group of birds, you can hear them chirping indignantly as they take flight. It’s far enough off that you still have time, but close enough that you push yourself to move faster. 

Chris helps you roll up your blankets, unbuckling his belt and using it to secure it tightly to your bag. “Food?” he asks softly, taking the bag from you. He holds it by the shoulder straps, watching as you rush over to your cabinets. There’s a heel of bread there, and a bag of chestnuts. You know you have some dried meat in one of the cupboards, but your mind is going too fast and you can’t remember where it’s at. You open a few doors to try to find it, but when your third attempt is unsuccessful, you give up.

“Let’s go.” Chris grabs your hand, grip firm yet gentle, and opens your front door.

You pause. For a brief time, the fog of fear parts, and the rational part of your brain kicks in. “Wait.” Immediately, he halts. When he turns to look at you, his mismatched eyes are clouded in confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you helping me? You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” he says quietly, and you feel a brief pressure on your fingers as he squeezes your hand. “I know that you don’t deserve this. And that I owe you for nearly killing your friend.”

“But I’m-”

He waves you off. “Nah. Doesn’t matter. I want to help.” He ducks his head ever so slightly, his gaze gentle. Again, he squeezes your fingers. “Let me help?”

For the week that you’ve known him, this man has been an enigma. Terrible first impression notwithstanding, he’s been fairly trustworthy. He could have left after he’d almost killed Kham. But he didn’t. He came to apologize. He listened. He seemed to trust you. So you trust him on this. 

After all, what do you have to lose?

✦ . ��⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Even without the two feet of snow on the ground, the village would have been difficult to find. Too small to be on any map, Chris had had to stop for directions at an inn along the Long Road, and even then, he’d almost missed the little hamlet buried in the snow. 

It’s a nice little village. A butcher. A baker. Small general store. Tailor. Shepherd. Most of the buildings are situated around a town square, where he imagines traveling merchants setting up in the warmer months. The town elder–a stout, white-moustached man named Gelvin–greets him at the tavern.

“I’d like to thank you again for taking our request, lad,” Gelvin says. His moustache bounces with each consonant. 

Despite the fire that roars in the tavern’s hearth, there’s still a chill in the air that settles in Chris’s bones. He keeps his cloak on, but shockingly enough, so does Gelvin. 

When the bartender places two tankards of amber ale on the table, Gelvin slaps him on the back wordlessly. The bartender leaves, and the older man lifts the tankard to his lips. When he lowered the glass, there’s foam in his moustache.

“Got a bit of an owlbear problem,” Gelvin tells him. “But you know that already.”

“Define ‘problem’.”

“Lives in the woods. Nearly attacked my granddaughter when she and her friends were playing in the trees.”

Chris hums. Owlbears are aggressive, territorial. He’s never been face to face with one, but he can think of at least five stories where an interaction with an owlbear went south. They’re massive, and they’re insatiable, and yeah, he can see how a little town like this wouldn’t want–or wouldn’t be able–to handle the problem on their own.

“Where does it live?” Chris sips at his ale. It’s light, but it’s bitter, with a nutty flavor that sits on his tongue long after it’s hit his stomach. It’s not bad, but it’s not particularly good, either.

He takes another drink to be polite.

“There’s a path that goes into the woods on the north side o’ town. Goes through the trees as it climbs the hill. There’s a shack, ‘bout a quarter-mile up that’s near enough to its den.” Chris nods along as Gelvin speaks. The elder man talks with his hands, gesturing this way and that. “The owlbear hangs out ‘round there, but I’d steer clear of the shack if I was you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Woman that lives there’s cursed. She’ll curse you, too, if you ain’t careful.”

Chris hums. 

Interesting.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris does his best to be stealthy. But with two feet of snow on the ground, it’s a little hard to move through the woods, especially without knowing where the path should be. So he crunches through the snow as quietly as possible, avoiding sticks and fallen tree limbs as much as he can, all while his arms are tucked close to his body in an attempt to keep the chainmail of his undershirt quiet. 

It doesn’t work, but he does try.

He follows what he thinks is the path–there’s a clear pattern to how the trees stand and how the snow lays on the ground that makes him think that he’s at least going in the correct direction. It takes longer than expected because he’s moving so slowly, but eventually, he comes upon what must be the shack.

Except it isn’t a shack. It’s a house. A little weathered, a little unkempt, but it’s definitely a house. There are curtains in the windows, and a thin wisp of smoke swirling out of the chimney. It looks more than a little cozy, and the briefest question of who lives there considering the owlbear situation crosses his mind.

He doesn’t, however, have the Chrisce to ponder said question, because a screech to his right immediately draws his attention. He turns just in time to catch a claw to the shoulder, the beast’s talons scratching across his armor, leaving deep gashes in the woolen sweater he’s wearing under his cloak. Even though the mail undershirt prevents a bloody wound, he can feel the impact deep in his flesh. It’ll be a bruise tomorrow.

The owlbear is massive, larger than any bear he’s ever seen. From claw to shoulder, it probably comes up to just above Chris’s elbow, but standing on its hind legs, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was almost two of him. The thing must weigh over a thousand pounds, not just from sheer size, but the muscle that he’s sure is under its fur. The face of an owl, with round, avian eyes and a sharp beak, glares at him. The feathers on its head give way to the thick fur of a brown bear at its shoulders; its hackles are up, angry at the intrusion into its territory.

Quickly, Chris draws his weapon, a curved double-bladed scimitar he’s had since his days as an apprentice. The swirled pattern in the steel is less obvious in the low light of the winter twilight around him, but the blade gleams with the movement nonetheless. He lunges at the owlbear, aiming to return the hit with a slash to its own shoulder, but the monster rears back, and his scimitar barely scratches the fur and feathers on its chest.

The owlbear’s claws once again rake at him, and he manages to roll out of the way, though he can feel the ache in his shoulder from the beast’s surprise attack. Before it can attack again, he slashes at its leg. His sword emits a purple-pink glow as it makes contact, the radiant energy and the sharpness of his blade causing the owlbear to screech in pain. Through the fur and feathers that cover its shoulder, he can see blood. But now, the owlbear is really mad.

Well, shit. 

The owlbear lunges, beak snapping at him once again, but it overshoots, and he manages to side-step. They go round and round like that for a while, trading glancing blows and near-misses until Chris’s out of breath. He’s battered and bruised–the owlbear manages to get in a bite and another slash when he’s still stuck in the snow after dodging–but he’s gotten just as many hits on the beast. It’s missing some feathers around the gash he’s left in its shoulder, and there’s a second stab wound in its belly from where he’d gotten it before it crushed him with its claws.

Now, he stands opposite the owlbear, slightly out of breath, his muscles aching, and raises his scimitar once again. He slashes, and the beast cries out, a wild, pained sound that actually has Chris feeling bad for the thing.

“What are you doing?” 

A voice from behind startles him, so much that he nearly drops his scimitar. As he whips around to see what’s going on, the owlbear, too, looks up. It takes the opportunity to run away, turning tail and running as fast as it can with its injuries into the forest.

“What the hell?” The woman behind him looks furious.

“I-”

“You can’t just come in sword swinging like that. What the hell is your problem?”

“Gelvin said-”

She groans. “Of course Gelvin said.” Angrily, she stomps past him, deliberately hitting into his sore shoulder. He winces. “For future reference, maybe know what you’re dealing with before listening to old men who fear what they don’t understand.”

“I-”

The door of the house slams shut. He’s left out in the snow, a rock slowly forming in his stomach.

 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The snow is far too loud. You lead Chris through the forest, following the footpath but not directly on it, but even so, you can hear the voices. The light from their torches light up the forest behind you. Based on the intensity, it’s actually your house that’s burning, though whether purposeful or accidental, you aren’t sure.

You aren’t about to stop to ask.

Chris follows behind you, his steps close, a gentle hand on your back when the ground gets a little uneven or you have to climb over a fallen log. 

“Don’t listen,” he says at some point, his voice quiet. As if you could possibly ignore the mob of your neighbors attempting to track you down. “We’ve put good distance between them and us.”

As if on cue, a shout on the path in front of you forces you to stop. You freeze. The lights start to appear ahead, and you realize it at the same time as Chris. They’ve pincered you. 

“Shit,” he whispers lowly at the same time as you let out a soft-

“Fuck.”

You turn quickly, assessing your surroundings. You know these woods better than anyone in town. You should be able to lead Chris out of here. But the closer the torches get, the louder the shouting becomes, the more panicked you get. One direction leads to town. The other, to a cliffside. And while you know which direction is which, it’s a tough choice. One you don’t have time to make.

Beside you, you hear the whisper of metal on leather, and when you look, Chris has drawn his scimitar. The lights are close enough now. You can see the silhouettes of the torchbearers in the darkness. 

“We fight,” Chris says. His voice is quiet, but there’s a gruffness to it that you haven’t heard before. He nods straight ahead. “Push through in that direction. Get to the other side and start running.”

“What if we get separated?”

“I’ll find you.” He shoves his free hand into his pocket, pulling out a small bronze disc. He presses it into your palm. “Keep this with you, and I’ll find you.”

“What-”

“There they are!” The shouting surrounds you now, the flames on all sides. 

It’s like a nightmare. Even in the dark, you can see them. Your neighbors, people that had watched you grow, that had known your parents and been around for your entire childhood. They surround you now, and while you’ve long been accustomed to their ignorance, seeing their rage now is new. A pit settles in your stomach as you take in their scowls. So many of them carry makeshift weapons–clubs and pitchforks and axes and sickles.

Chris takes the smallest step backwards, his back almost touching your shoulder. He holds his scimitar between you and the mob, his free hand extending out, as if you shield you from them. “Let us through,” he tells him, tone commanding and voice steady. 

“You? Sure.” The voice that answers is Gelvin’s. You had assumed he was behind this, but it stings all the same. “She stays, though.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Gelvin shrugs, as if there’s nothing he can do. To your right, the mob draws nearer. A few of them hold old swords, and you eye them wearily. You close your hand, and the shadows solidify in your grip. The darkness swirls and converges into something solid, a blade just longer than your forearm appearing there.

One of the guys to your right–you’re not sure who, you don’t dare look at his face–gasps and jumps in surprise, his arms flailing, torch slipping out of his hands. It flies through the air, catching your cloak as it falls. You cry out, patting your arm in an attempt to smother the small flames that lap at the cloth. Chris tenses beside you. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts. And all of a sudden, the mob is surging forward.

The next moments are a blur. Clanging metal and shouts fill the air, but they almost sound far-off. You can see Chris’ scimitar glinting in the moonlight as he swings it. But for some reason, none of it’s nearly as scary as it should be. One of the mob gets a little too close for comfort. You recognize him. Of course you do. You extend a hand in his direction, and he freezes, his skin going sallow. One sweep from Chris’ blade, and the man falls. 

Another moves to take his place.

Chris bumps into you as he parries a pitchfork, but then he’s gone, stepping into the villager’s personal space. You identify him just as Chris’ elbow connects with his nose. It’s Velar, one of the farmers that live on the eastern side of town in the foothills. He grows the best tomatoes. 

Suddenly, there’s a pressure at your back, and you grunt at the feeling. It’s uncomfortable, like something sharp has latched onto your clothes, and when you try to move away, it moves with you. It’s not painful, the sensation is just strange, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It feels like there’s something inside you, digging into your back like a squirrel burying a walnut. 

You must make some type of noise, because Chris whips around. For the briefest of moments, he looks confused, and then his gaze falls on whatever has lodged itself onto your back, and his eyes go wide. Something dark crosses his face. He shouts. And his blade glistens as it slices through the air behind you.

 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris stands outside of the house in the woods. The door is weather-worn and clearly old, but it’s solid, well-crafted. It’s clear that this was–is–someone’s beloved home. Once again, there’s spindles of smoke wafting out of the stone chimney.

After the incident with the owlbear, after he’d trudged his way back to the village, he’d told Gelvin what had happened. He’d sat there at the tavern, sipping an ale and nursing his wounds, as the old man had warned him again: steer clear of the shack and the woman who lived there.

He’d provided no other explanation, only that she’s cursed. And Chris has never really been one to listen blindly to authority. The curiosity–and the need to apologize–nagged at him, and now he’s here, though he’s not really sure how smart the decision is. He’s pretty sure the woman wants nothing to do with him.

He knocks anyway.

For a while, there’s only silence. No movement on the other side of the door, no motion in the window, nothing. Chris stands there, strangely nervous, his palms a little sweaty despite the temperature being just above freezing. But just as he raises his hand to once again rap his knuckles against the darkened wood, the door swings open.

The woman–you–stands on the other side of the threshold. You lean against the doorframe, holding the door open just far enough that Chris can see your face. Predictably, you don’t look happy to see him.

“Hi!” He offers, voice brighter and infinitely more positive than he feels. 

You stare at him.

“I, uh, I wanted to come back and explain things. And, well, I guess apologize. I didn’t know the owlbear belonged to anyone.”

He knows that he’s rambling a bit, but at this point, he can’t really stop himself. He doesn’t know you, but you make him nervous. Maybe some of it’s what Gelvin said. He’s not really out to get himself cursed. But some of it is just that you seem… normal. Pretty. Annoyed. All of the above.

“He doesn’t belong to me. He’s an owlbear.” The ‘idiot’ is evident in your tone. 

“Right. Well, I didn’t know. And I’m still sorry.”

You scoff, unimpressed.

“I was just… Four days ago, I saw a notice in a tavern near Triboar asking for help with a monster problem. I was just trying to help.” Chris sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Gelvin said that it has attacked some kids, and-”

“The kids had it coming.” Your tone is sharp, but really, you just sound exhausted. Chris gets the sense that this is not the first time this has happened. “You’d attack too if kids poked you with a sharp stick while you were trying to sleep.”

“He didn’t tell me that part.”

“Yeah, well, Gelvin likes to deal in half-truths.”

He hums. “I’m really, really sorry that I didn’t have the full story. I should have considered that maybe there was another side to things.”

It’s a little weird to be apologizing. How could he have known that the owlbear attack was justified? But he’d taken Gelvin at face-value, he hadn’t done his due diligence. That’s on him. It’s a fucking owlbear, but it still stings. Being wrong like this, it eats at him, feels like a rock in his chest.

You watch him in silence, brows furrowed as your gaze flits across his face. It’s subtle, but your expression softens the longer you look at him. 

“I’m Chris,” he says finally, sticking his hand out. 

Your gaze falls to his palm. You’re quiet, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe you won’t take it. But then, slowly, you do. 

Your hands are a little rough, not in a bad way, but it’s clear that you’re accustomed to doing things for yourself. But that’s not what confuses him about your handshake. Your skin is cold, almost like it’s sucking the warmth out of his own hand. If he wasn’t standing here, looking at you alive and well and breathing, he’d think you were dead. 

He can’t help but look down at your hand, and he’s not sure what expression you see on his face, but he hopes it’s something at least akin to concern. You try to pull away, but before you manage, he tightens his grip just slightly. He’s not sure what’s wrong, but he wants you to know he doesn’t mind.

You do tell him your name, though. And even though you pull your hand away, he considers it a win.

“So, uh…” Chris rubs the back of his neck. “How’d you get to own–er, befriend?” he’s not sure exactly what the word is “an owlbear, anyway?”

You laugh. It’s short, but it warms him all the same. The feeling is short-lived, though, as a frigid wind rushes through the forest, rustling the leaves and leaving him shivering. 

An expression that he can’t quite read crosses your face, and you step aside. “Tell you over a cup of tea?”

“Oh! Uh, sure!”

The inside of the house is cozy. Like the outside, it’s timeworn but well-kept. The living room is the central space, with a large, open doorway off to the right that leads into the kitchen and a closed door directly across from him that Chris assumes leads to a bedroom. There’s a lumpy, plush chair in one corner of the room directly beside a window. A bookshelf nearby is absolutely stuffed with books and loose papers. A fire roars in the small stone hearth, casting a warm glow throughout the room. 

There’s a table near the kitchen, barely standing on four spindly legs, and that’s where you direct him, to one of the two chairs. He shrugs off his woolen cloak, looking around for a place to put it. Silently, you take it from his hands before draping it over the arm of the chair by the fire, warming it for later.

“Oh. Thanks,” he says quietly. It’s such a small act of kindness, but it touches his heart all the same.

He watches as you patter around, first in the kitchen as you grab the kettle, then as you take it outside and scoop snow into the mouth of it. You come back inside with a gust of freezing wind. Strangely enough, though, your skin doesn’t seem to react to the cold. 

Once the kettle is settled onto a grate in the fire, you turn to him. “I don’t think I have sugar. Or milk. Do have some honey, though, if you’d like.”

Chris hums. He’s never had tea before. His parents didn’t like it, and then the smiths he trained under preferred stronger stuff. But he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth, so he nods eagerly. “Honey sounds nice.”

You bring two tea cups–they’re old, a little chipped, and whatever color they used to be, they’re the color of bone now–and a small jar of honey before settling into the wooden chair across from him at the table. 

For a moment, you watch the fire lick at the bottom of the metal kettle. But then you sigh and lean back. “I’ve known Kham–the owlbear–since he was a cub.”

“Oh?”

“He stumbled into the clearing here. I still don’t know what attacked him, but he was in rough shape.” You swirl a wooden stick in the honey, and even though you aren’t looking up, Chris can sense that the memory has made you sad. Your voice is soft when you continue. “I guess whatever it was killed his mama. Tried to kill him too, but he was little, and he managed to get away.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me, eventually.” 

A hum of surprise inadvertently escapes Chris’ throat, and he tries to mask it with a cough. He’s heard of people who can talk to animals. He’d met a druid a year or so ago that had an affinity for foxes that could do it, and he’s sure the wizards at the school back home in Waterdeep could probably do it easily. But he hadn’t really expected it from you.  

You don’t look up from the honey, but almost instinctively, your fingers curl around the pendant that hangs around your neck. He can’t quite tell what it is, only that it’s silver and delicately engraved.

“My mother gave me this necklace? And, I dunno. It lets–or, well, let, I guess–me talk to him. All animals, really, not just him. But mostly him.” You look up, then, and there’s a sparkle in your eyes. Something tightens in his chest at the sight of it. 

“So that’s how you make friends with an owlbear.”

“That and food, yeah.” You sigh. “It wasn’t his fault. He was just big, and they treated him like a monster.”

For a moment, things go quiet. The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth invades the silence. Chris has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Did… I kill him?”

“No.” 

He doesn’t like how you say it.

“But he’s…”

“He won’t bother them anymore.”

The silence returns, hangs heavy in the air like a wet cloth. Your gaze is on your hands in your lap, the tip of your index finger tracing your cuticles. 

Minutes pass, and the kettle starts to steam. Quietly, you stand to get it. Chris watches you curiously. You are… surprising. He’s not sure how many people he knows that wouldn’t have kicked him out by now. And yet, here you are. Willingly still making him tea after everything.

You reach for the kettle, and it’s like time slows down. Horror solidifies in his stomach like a rock. Your fingers wrap around the metal handle of the kettle and lift it out of the fire. He’s on his feet before he has time to think, and as you turn around, you’re a little startled to see him standing. 

“Your hand?” he questions stupidly, balling up the sleeve of his shirt and reaching out to take the kettle from you.

For a moment, you look at him, brow furrowed and face scrunched in confusion. But as the kettle clanks onto the table, you seem to catch sight of your hand. The skin is an angry red, and he can see a slight indent across the inside of your fingers where the handle had sat. 

You swear under your breath.

Chris springs into action, rushing outside and grabbing a handful of snow. He’s back in an instant, pressing it into your palm. He carefully cradles your hand in his own, pressing down on the snow so that the cold seeps into the burn. Your hand is already cold, but the snow doesn’t seem to make it any worse. 

“What the heck?” It’s not the most elegant, but he can feel his heart pounding in his ribs. 

You watch the snow melting through your fingers, the droplets hitting the wooden floor around your feet. “It didn’t hurt.” There’s a softness to your voice that makes his stomach sink even more than watching you burn yourself. It sounds a lot like fear.

He forces himself to take a breath, to soften the hardened edges that had started to form. The snow in your hand continues to melt, the heat from his own palm helping it along. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, listening to the constant drip drip drip of the melt falling between your fingers and the crackling of the fire. 

You stand there in front of him and allow him to hold your hand between both of his own. Your focus shifts to the hearth, watching the flames flicker and dance.

When the snow is nearly gone, Chris presses his palm to your own. It’s icy cold, but quickly, it warms. His hands glow, a gentle purple-pink surrounding them, and briefly, whatever causes your skin to drain his own of heat ceases. It’s slight, but there’s some warmth in your hand while he heals you. 

The light fades, yet your touch lingers. He happily continues to hold your hand, feeling the warmth from his magic fade from your skin. 

“At the risk of sounding insensitive,” he begins softly, lifting his hands ever so slightly so that he can inspect what’s left of the burn. “Can I ask a question?” You hum, and he takes that as a sign to continue. “What… happened?”

You pull your hand from his grip, pulling it close to your chest. “What happened to you?” It’s not said with malice, but there’s a sharpness to your tone. You tap just below your left eye.

Chris nods. He supposes it’s only fair. He rubs at his own eye. It doesn’t pain him like it used to. But even now, he avoids his own reflection. He’s seen the injury enough for ten lifetimes. The scar may be gone, his vision mostly healed, but the damage remains all the same. His right eye, a rich, dark brown. His left, storm-grey.

“I used to do this apprenticeship thing. I was a really angry kid. And I dunno. I was there for seven years, and I had this big argument with the smith I was working with. He got mad. Like, really mad. And I just…” 

He shrugs, not sure of how to continue, but not really sure he needs to. Judging by the look on your face, you’re able to put the pieces together just fine.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is soft, and when your eyes meet his own, there’s a softness in them.

He waves you off. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have-”

“I learned a long time ago to stop making excuses for the people who should know better.”

He freezes, eyes locked on yours. He has to remind himself to breathe. There’s something about the conviction with which you say it… With the way things had transpired, how he’d ended things, he’d never considered that maybe…

You seem to sense that something’s wrong, because gently, you guide him back to the wooden chair at your table. You grab a cloth and wrap it around the handle of the kettle. It seems to still be warm, because you pour the water into the two cups and the honey that sits in the bottom starts to dissolve.

“As a child, I was very sick.” Slowly, you settle into the chair across from him, stirring your tea. “My parents were skilled with magic, and they prayed to the Raven Queen often, begging her to heal me,”

“So the Raven Queen…?”

You shake your head. “When their prayers went unanswered, my father decided to turn to more… creative solutions. It was the deep of winter. He had bought a scroll with… instructions? I don’t know–from one of the merchants. He prayed to the Raven Queen as he did it, but I don’t know. I don’t claim to understand the whims of the gods. But when I woke up the next day, I was this.”

Chris hums. His teacup is warm in his hands, and he lifts it to his lips carefully. “This?”

“Cursed to exist somewhere in the shadows between the Prime and the Shadowfell. Somewhere between life and death.”

The pieces click into place. The pallor of your skin. The chill when he touches you. The fact that you didn’t feel the burn of the kettle. Why Gelvin is so scared of you. Why the town is so scared of you.

When he looks at you, he expects you to look upset. At the very least, to seem saddened by your situation. But there’s a fire in your eyes that draws him in. Something that gives him the sense that you’ve long since buried the sadness and the hurt.

Maybe, he thinks, the two of you aren’t so different. 

 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Chris.” 

You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. His shoulders heave up and down with every breath he takes. The cloak around his shoulders is damp, though whether it’s with blood or sweat, you aren’t quite sure. Crimson blood is spattered across his chest and face. You don’t know if it’s his, or if it’s from any of the ones that attacked him. Probably, it’s a mix of both.

The air is choked with the sickly sweet smell of rust. The clearing around you is littered with bodies. Some of them, you felled yourself. Those ones are pale and frost-bitten, your magic having drained them of lifeforce before ultimately freezing them in place. The others–the majority–wear slashes and blade marks across their torsos. Some are missing arms. At least a few have been slit from neck to navel. 

Chris’ scimitar glints in the moonlight, the dried blood creating dark shadows on its surface. His grip on the hilt is firm–his knuckles, through the blood, are white from the effort. You can hear every shaky breath he takes, can feel the force of it through the hand that’s still on his shoulder. The tip of his blade is leveled at the last still-alive body in the clearing.

Anyone else still living had fled. Except for one. Gelvin crouches in the snow, looking as small and as frail as you’ve always known him to be. He’s barely dressed for the snow–boots but no thick coat–and if he’s brought something to fight with, it’s long gone. For the moment, though, you push him from your mind. You’re far more worried about whatever’s happening in Chris’ mind at the moment than you are about the old man.

“Chris,” you say again, more forceful this time.

His head whips in your direction. Wild eyes meet yours. In the dark, his pupils are large in an attempt to catch all the light possible. More than a few cuts and scratches are scattered across his face, and the cuts in his sweater show the chainmail he wears underneath. He’d gotten clumsier as the torches went out, his darkvision not nearly as reliable as yours. 

You hold his gaze. There’s a rage in his eyes that smolders, even now. In the week you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this. But you don’t back down. Cautiously, your hand slides from his shoulder to cup his cheek. His skin, flushed with the cold and the rage, must be positively feverish, because he feels warm, even to you. 

He softens almost immediately. “Breathe.” Your voice is quiet, but in the dead silence of the clearing, it doesn’t need to be very loud. 

There’s still something dark in his eyes that you aren’t sure about, but after a moment, he listens, a measured inhale causing his shoulders to rise. All of a sudden, he looks exhausted. The arm that holds his scimitar aloft starts to lower.

A crunch in the snow draws your attention. Chris’ head whips to the right, his arm snapping back up to a threatening angle. 

Gelvin stares back, eyes wide. A small part of you delights at the realization that you’ve never seen the old man like this. He’s practically shaking, the bush he’s moved to crouch behind barely covering his body. 

“Please, I-” He almost chokes on the words, hands coming up in what you can tell he hopes is some sort of peaceful gesture.

Chris adjusts how he’s standing, the tip of his scimitar inches forward, and whatever plea was on Gelvin’s lips dies in the air. 

Seeing him there, surrounded by the lifeless forms of your former neighbors–the people who, directly or indirectly, made your life hell for the last 20 years–there’s something poetic about it. You watch Chris’ grip tighten on the leather grip of his blade. And you want to let him do what he clearly wants. The gods know Gelvin deserves it.

When your father had disappeared, when it became clear that he’d done something deeply bleak in exchange for your health, Gelvin had harassed your mother for weeks for goods your father had promised.

When you were seven years old, you’d moulded the shadows for the first time. It was an accident. You’d had no idea that your father’s ritual had had such consequences. Gelvin had seen it, and it was ultimately his influence that pushed the other kids of the village away from you.

He wouldn’t stop bothering you after your mother’s death. He’d called you a witch. He’d spread rumors about the curse that afflicted you. He’d taught his grandchildren to stay far away, and influenced the rest of the village to do the same.

He’d hired a sweet, noble man to kill an owlbear just to spite you.

By all accounts, Gelvin was a sad, terrible man. He deserved whatever horrible fate befell him. And yet…

There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right. You’d thought that this would feel more satisfying. That finally getting revenge would be sweet. Instead, a hollow feeling settles in your chest. Maybe it’s pity for the old man. Maybe it’s a desire to spare Chris from having even more blood on his hands. 

Regardless, you squeeze Chris’ shoulder, feeling the rigidity of the mail under his clothes. “Let him go.” You say it quietly, but you know he hears you because his head tilts toward you. “It’s fine. Just… let him go.”

He turns to you, and for the briefest of moments, dark eyes study you. You’re not quite sure what he’s searching for, but eventually, he nods. He keeps his arm raised, scimitar still at the ready. But when Gelvin starts to scramble away, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even turn to watch the old man go. Instead, his gaze remains on you.

Chris sighs. You can feel him sort of deflate beside you as the arm holding his weapon finally lowers. And then he stiffens, his face slowly contorting into a look of horror. He glances around, and it’s as if he’s seeing–really seeing–the carnage around you for the first time.

“What- I…” He frowns, takes a step away from you. “Shit- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

You grab his arm before he can get too far, partially because you can tell that he’s freaking out and partially because if he takes another step back, he’s going to trip on a dead body. 

You try to reassure him, squeezing his hand and tugging him back toward you. You’re not sure how effective it is, though. Your hands are probably freezing against his bare skin. “Let’s go-” Where? You’d almost said home, but based on the smoke that still billows into the air, that doesn’t exist anymore. “Let’s just go.”

“Wait.” He stops you before you can take a step. “You’re…” He trails off, hand slipping around your back. He turns you slightly, his touch gentle yet firm, so that he can see better. 

In your peripheral, you can see him crouch ever so slightly so that his face is level with your hip. For a moment, you’re confused. You can feel him touch a spot in your lower back. His fingers are sticky with blood, even though you know he’s wiped his hands on his clothes. You’re confused by the skin to skin contact, and then you remember. Just before he had gone berserk, you’d been hit with something. It must have torn your sweater.

“You don’t feel this at all?” There’s something in Chris’ voice that you don’t like. It’s worry, but soured by something else. It sounds a lot like panic.

“I can feel you poking me.” It’s not a lie. You can feel the gentle pressure as he prods at your back. But it doesn’t hurt. “Why, what’s-”

“They stabbed you. With a… with a pitchfork. I can see bone, and you can’t feel it at all. You’re not even bleeding.”

You stiffen at his words. It’s not the injury–that’ll heal, given enough time. It obviously hasn’t caused any real damage, just some discomfort and some stiffness that you notice now that you’re actually thinking about it. No, it’s how he says them. His tone leaves a sour taste in your mouth, like there’s something intensely wrong. Like you are intensely wrong. 

And maybe it’s because it’s so late–early?–or maybe it’s because you’ve just lost your home in so many more ways than one. But it stings more than you thought it would. You’d prepared for this. You’re always ready for the funny looks and incredulous tones and wary expressions. It’s how everyone reacts, eventually. And really, you don’t blame them. Your father’s magic turned you into a bit of a sideshow, someone you’d expect to see more in the circus than at the butcher’s. But in the week you’d known Chris he’d been different. He’d not once flinched away from touching you and finding your skin cold to the touch. He’d reacted with kindness when you’d burnt yourself on the kettle. He’d rolled with everything. 

You suppose that everyone has their limits. 

The forest around you alights in a gentle, purple-pink glow. After a moment, some of the discomfort in your back goes away. There’s no more feeling like there’s something sticking to you, but it still feels strange. Chris has healed you, but you suppose the aftermath of the injury remains. 

You’ve lived in this forest all your life. You know it like the back of your hand. You’ve seen maps of Faerun, ones that stretch from the Sword Coast all the way east to Thar. This forest isn’t so big compared to some of the others that dot the continent. And you’re not all that deep into it. Here, it’s still pretty safe. The trees are still thin, the canopy of leaves doesn’t yet blot out the sky completely. Further in, where the vegetation is thicker and the air darker, things get more dangerous. Monsters live deeper in the forest, more dangerous than Kham the owlbear. 

It’s roughly three kilometers southwest to the main road, and you tell Chris as much. He reaches deep into his pocket and comes out empty handed. For a moment, he looks confused, but then some sort of recognition crosses his dark-light eyes.

“My compass,” he says, turning to you. “I gave it to you before the fight.”

You hum and pull the bronze disk out of your pocket. It’s old, its bronze surface worn by time and polishing. There’s something engraved on the back of it, but you can’t make out the thin writing before you hand it over. 

Chris orients himself with the compass, turning it until he’s satisfied with the direction. He hums when he finds what he’s looking for, and you half expect him to start walking. You’ve given him the directions, he knows which way to go. He could just leave. Step over the bodies around him and go. But he doesn’t. He waits. Brown and grey eyes meet yours, and for a moment, he looks a bit like the dogs who roam the village, all expectant and excited.

So, with a soft “come on,” you walk.

Despite the crunch of the snow, it’s quiet. It’s still early–still hours to first light–and for the first time, you’re glad for the curse’s effect on your night vision. It takes hours to stumble through the forest, dodging roots and stones and making sure Chris doesn’t trip. And just because this part of the forest is less dangerous, doesn’t mean it’s free from monsters. You take a detour to skirt around a group of orcs, and you have to pause to let a bugbear pass. 

By the time your boots finally hit the hardened dirt of the Long Road, the exhaustion has started to set in. But at least you’ve made it to the road. 

“There’s an inn not far from here,” Chris says, stifling a yawn. He gestures south down the road. “I’ve got some gold. We could get two beds.”

You aren’t expecting the offer. If you’re honest, you were expecting him to bolt the second you made it out of the woods. But… he doesn’t. 

Your face must give your apprehension away, because he tilts his head, confused. There’s an obvious tiredness in his eyes, but he studies you with a softness that almost makes you want to shrink away. 

“I get it if you don’t want to,” he tells you. “I get that this is weird.”

“It’s… not.” It sounds like a lie, even to you.

He offers you a halfhearted smile. “Given the last few hours, I don’t blame you. I don’t know that I’d want to spend more time with me, either.”

“Chris…”

“Nah, it’s okay. I killed like… 20 guys. Even if they weren’t your friends, you knew them. That’s…” He trails off, kicking at the snow on the road. And for the first time since you met him, he looks almost small. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. It can’t be easy.”

“I’ve lived in Toftrees my entire life,” you admit. “I don’t really know where to go from here.”

“I won’t pretend like I can fix things. But I’m happy to travel with you for as long as you’d like. Until you get where you want to go, anyway.”

There’s something so pure about the sincerity in his voice that makes you want to believe him. It’s strange. He sounds so unconvinced of his own worth, yet so sure that this is what he wants to do. That he wants to spend his time with you. 

“How far’s the inn?”

Almost immediately, a grin blossoms across his lips. “Close. Just a few kilometers more.”

So far, trusting him has been a good decision. It’s kept you alive. It’s kept you sane. Maybe, even just for the moment, it’s given you a friend.

[bucks-babe]

hi!! i’ve had this concept in my head for a while and i love your writing style so i thought you would be perfect to ask. so reader is new to the compound, like helping out in the lab but not necessarily on the team, and because of that when she tries forming relationships with people on the team she’s kind of pushed to the side. bucky sees this and feels for her since he was kind of treated the same when he was new, so he starts becoming friends with her and building a relationship with her. then he starts involving her in things the team does like dinners or movie nights. and when they’re around each other the team can obviously see that they like each other as more than friends. you can develop it more from there but that’s kind of the base line for my idea!!

Pairing: Bucky x f!reader

Summary: Being new to the compound isn’t easy, luckily you have a supersoldier on your side

Warnings: Slight angst, fluff, reader wears glasses (no other description of reader though), Bucky thinks reader is cute, Tony is kind of a huge dick, vague implications of smut but no smut (blink and you’ll miss it), I suck at endings, they are in love, no use of Y/N

Word Count: 2.780k

“Hey, uh, Glasses, I need you to run these samples for me.” You look up and see Tony walking into the lab, straight to your table. You look around, not sure if he was talking to you, but you’re alone in the lab, given that it was almost midnight, but you had to finish the reports from the samples that Steve dropped off in the morning.

You were swamped in work, not even taking a lunch break, desperate to finish everything so that you could go back to your room in the compound and take a shower. It felt like you’ve been stuck in the lab for days on end. The Avengers having back to back missions and you being the only lab tech without a family to go home to, you were stuck working insane hours.

“Mr. Stark, can these wait until the morning? I'm still working on the reports from Captain Rogers.” Tony heaves a great sigh, clearly exasperated by your reluctance to do his work, knowing damn well he can run these samples a lot quicker with the help of F.R.I.D.A.Y. but he just doesn’t want to. Might as well make the overworked lab tech do it.

“The old man can wait until tomorrow for his report, just get mine done. If he has a problem, he can take it up with me. Goodnight, Penny.” And just like that, he walks off. You know for sure that he didn’t hear you correct him when he got your name wrong. Honestly, where did he even get Penny from? You’re so stressed you feel like you could cry, which pisses you off more. It made you feel weak when you would cry when you were frustrated but you couldn’t help it.

It's been like this since you got the job at the compound. At first you thought that this would be an amazing opportunity, getting to work side by side with the Avengers. In reality, you stay cooped up in the lab most of the day, getting overworked, and only see the Avengers when they stop by to give you more work. 

Of course, you understand that being a superhero is hard work, but a little courtesy goes a long way. It would be a nice change of pace if someone acknowledged your efforts. You push Steve’s reports to the side and start working on Tony’s samples, knowing that this is going to take all night, but you don’t really have a choice. It needs to be done and you’re the only one in the lab.

The sound of the door opening jolts you awake, a piece of paper stuck to your face with drool. “Hey, do you have those reports for me?” You groan and look at Steve. The clock on the wall reads 6:03 AM, ever the early riser, Steve is. You must have fallen asleep sometime last night trying to finish the work Tony gave you, which is just as incomplete as Steve’s reports.

“Sorry, Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark gave me an urgent request that needed priority.” You keep your head down, ashamed to look at him. 

“I gave you those samples in the morning. How are the reports not done?” He has his hands on his hips with the disappointed father's look on his face, making you feel even worse. You really are trying your best, but you’re burnt out and can't do everything at once.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have them done by early afternoon. I can drop them off if you’d like?” God, you feel so stupid! Steve just waves you off with a “I’ll come back after lunch for them” and leaves you to your own thoughts.

You get Steve’s reports done before lunch and continue to work on finishing Tony’s when the lab doors open again. Without looking up you slide Steve’s reports to him. “They’re done Captain Rogers.” 

“It’s not Steve.” You push your glasses up on your nose and see Bucky standing before your table, quite awkwardly as well, shuffling on his feet with his right hand in his pocket, left hanging down limply at his side.

“Sergeant Barnes, how can I help you?” You’ve always had a crush on Bucky, but he was the only Avenger who hasn’t come into your lab - ever. Matter of fact, he avoids the lab like the plague, which is understandable given that he was experimented on for years. 

“It’s my arm, I can’t move it.” After a few seconds of silence he adds on, “The metal one. Usually, I can recalibrate it myself but I think it has something to do with the plates.” He looks so vulnerable; Bucky’s not used to asking for help, rather always helping someone else.

“I can take a look at it if you want.” You assume that’s why he came down to the lab, not just to chit chat with you. He nods and you lead him to a lab chair. “Can you take your shirt off for me?” Bucky’s eyebrows hit his hairline and his jaw drops. “I need to see your arm, Sergeant.” Now both of you are blushing.

It takes him a little while but he gets his shirt off and stares at the floor, embarrassed of the scars surrounding his arm. “Can I touch your arm, Sergeant?” Bucky eyes widen; he’s not used to someone asking permission to touch his arm. If he doesn’t wear his gloves in public, people will stare and point, some even trying to touch his hand to get a better look at the silver arm. Bucky hates it: the arm, the stares, the scars, everything.

He mumbles a confirmation and watches you work on his arm. He thinks you’re cute, with glasses that make your eyes look slightly magnified and how you stick your tongue out when you concentrate. You’ve always hated your glasses, thinking that they make you look bug eyed, but Bucky thinks that it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. There are bags under your eyes, which makes Bucky frown. Stark is overworking you.

After a few minutes you look up and see Bucky staring at you and you both quickly look away. “One of the plates near your shoulder came loose and disrupted the signal to the rest of the arm. That’s why you couldn’t move it. It’s fixed now and you should be good to go, Sergeant.”

 Before Bucky could say anything, Tony enters. “Penn, those reports done yet or are you too busy with Terminator over there?” You ignore Bucky’s confused who’s Penn? and give Tony the finished half of his reports, hoping against hope that he won’t tear you a new one in front of Bucky.

“Uh, Glasses, where is the other half?” 

“I didn’t get to them all last night and then Captain Rogers needed his reports this morning. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.” Not only did you not finish Tony’s reports on time, but you were also late with Steve’s, on top of getting minimal sleep and not eating. The humiliation is seeping through your pores. You’re letting your idols down in real time, seeing their disappointment right in front of you.

“I told you to prioritize my samples, not Rogers.” Bucky is still in his chair, watching, ready to jump to your defense. He doesn’t like the way Tony is talking to you. Little do you know, but Bucky sometimes comes down to the lab to watch you work, never entering, God no. He’d look like a creep. But the sweet lab tech caught his attention the moment you arrived.

“I know, but I fell behind and Captain Rogers said-”

“I don’t care what Rogers said. I told you-” 

“Back off Stark, if you want them done, do it yourself.” Bucky was pissed; you are too sweet for your own good, letting people boss you around and bending over backwards for them. Not when Bucky is around.

Before Tony can continue to argue with Bucky, F.R.I.D.A.Y. calls him away for a meeting, leaving you and Bucky in the lab alone. “Sergeant Barnes, you didn’t have to do that. Those reports should have been done anyway; it was my fault.” How pathetic is it to have someone you hardly know see your faults.

“He shouldn’t be talking to you like that, doll. You’re only one person and you're doing your best.” He’s a lot closer to you now and you can smell his cologne, making your head feel all fuzzy. “Thank you for helping me with my arm, too.”

“Thank you for letting me, Sergeant, I know that was difficult for you.” You’re looking up at him through your thick frames, eyes larger than they actually are, bags under your eyes, but Bucky thinks you’ve never been prettier. Or maybe it’s because he’s never seen you up close, but you are the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen, 40’s or not.

“Call me Bucky.”

After that, Bucky was in the lab almost everyday. For a while he would claim to have some strange ailment until you told him that he didn’t have to feign injury to visit, which made him blush. He would spend his lunch in the lab, making sure that you were eating, too. Bucky is a very observant man, and on his trips to the lab, before he first talked to you, he would see how overworked you were and how you barely ate. 

He made it his mission to keep you well fed and get you out of the lab at a decent hour, giving a death glare to agents trying to drop off samples after a certain hour. 

Outside of the lab, Bucky was your only friend at the compound; although, he’s never hand fed Steve in bed while watching old movies. Bucky felt comfortable around you, even more so than with Steve. Bucky and you had a special bond - he would confide in you when you would both be awake at the unholy hours of night and you would do the same. He trusted you not to tell anyone else and, to him, it was easier to talk to you than Steve.

Steve had a tendency to look at Bucky as if he was a sick puppy, and Bucky hated that, he hated the pity. He didn’t want to be treated like precious glass, and you allowed him to be vulnerable without making him feel like he was falling apart.

Some nights you both would fall asleep in bed together and wake up entangled, those nights were Bucky’s favorites. You were so soft and even though you were so much smaller than him, you made him feel safe and protected. His sweet doll in his bed, keeping the nightmares away. 

He loved the way you would squint and search for your glasses on the stand next to the bed, whining when you accidentally knocked them to the floor, or stabbed yourself in the eye trying to put them on. 

The entire dynamic of your friendship changed one night. Bucky doesn’t know who moved first, but the two of you kissed, and Bucky can’t remember kisses ever being so good. The two of you only kissed that night, nothing further, but it was the best night that either of you had in a long while. From that day on, he was your old man and you were his old lady.

You both decided to keep your relationship a secret for the time being. You didn’t want the other lab techs to think you were getting special treatment and Bucky didn’t want to deal with the teasing from Sam or the questions from Steve. But Bucky loathed when he would be forced by Steve to join movie nights, alone, without you. Steve wanted what was best for his friend so he would force Bucky to get out more; little did Steve know that Bucky had the best girl waiting for him to come over.

He could tell that you were let down whenever he had to participate in “team bonding.” You wanted to be valued by the team, yet you understood why they never invited you; you weren’t an Avenger, just a lowly lab tech. Nonetheless, it broke Bucky’s heart to see you so despondent, which is why he asked you to join the next movie night, team be damned.

“Come on, doll, it will be fun. I promise.” Bucky holds you close to his chest, laying down next to you under the covers. You roll over, naked chest to naked chest, body still shaking, and bury your face in his neck, breathing him in.

“I’m not even a part of the team, Jamie. What will all your teammates think, huh? The great Bucky Barnes and the weird lab tech: A perfect match. No, they won’t.” Bucky gently grabs both sides of your face, both metal and flesh warm from previous activities, and makes you look him in the eye. 

He’s a little blurry since you aren’t wearing your glasses. The lenses would smush against your face everytime he would kiss you with anything more than a chaste kiss, and Bucky Barnes is a passionate kisser in bed. At your slight squint, he pulled you closer to his face so you could see him clearly; blue eyes holding nothing but the utmost love and devotion.

“I don’t give a damn what the team thinks, you hear me? You are my doll and I want to show you off. My sweet little lab tech who’s too kind for her own good. Let them all know how perfect you are.” Your resolve is crumbling like it does every time he looks at you. It is an overwhelming feeling, being the light of someone’s life, being showered with so much love you feel like you can’t breathe, but each breath fills up your lungs with joy and hope.

Bucky nuzzles his nose against yours and you both know you’ll say yes. You’d follow him to the ends of the earth, just as he would for you. “Okay, Jamie, I will, for you.”

Movie night is a week later and you’re on Bucky’s lap where he sits on the recliner. It’s his unofficial seat whenever Steve forces him to these things, stuck in the corner of the room away from everyone else with no seat next to him. At first, no one notices you on Bucky’s lap, curled up into him with tangled limbs not able to tell where Bucky begins and you end. 

Steve is the first to notice, doing a double take at the extra bulk in Bucky’s seat, and just as Bucky is observant, so is Steve. Steve had a suspicion that there was something more to Bucky’s disappearances during lunch and the extra food he would take after dinner. Steve just smiles to himself and faces the movie once more, every so often glancing back at the two lovebirds in their own world.

Bucky has no clue what movie they are watching, his sole focus is on you. You had a long day in the lab, yet you held true to your word to join movie night with him, but being curled up in Bucky’s arms was your favorite place to be and before long you were sound asleep, holding onto his metal arm, using it as a pillow. As gently as he could, Bucky took off your glasses and put them atop his head, falling asleep himself before the movie was halfway over.

Sam was the second to notice, and let the rest of the team know as well. “OH. MY. GOD. Tony, where is my phone? I can’t believe this.” The rest of the team look at each other in confusion, following Sam’s line of sight, they see you wrapped up in Bucky’s arms, the both of you sound asleep. 

“Is that…Glasses?” Comes from Tony.

“She’s so cute!” Slips from Wanda.

“Who’s Glasses?” is followed by a slap from Nat with a hissed “Thor, shut up, they’re sleeping!”

“Tony, my phone! I need evidence.”

“Terminator’s getting laid?”

“We’re watching Indiana Jones, Stark.” 

“Thor, inside voice, we’ve talked about this.”

The teasing from the team is endless the next day, but Bucky doesn’t have it in him to care, he has his sweetheart by his side and they know better than to provoke Bucky. Coincidentally, Tony offers to take some of his samples back to test them himself; Bucky insists that he must have had a change of heart, you don’t believe it for one second, but Bucky will never admit to anything. After all, he has to take care of his sweet girl. 

[gremlingottoosilly]

Tag Team (dark!Price x fem!Reader x dark!Gaz)

Price and Gaz have absolutely zero thoughts against fucking a pretty civilian thing that was so conveniently kidnapped just for them. Dream team if you want to be squished between two big men with even bigger...hands.

TW and tags: non-con to dub-con, size difference, power imbalance, fingering, hurt/comfort(but it comes from the ones who hurt you), yandere, dark!141, possessive 141, obsessive 141, kidnapping. AO3

Price genuinely had a great day. He woke up at normal time, unlike always – not at 4 AM, with Lasswell urgently sending him a new assignment even though she was the one to convince him to take a break with his boys for a few weeks. 

He woke up at 9 AM – sleeping in, really, felt groggy and tired even after a shower and a cuppa with the best tea he could find at the local Tesco. So, the tea wasn’t very good – but he made the most of it, taking time to cook breakfast for himself because it was still less shitty than whatever slop cooks at the base were making – even though he knew his cooking skills were somewhere on the bottom of his priorities. He chewed on overcooked eggs and caught a fleeting thought of going to the small cafe downstairs. The he thought about eating his breakfast surrounded by families on their Sunday off, students with laptops and bright futures ahead, not even knowing just how fragile everything is – how easy it would be to blow up this whole fucking building to make a perverse political statement. He thought about some cute baristas downstairs and felt…intruding. Not in his place. 

Still, the day was nice. 

And then Captain John Price, Queen’s loyal soldier, a part of the Special Forces, opened his group chat. Just he and the boys. 

And the girl Soap apparently kidnapped.

— Couldn’t wait a bloody minute, Soap? 

— Good mornin’ to ye too, Captain. Pricer frowns when Soap is grinning exactly like a cat who got the cream – and a pretty bitch in heat on the bed, ready for him. He did god the bitch – and by that captain meant the cutest girl he ever saw. Soft, crying, pathetic thing that was currently sprawled on the bed in a pose that immediately made him want to comfort you. To cover you with something, to help you clean up – after the photos Soap sent, it was only obvious that lil’ poor you were too exhausted to take another round of sex in your state. 

Too bad he and Gaz and definitely not going to stop. Gaz is hovering over you already, hands on your hips – spreading them wide, making you groan from displeasure. His sergeant understands everything immediately – you’re tired, exhausted even, you need some time to relax and they can’t just give you this time, no matter how adorable you look while just laying here. John thinks he can hear you sob softly when Kyle pushes you to the side, allowing you to just open your legs a bit. 

Gaz knows how to treat a lady nicely – maybe, even more than Ghost and Johnny ever could. He smiles when you whine and quietly ask him to stop – he kisses the corner of your mouth like he is your boyfriend and you’re just a silly sleepy thing, and he giggles when you frown. He kisses you again, and again, and it’s over and over until your face is tattered with little marks from his bites. Not quite as feral as Soap, but he has his whole team on a mission to impress here – and he had a pretty girl crying under him. 

— So pretty, luv’. Don’t fret, okay? I’ll be quick. 

— Didnae ken ye supposed to tell tha’ to a lady in bed, Gaz. 

Kyle pushes Johnny away with one hand – he already got more of his fill than needed, and he wants you to stop being so scared around them. Seriously, pretty thing, you need to relax already – on your third guy, you should understand that these people aren’t here to hurt you. Well, they are, but not in a way that people like them can hurt other people. You aren’t being tortured. Maybe just a little bit – and still, no torturer would kiss your cheeks and your forehead and whisper sweet nothing in your ear as he slowly creeps with his hand over your pussy, glossy from all the lube that was spread earlier. You just got a bit relaxed after the night – just closed up a little, maybe forgetting the state you were in just a night ago, when Ghost was wrestling you on the bed and…your drunk, hazy mind don’t want to remember any of this – so you moan and you whine when these new people, unknown people, are coming in the room to see you. To touch you. You feel like shit and you probably look like shit – but the guy with the beard, the oldest looking, is putting his hand on your cheek and saying something – you aren’t quite sure what, but you close your eyes and listen. If you close your eyes, you can pretend you want this. 

— Atta girl. Broken her already. — Thought she’d be a challenge, captain. 

— We can always open the door and let her run for it. Want to chase her with your gun hangin’, sergeant? 

— Eh, just takin’ the piss. She is soft. 

— A soft girl for us. Soap had a keen eye. 

Captain smiled and it makes you feel warm – he looks like a bear when he smiles, that kind of a fatherly figure that makes you think of all sorts of weird things. Like how he would look while fucking you, for example – how rough or how gentle he would be. You gave up forcing these thoughts out of your mind a long time ago – if you can’t escape them, you can at least try to enjoy it. They are seriously not hurting you too much – and you never came quite as much as you did now. And still, you beg them like it’s going to change anything. — Pl…please, I…I don’t want to be here. There are new people – you hope they won’t be up for this. You hope that the younger guy with kind warm eyes and an easy smile, the guy who is peppering your face with soft kisses and puts you on your side so you won’t have to spread your sore legs, the guy that gently puts a pillow to make your laying a bit easier, the guy who is acting like a lover and not a kidnapper, would finally cave in, feeling sorry for you. 

You failed to notice the glint in his eyes – that sort of thing that makes everyone trust him, that sort of thing that makes you embarrassed to even think he’d be soft with you. Because, oh little bird, his hand, the warm and big, fingers already covered in an extensive amount of lube, slowly creep over to your ass. You whine, trying to wiggle out of it. 

He only needs one hand to keep you in place. 

— Come on, luv’. No use gettin’ roughen up when we don’t want you to. — Please, pl…just a few hours, I will be good, promise, just…

His palm lays flat between your shoulder blades, making you sink more into the embrace of the other man – the one with the beard and kind smile, who lifts your chin with his hand and pushes a finger inside. Check you out for the biting reflex – like a good girl, all of your bite and bark and claws were lost long ago. Like a good girl, you are closing your eyes and thinking about England – you open your mouth and let his finger in. Your tongue darts to lick it instinctively, the intrusion almost makes you gag. His skin is salty – like sandpaper to your dry tongue, desire to drink to soothe up your throat makes your voice hoarse. 

— No, love. Don’t close your eyes on me. 

You still don’t open them – a small hint of rebellion not because you seriously think you would get away with it so easily, but because you couldn’t bear to look at them right now. He looks too kind, too handsome, too frustrating for your tired mind. You want for him to stop fucking looking like that, you want for him to stop touching you. You are a rebel, not looking at him properly – mostly because you…

A harsh slap lands on your butt. You whine from sharp pain and it gives you another smack – this is the first time any of them laid hands of you in a way that wasn’t sexual, and you want to cry from frustration. If torture is inevitable, you’d prefer it to be sex rather than pain. 

— Listen to the captain, doll. Open your eyes. 

— No. Please. — You don’t want to look at me, eh? — Probably too overwhelmed. Poor girl. We should take it easy for her. — She would be fine. Simon picked a strong girl for us. — Strong? Never saw anyone cry so much before. — Don’t like ‘em a bit more wet, sergeant? — I can take a bit wet. She looks bloody adorable like this. — That she is. They both laugh. You feel like you’re going to throw up again – the knot in your tummy getting tighter, with each second the rough fingertips are caressing your swollen and puffy lower lips, every time Gaz pushes one finger up your clit and massages it like your hips aren’t jolting in overwhelming pleasure this exact second. You can still feel the outline of a giant cock that was inside of you last night – you’re still hurting, feeling like it broke something deep inside, leaving you sore and exhausted. You just want to go home. You don’t want to listen to their banter, friendly and condescending at the same time – the authority levels are making you feel dizzy, trying to understand who they are to each other. Who can be convinced to let you go after this. — Open your eyes before I fuck you, love.

You don’t want to, and it gives you another smack – you feel like it’s going to break the skin soon, the guy behind you isn’t holding any of his strength and it makes you worry about his other hand, still playing with the softness of your cheeks, spreading lube all around your puckered hole. The only thing that wasn’t touched yet – and it’s used just like the rest of your body now. 

One long, thick digit deepens into your anus, making you whine and try to wiggle out – but you open your eyes obediently, finally, looking at his kind smile. You can almost believe he will be softer with you now, maybe just petting your head and checking with the others – but you can hear him grunting, changing the position to stand right in front of you. A hand under your chin pushes your face up, to an uncomfortable degree – while still impaled on his sergeant’s fingers in your ass, spreading your tight entrance to a degree that lets you know you won’t be walking any time soon. Price smiles when you stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, still sucking on his finger like a good girl. He opens his belt with one hand, just barely bringing his pants and underwear down to let his girthy cock slap against your cheek. It’s too heavy to stand against his stomach properly, so it spreads little beads of pre-cum all over your skin. You whine when he slaps both of your cheeks with his cockhead a few times, mostly teasing himself – preparing for the main course. He’d love to fuck your cunt and give your lower holes a proper welcome on pair with Gaz – but you look fragile and overwhelmed already. Captain does have a heart, after all. — Don’t bite or we’ll rip your teeth off. Got it? — Pl…please, sir… Oh, you smartarse. Knows how to get him going – knows how to press the buttons that would make even more blood run to his cock, making his erection unbearably hard right now. He smiles when you sob and cry, tears are really making you look even cuter – he pushes his cockhead against your swollen lips, allowing you a taste lick. A little something, solely for you. You whine at the bitter taste, not enjoying it even for a second – it’s a good thing Price doesn’t really care about the thoughts of a random civvie they snatched from a street. The last mission went up the devil’s arse and they all deserve someone warm and soft to just spread their legs and look cute. Maybe, you’ll learn to enjoy their company after the first few weeks. Maybe, he’d bring you back to his house in the countryside, tie you up to the front porch, and use you like the perfect little doorbell. Fuck his pretty girl for a few minutes and let her moans tell him that there are guests. You will do nicely as his pet. So, so nicely. — I asked if you got it. No teeth, little minx, or you will never bite anything again. 

— I p…promise. Just don’t hurt me, please, I want to go- — Your home is with us, luv. You know that fighting is useless when Gaz slowly slips his cock inside – not nearly spreading you enough so it won’t hurt. The stretch burns, leaves you sobbing as he slowly bottoms down. Smiling when you wiggle and cry, laughing and kissing the back of your head when his hand slowly slips under your leg to lift it. To provide himself with better access for your small, aching hole. 

You want for it to hurt, one agonizing inch after the other – and it does hurt, the man is by no means small, and the only reason you aren’t crying is because your mouth is too busy sucking off his captain. You just blabber something incomprehensible, something that makes them both laugh. You want for everything to hurt, just so you could stop feeling so fucking weird – but you feel the hand slipping down, between the lips of your pussy. Playing with the button of your clit, making you whine as it becomes wetter by a second. You thought there weren’t any more orgasms left to give, but Kyle smiled and pushed his fingers inside of your pussy. Not even wanting to think, you just whine, tongue swirling around Price’s cock as he pushes deeper and deeper. They rock you from side to side – when you choke on one cock too much, throat hurting from the thick length bottoming somewhere far too deep, Price finds his hand lost in your locks, gently pushing you back – deeper on Gaz’s cock. They are working together, perfectly, like a team that has known together for years – there is no hope to escape them, no chance of ever letting yourself go. You want to close your eyes and forget about everything. But when you close your eyes, you can hear the slaps of skin against skin. The wet sounds of your pussy felt ignored as it only stuffed with fingers – as thick as they could be. — You like to take it in the ass, love? 

— She’s wet, captain. Never knew she could be such a bad girl. 

— Little minxes are the best anyway. Not too much fight left though. — I bet Simon fucked all the fight of her. Didn’t he, doll? You whine, not sure how to answer with a cock in your mouth. They both laugh, knowing your predicament. 

You cum embarrassingly fast after this – the rough fingertips doing their job as you’re pushed deeper and deeper into the bed. You hate the damp sheets against your cheek, you hate that you’re so fucking wet, arousal dripping on the sheets only adds to the mess. You wonder if they would just toss them away after this. You figured that men living this kind of life wouldn’t bother with washing the sheets to get rid of the musk. — Pretty pussy feels lonely, yeah? Gaz kisses you again when you cum, whispering praises. Calling you a good girl, the best boy, taking them like a champ – making him and the captain so, so happy, would be hard not to steal you away from Ghost and Soap while they’re too busy with something else. You’re so tired, desperately, you just want to close your eyes and sleep, but they still aren’t done. Still pounding in your body like it’s just a set of warm, tight holes for them – no matter how many praises they whisper. — Will fill her up later. Little thing needs a proper fucking. — Greedy. Not even goin’ to share with me? — Sergeants get sloppy seconds, Kyle. — Glad I took her ass first then. Soap can have her after. — Boy will get spoiled with her around. You get another kiss on your shoulder, barely registrable as you fall tired again. Barely conscious. They continue to fuck you. You’re not sure they will ever going to let you go. 

[shewrotesomething]

Jumin Han - The Day He Realized He Wanted to Marry You

People like to think that CEO’s have it easy. That they sit in their big office with their feet up on their mahogany desk, smoking cigars as they watch the money come in. 

Wrong. It’s weeks of working 80 hours. It’s every minute of your day meticulously planned. It’s stacks of paperwork, 30 urgent emails in an hour, it’s meetings upon meetings upon meetings, it’s… missing three date nights in a row.

Jumin has warned you that these few months will be an especially busy period, but he’ll be sure to fulfill his ‘boyfriend’ responsibilities.

Well… that hasn’t exactly panned out as well as he thought.

The first time he had canceled, you waved it off and said there was no issue. The second time, your smile had wavered, but told him you understood. He tried to console you by saying you could eat at the restaurant by yourself. It was dinner time and the reservation was still there. You turned him down and said you’d rather go home and eat at your place.

And now, well, he was lucky that he couldn’t see your face when he called you to cancel. Still, you were uncharacteristically quiet throughout his monologue. At the end of it, you simply said, “I understand. I’ll catch you later.” 

If you had gotten angry, screamed at him

and cried through the call telling him he was a liar 

and that he always chooses work over you… 

well, he’d take that. In fact, he’d rather have that than the quiet surrender you gave. 

As Jumin’s hands danced across his keyboard to reply to an email, he told himself he can’t drown in the issue too long. What’s done is done, instead, he’lld make it up to you a hundred times over. He’s going abroad next month. He should take you with him. At the hotel you’re staying at, he’ll be sure to fill up the place with your favorite flowers, a nice candle lit dinner, a new outfit, and any purchasable item that you even happen to breathe on. 

Later, he’ll tell you about it. He’ll apologize and tell you about the trip. 

It was nearly lunch time when the glass door to his office swung open.

Before he could even tear his eyes from his computer, the intruder spoke, “Jumin Han.”

There you stood by his door. Hands crossed over your chest. The stern expression on your face made his fingers freeze mid-sentence.

“…hello,” was his lame greeting.

You crossed the room and rounded his table to stand by his side then, to his surprise, set a timer on your watch.

Jumin arched his brow and spun his chair about to face you “What are you—” He clamped his mouth shut when you planted yourself onto his lap and wrapped your arms around his frame.

“There’s a 10 minute window before you go to a lunch meeting. It’s mine,” you declared.

Jumin’s hands retreated from his computer and wrapped around your frame. “Were you feeling lonely, dear?”

“Yes,” you answered with a petulant pout. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him. He could feel the vibration of your voice on his shoulder. “I know this is your life and I won’t be selfish about it. Just give me 10 minutes.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around you. 

There would be times where a passing comment, or a conversation thought to be out of earshot, would say that you were lucky to be with someone like him. Rich, brilliant, young, and handsome, Jumin Han. That was ludicrous. All along, always, he was the lucky one.

“Next mo—” he cut himself off. No, the trip next month was too long. No. “Let’s have dinner tonight. Whatever you want.”

You gasped and giggled. You broke away from the hug to look at his face. “Really? Are you free?”

“I’ll finish work by 8 in the evening, is that okay?”

“Yeah! I can wait. We don’t need to go out. Let’s just eat at your place and watch a movie!” You paused and hummed in thought. “I think I know a good movie that you and I can watch. It’ll be great.”

His hand reached up to caress your face. “I can’t wait.”

It’s a good thing that the trip is next month. It’ll give him some time to find out your ring size and rent a villa for the proposal

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Not Ready Part 3/12

Part 4 and Part 5 are out on my Patreon!

Readers sister dies in a tragic car accident, leaving reader and her boyfriend Ruben in the urgent custody of her niece and nephew. Readers life is suddenly flipped upside-down since having children hadn't been the plan for her and Ruben's life together. At least not now when his football career was reaching great new heights.

Enjoy! 💞

The course of your life altered within the laps of that one phone call and the days that followed. Liza's funeral was arranged quite quickly, mostly because your parents couldn't bare the suspense of it. They wanted it over with as soon as possible.

Ruben was with you through it all, but eventually his profession forced him away even though the last thing he wanted to do was to leave your side. However, you couldn't bare to travel back with him to Manchester when there were two people that needed you now more than ever.

"How about your toys, don't you want to bring all of your toys to grandma and grandpa's?

"No." Vale sat on the bed of his semi empty bedroom, his feet dangling off the edge. You joined him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Now listen, I know you'll like staying at grandma's, she's got a big pool remember?"

"The water is green." He muttered.

"How about the beach then? In Bournemouth they've got really nice beaches. Don't you remember from last summer?"

"I don't like the beach?" 

"Of course you do. You've always loved the beach Vale."

"Not anymore." His eyes squinted, along with his body that tilted towards you. Vale wept in your arms. Weeping for his mother that would never take him to the beach again.

"Is he ready?" 

You left your nephew sleeping in his bed and went on to join his father in the kitchen. A now quiet kitchen, where the floorboards cracked when you walked over them. "No. He's still refusing to pack his bags."

"Oh."

He was quite distant, the children's father. He had always been the quiet type and sometimes you wondered what your sister even saw in him as she was his complete opposite. Liza was adventurous and full of life. Like you. Nonetheless, her husband was grieving and understandably so. He was now a widower left with two children to care for alone. But he was clearly not capable of taking care of Emmy and Vale in a time like this and so your grandparents offered to take them in until then. Of course, in the process, the children would have to move across the country and change schools. You could only imagine how difficult that must be for them after losing one parent so drastically.

"I'll go check on Emmy." You said and stood from the table. 

"She was going to get your present."

"Huh?" You turned around to meet his blank stare. Liza's husband had spent most of the days post the funeral staring out of the kitchen window. However, in that moment he looked at you, his droughtful stare penetrating your soul. 

"I told her to wait until morning. We heard about the storm on the news, yet Liza insisted that she'd get you your gift the same day it arrived in the post office. I believe that she was frustrated that it hadn't arrived on your birthday like it should have.

"W...what was it?" You stammered. 

"The gift?" He said, face pale. "How should I know? It's probably still left at the post office since Liza never made it there."

You felt a punch in your gut. Followed by the urgent need to throw up. You did so rushing to the nearest bathroom. After washing your hands and mouth you knocked on Emmy's door, her voice barely audible.

"Come in."

You peered open the door and saw her lying on the bed, a pillow covering her face.

"Oh, sweetheart. It's going to be okay." As soon as she felt your dip in the mattress, the pillow got tossed away, and the fairly heavy child clung to you. She clung to you in a way that no other human being had clung to you before.

"I don't want to leave."

"I know, baby. I know."

She cried against your shoulder, her body trembling in your arms. 

"Why can't grandma and grandpa move here?"

"They're old people, sweetie. Moving here would be more difficult for them than if you and your brother moved there."

"But what about daddy? Why can't he come with us?"

You sighed. "Oh, baby. Your dad is very sad right now. He just needs a little time to himself."

"Well, aren't you sad too?"

"Me?" You felt a sharp jab of your heart.

"Yes, you. Aren't you also sad that my mom is gone."

"Of course I am, sweetie. Why would you—"

"Does that mean that you want to be left alone too, like daddy?"

"Erm...no baby, not necessarily. But grief is very different for—"

"Great, then we'll move in with you."

"What?"

********************************************

You couldn't just leave them. The children had refused to leave their home, but you couldn't just leave them with their father. 

Your grandparents agreed for you to take them with you to Manchester for the week, perhaps get their minds off things. The only problem is that things happened so quickly that by the time you and the children got to Ruben's apartment, their suitcases packed to the rim, you realized that you had totally forgotten to give him the heads up about the whole situation

"Y/N, you're home." He greeted you at the door with the warmest smile.

"Ruben. I—"

"Uncle Ruben!"

His eyes widened at the sight of the children, the two of them tackling him to stumble backwards into the apartment.

"I've missed you Uncle Ruben!" Emmy squeald, her arms tightening around his waist.

"Erm....I missed you too." He chuckled. "I had no idea that the two of you were—"

"I missed you even more Uncle Ruben." Said Vale who clung to Ruben's leg. "More than Emmy."

"No you didn't." She hissed at her brother.

"Yes, I did." He responded and suddenly they were going at it.

"Hey, kids, cut it out!" You shouted. They did so tilting their heads at you. "How about you take your suitcase to the guestroom and unpack. I'll be right there with you."

"Okay." 

Just like that the children made up, Emmy helped her little brother carry his suitcase towards Ruben's guestroom. It's where they usually stayed when they came to visit.

You sighed once they were out of sight and almost forgot that you had Ruben standing in front of you with a slightly expectant look.

"They refused to live with my grandparents and so I told them that I'll take the kids for a week. I should have told you and I'm sorry." You fell back two steps, surprised that your apology was awarded a bear hug from Ruben. Nevertheless, that's all he did, hug you, letting you melt into his embrace. The smell of him brought peace to your whole being and with each inhale you realized how much you had missed your boyfriend.

"It's okay, I understand." He whispered, planting a soft kiss on top of your head. "I made dinner for two but I'm sure I can whip up something for all four of us."

It was a peaceful evening, with the children enjoying a home cooked meal for the first time since the funeral. They spent the rest of the night playing with Iker. The dog was more than excited to play with two beings with the same energy levels as him. It struck you how the children's eyes had lit up again coming here to Manchester. They lit up as a fragment of hope that despite the darkness that life has put them through, light was at the end of the tunnel. You were happy to have brought them that light.

"Auntie Y/N, I can't sleep."

The first night wasn't easy, though. Vale had come knocking on your bedroom door, which was a bit stressful for Ruben who really needed his sleeping hours. Despite this, Ruben had been the one to wave Vale over, allowing him to join you in bed. He fell asleep between you and Ruben with his thumb in his mouth. And right there and then you vowed to make sure that your niece and nephew had everything they needed in life to feel safe. Everything.

Part 4 and Part 5 are out on my Patreon!

[lisbeth-kk]

May prompts

Today's prompt is awkward.

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 5)

Summary: Rosie's youngest godmother takes her shopping, but Sherlock is persistent in choosing the shop. The occasion is too important to leave it to Primark to bring out something tolerable.

Five Years Old

Molly took me shopping for THE dress, but Papa decided the shop.

“It’s too important,” he argued when Molly told him he was being silly for making her take me to Harrod’s, but he didn’t budge.

“She’s only five, Sherlock. Besides, do you know how much it’ll cost?” Molly tried to reason with him.

It turned out that it wasn’t only Dad who could be stubborn, so Harrod’s it was. 

I felt like a princess in that dress we picked. According to the woman at Harrod’s the colour was tea green. Tiny white daisies were spread over the skirt. It felt almost weightless to wear and the skirt stood out in a perfect circle when I twirled quickly. We also bought white shoes and a matching hairband. 

***

“Why is everybody crying?” I whispered to my grandfather. “Papa is only saying nice things about Dad.”

Dad and Papa had married hours earlier, and in-between dishes, there were speeches to be held apparently. It was rather tedious, though I liked listening to Papa and Dad pledging their love for each other. That being said, I already knew this, so it was most likely for the guests benefit they had to repeat it. And Papa hated repeating himself… 

I know better now, obviously, and I totally understand why people were crying. Both Dad and Papa seemed to have forgotten about their guests, and focused on the other man entirely when they spoke about how they met etc. Papa seeked me out and urged me to stand on my chair when he spoke about me though. I ran over to hug him when he lost his voice.

“My precious girl,” he whispered when he knelt in front of me and held me tight.

I tear up every time I think about that moment, not to mention when I see it on tape.

***

Papa wrote a waltz for Dad, and when he played the violin, I danced around the floor in Dad’s arms. When Papa lowered his bow, the quintet started playing the waltz again, and then Dad and Papa danced. Greg Lestrade offered to dance with me like Dad had done, but I wanted to watch my parents. 

When I looked over at my uncle, I saw that he followed every dance move, and his eyes were slightly soft. I even thought I spotted some moisture, but that might have been the light.

***

I fell asleep on my uncle’s lap, but I woke when Dad and Papa came to kiss me goodbye.

“You be a good girl, and listen to Molly and Nana while we’re away, sweetheart,” Dad said sternly, but the stars in his eyes, softened the lecture.

“No experiments in my absence, Watson,” Papa said mock serious. 

Before he stood, he held me tight, breathed me in and whispered with a quiver in his voice: “I’ll miss you, my heart.” 

The awkward moments that had been avoided up until now, at least to my knowledge, started when Greg came over to see the newlyweds off. His pronunciation was a bit slurred at that point, and both uncle Myc, Dad and Papa shushed him when he wished them a fabulous six holiday.

His description puzzled me. I thought Dad and Papa were going on something called ahoneymoon. How the number six fit into that, I couldn’t fathom. Were they to visit six different places, or…

“You will figure it out in due course,” uncle Myc said with a blushing face. “Now, shall we dance one last time before I bring you and Nana home? It seems like a certain major needs some urgent rescuing.”

I looked over at the dance floor where Nana was showing off her dance skills, clinging to Dad’s old friend. He was sweating quite profusely in his uniform, and his eyes looked slightly panicked.

“Nana has a good time,” I pondered. “Papa says she was a bur... burlesque dancer when she was young. Is that burl…”

Uncle’s blush deepened and he cut me off by clearing his throat and muttering something about reminding his brother to watch his mouth around little girls.

Also available on AO3

Tags in the replies.

[aquagirl1978]

Meet my OC: Ava (IkeVil)

Name: Ava Paired with: William Rex Relationship: romantic Age: 24 Hair Color: black Eye Color: sapphire blue Birth Sign: Aquarius

Early Life

Ava grew up in a small, but close family. She was the only child, her mother managed the house, while her father worked as a solicitor at a prominent firm. Life was comfortable for Ava, her parents doted on her and provided her with all she needed. Despite being an only child, she had a good number of friends in school and thrived while learning.

As she advanced in her education, Ava grew bored with her subjects. But she never once complained or sought other enrichment - this was simply the way of life for her, so she went along with everything with a smile on her face. She learned by example, as her mother displayed the same behavior at home. One could call the two of them people pleasers.

When Ava was a young teen, her mother passed away from a sudden illness. Ava took over the role of her mother, taking care of the house and making sure her father was happy at home. She cooked his favorite meals which they shared only when he returned home after work. Occasionally, her father would take her out to the city for dinner or a show - always his choice of where to go. Again, life was comfortable for Ava, if perhaps a bit rigid.

Following in the footsteps of the other girls her age in her neighborhood, Ava met a boy and they soon began dating. He was nice enough, she supposed. Her father approved of him, and he was set to take over the family business. Ava's entire future was mapped out for her - what could go wrong?

It happened while they were on a date. Everything was going fine until it wasn't. He took her hand in his and told her he met someone else and had to end things with her. Ava couldn't understand why this was happening to her, she did everything she was supposed to.

Before she could sink into darkness, Ava went to her father and begged him to let her work in his office. Typing contracts, greeting clients, cleaning the office - she was willing to do anything to get her out of the house. While it was unorthodox for a woman of her class to ask to work, she knew if she stayed home, she would simply dwell on the fact that she was not good enough and it would eat her alive. If she had this job, even if performing the most menial of tasks, she could do something to help ease her father's workload. And that was better than doing nothing.

Her father said no at first, but after much insistence, he gave in. Just a few hours a week, he made her promise. The tasks were simple, but seeing how proud her father was whenever she completed one filled her with a sense of purpose. She lost her boyfriend, but she had this.

Growing up with a father who was a solicitor, Ava had a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong. Oftentimes at work, her father would talk to her about some of the high-profile cases that made the newspapers. Justice always prevails, he would tell her. And to Ava, her father was on the side of justice.

One night, her father asked her for a favor - a client was unable to come pick up some documents, could Ava hand deliver them? This was out of the scope of duties she normally performed, but these documents needed to be executed immediately. If it wasn't so urgent, he wouldn't be asking her. She took the envelope from him, happy to assist.

He scribbled down the address and said good-bye, knowing it would likely be the last time he saw his daughter.

Meeting Crown

I could be nice and tell you now how everyone met (hint, it's very similar to what happens in game, but with some changes). But as I started typing it, it started turning into something longer than this should be. So I'll save all that for a later fic.

On that note, I do welcome any and all asks about her, about her relationship with William and anyone else in Crown. I will be reblogging OC ask games moving forward - always feel free to ask about her. I also have an OC for IkePri, you may also always ask about her as well.

[codenamesazanka]

because like, Tenko, age 5, wanted to be a Hero and the reason he gave for it was "there were these two kids who was being excluded by the others, but I was nice and became their friend," making the very core of that desire kindness. A sense of fairness, a refusal of rejection even if everyone else was doing it; then the willingness to reach out, to bring them them into his fold. Connection. Friendship. Belongingness.

And see, Tenko himself understood rejection, for he was rejected by his own family - gently, he notes, the house my father built rejected me gently - but it was denial all the same, it decayed him from the inside out; then he understood it to a level that shattered him, when an entire city of people ignored him at his most desperate and vulnerable. Saw him, and decided he wasn't worth helping. A city of people who lived under All Might billboards and touted Heroes as the pillars of their society, who expected, demanded help and saving from Heroes, and yet turned around and did not feel the need to embody those ideals themselves, never even thought to pay it back or forward. The common trash, all too dependent on being protected. And the Heroes themselves? Brave guardians who created the trash that need coddling. They uphold all this. Whatever they believe, whatever genuine and high ideals individual Heroes hold, they have relinquished it to safeguard the system. A corrupt, vicious cycle.

(Even now, Heroes see him and—what happens is this: Possession by All For One has them musing strategically that they rather deal with All For One than Shigaraki; the arena to battle him in is called his Coffin In The Sky. Those jerks who hurt me over and over, he calls the Heroes he fought - and he tells this point blank to Deku. And above all, Heroes would give their lives to save a corpse - already broken and gone, I already destroyed that one - in midst of an urgent war, when years ago on a normal day, they never showed up to reach out a helping hand to a child looking to live on after the end of everything he knew. The dead have their place among the Heroes; but not all of the living. Do they even consider him as part of their world? Not like anybody would even look at me.)

Tenko can't forgive them; Shigaraki won't forgive them.

And these two things are what make up his origin, feeding into each other. It's because he values connections, friendship, belonging, that he refuses to forgive - everything I've witness in this world, lead to the existence of that house...this whole system you've built has always rejected me...Now I'm ready to reject it…; and because he refuses to forgive, he wants to destroy the world to create one where there's nothing but the one enclave of solidarity and belonging he founded - the League of Villains. The future? Unnecessary. Whatever lies ahead, I want them to live how they see fit.

That unforgiving valuation of connection and belonging, though, is also directed at himself. After all, Shigaraki himself rejects the world, rejects having a place in it. It’s not allowed to be part of what comes after his horizon. He does not believe in futures. He killed his family and destroyed any chance of reconciliation. He’s committed atrocities that put a chasm between him and the rest of humanity. Now he rejects being human at all. Shigaraki believes the rejection to be complete both ways, and belongingness to be mutually exclusive. Understanding is no longer on the table. It’s him vs the world; it’s the League vs everyone else; it’s I don’t care if you don’t understand… That’s why we���re Heroes and Villains.

To stop Shigaraki is to save him; and to save him, the key is exactly that origin, the two things most important to him, but remade: forgiveness, and reconnection.

[konahana27]

My Opinion About Zero's Tea Time (ZTT) Detective Conan Spin-Off

Summary: I agree this is not really 'Zero's Tea Time', more to Furuya Rei's Tea Time or Amuro Toru's Tea Time. Because Amuro and Rei are here, but Zero forever buried and only occasionally appear for his late dear friends. Zero is for WPS and for now, WPS only.

I'm happy ZTT Rei has Haro as some kind of healing and now I'm even more worried for Canon Rei. Canon Rei only have Kazami :"D

Overall, I love ZTT especially Time.2, Time.3, and Time.6! But other Eps are so fun too! I want to read ZTT manga now!

It's understandable if some people feel that ZTT is too fanservice-y because half of the screentime is for Amuro Toru persona, & even I think some of Rei's action here is a bit too open (additional after reading the manga: And too much free time being 'Amuro Toru' for the people, like ski resort chapter, baseball chapter, etc) for supposed-undercover.

But we actually get a lot of Rei being Rei too? So it's not THAT bad

Especially when Kazami is with him. He's so "Rei". And when Camel came to Poirot. That's Rei being "Rei" too. Furuya Rei flashback with Elena? Mourning for WPS? Liking Japanese product? Hating Akai? That's all "Furuya Rei" at his most authenticity.

(Additional after reading the manga: The moment we saw Rei being 'Furuya Rei' on anime and movie are always on urgent situation, except Police Academy Arc. Rei being 'Rei' in anime and movie is always high-stake or just serious moment. So I really appreciate Furuya Rei non-serious mode on ZTT. The control-freak nature? The occasional snark? The side-eye? The impatient 'I-dont-choose-other-way-I-make-MY-way-as-long-as-I-reach-my-goal'? Golden.)

So I don't really understand when people hated ZTT like it's the worst thing to do for Rei, like ZTT done so much disservice for Furuya Rei's character... But I guess it's back to each opinion

(Additional after reading the manga: As romantic AmuAzu disliker, I even feel confused for those who said ZTT baited too much for canon romantic AmuAzu in manga because, I actually don't see much scene of romantic AmuAzu except for that one chapter which in the end not happening at all because it's just grandma's imagination from the start to the end, and the last chapter when Azusa cried after Rei came back to Poirot.)

Final rating: 9/10! I love Rei. Kazami is great. Azusa, Midori, Hiroki, Camel are nice

Funfact: I consider the interpersonal relationship & the personal feeling here as canon rather than the event itself

The WPS dream of Rei... I interpret it as Rei himself is the one who kinda suicidal because he wanted to be with his friends, not like "WPS would never say that!"

Same with movie. I think the event itself isn't canon but the feeling is CANON

Like, Rei placing his Akai Hatred above national importance (read: Curacao & BO coming)? Canon. Rei willing to unjustifiedly arrest someone so he could actually catch the real one? Canon.

Rei could drive crazily? Canon

I thought the only reason Rei didn't fight with Akai on M26 because of:

- He didn't meet face to face with Akai

- Conan already in the middle of them (like how in M20 they stopped fighting bcs Conan here)

- BO actually already there at that moment

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

From Hell to Home to Back Again

Summary: At the talent show, Chrissy Cunningham is so hungry that she nearly collapses. When she's found by Hopper, her parents ended up losing custody of her. She ends up being placed in the care of the Hendersons, and she finally finds the family she so desperately needed. She also ends up falling in love. What other changes are made in this alternate universe?

@emen-98 @1lostsoul0fishbowl @vulpixsworld

Prologue . . . Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"The week is long. The silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west," Chrissy, Robin, Ronnie, Dustin, Steve and Eddie read together.

They had finally gotten the message translated. It was long after closing, and all the customers had left. They were the only ones left in Scoops Ahoy and in the mall. Chrissy still felt that sense of fear that something was wrong with Heather. It lingered in the back of her mind no matter how many times she reassured herself. She promised herself to call the Holloways when she got home. Hopefully it was nothing.

"It just can't be right," Steve said as he closed Scoops Ahoy.

"It's right," Robin replied.

"I think it's great news," Dustin said.

"How is this great news? So much for being American heroes?" Steve asked. "It's nonsense."

"You guys want to be American heroes?" Chrissy asked in amusement.

"It certainly would change people's perspectives of us," Eddie said and sighed. "As much as I try not to care about that. . ."

Chrissy and Eddie's hands swung together as they walked through the empty mall. Since no one else was here, Robin and Ronnie were doing the same. It was strange being in the mall alone at night. It made the hairs on Chrissy's neck stand up.

"It's not nonsense. It's very specific. It's obviously a code," Dustin said.

"What do you mean a code?" Steve asked.

"Like a super secret spy code," Dustin exclaimed.

"That's a total stretch," Steve said.

"I don't know, is it?" Robin asked. "I mean, after all that we have been through? With, you know, Higgins selling drugs to kids, Billy putting Chrissy in the hospital. . .Eddie's house blowing up because his father got him involved in a drug heist. . .and other things. . .okay, so let's say this is a secret Russian transmission, what do you think they're going to say? Blow the warheads at noon?"

"Yeah, okay, so you have a point," Steve frowned.

"She usually does," Ronnie said and then frowned. "I'm just going to ignore the other things that you won't tell me about. I trust you, I guess."

Robin looked guiltily at her and then shared a look with Chrissy. She looked back with sympathy, knowing how much you wanted to talk with your partner about these things but also knowing you couldn't. Robin quickly changed the subject back to the secret message, discussing with Dustin what it might mean. Meanwhile, Ronnie stared at her suspiciously. Chrissy had been watching them so closely that she didn't even notice that Steve had fallen behind. They found him putting quarters into a little horsey ride for kids. He fumbled with his change and cursed as it spilled all over the floor.

"Hey! I need a quarter," Steve said.

"Are you sure you're tall enough for that ride?" Robin asked and Eddie snorted with laughter.

"QUARTER!" Steve yelled urgently and Robin tossed him one.

They all watched him as he put the quarter in to start the machine.

"Need help getting up, little Stevie?" Robin asked, and Dustin laughed.

"Would you two just shut up and listen?" Steve asked as he pointed at the Indiana Flyer.

"Holy shit," Dustin realized. "The music. . .the music!"

"It was on the tape!" Chrissy gasped.

"Shit, nice catch, Stevie," Eddie said and clapped him on the shoulders.

"I don't understand," Robin said.

"It's the exact same song on the recording," Dustin told her.

"Maybe they have these in Russia," Robin said.

"An Indiana Flyer? I don't think so," Steve said.

"This code. It didn't come from Russia. It came from here," Steve said.

They all stared at the rocking horse in shock. Russians in Hawkins? No fucking way. Chrissy shared a look with Eddie. Well, there was another world under Hawkins. . .why not Russians, too?

"No way, that's insane. Russians in Hawkins, you've got to be shitting me," Ronnie said. "What would they be doing here? This is a joke, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Total joke. Got you!" Robin chuckled weakly.

"Okay, babe, you're a terrible liar," Ronnie said. "What the fuck is going on? What aren't you telling me?"

"What? I'm not - I am telling you the truth!" Robin exclaimed.

"I don't think any of you have been telling me the truth since Chrissy was put into the hospital," Ronnie sighed. "But whatever, if you don't want to tell me what's going on. Fine."

Ronnie walked off, far ahead of them. Robin watched her, looking sadly at her retreating form.

"She's not going to let this one go, is she?" Robin asked.

"She's Ronnie Ecker. Of course she isn't," Eddie said. "I hate lying to her, too."

Eddie put his arm around Robin and hugged her tightly. Steve moved to her side.

"Hey, if Nancy and I can get through this, then so can you and Ronnie," Steve said. "She's just mad because she cares about you, about all of us."

That night, they all went home with their thoughts running wild. Chrissy went to the phone and immediately called the Holloways.

"Hi, Mrs. Holloway," Chrissy greeted cheerfully.

She never really had a problem with her, but her husband, on the other hand. . .he was a real meathead. She knew Heather hated how much her mother drank, though, because of him.

"Oh, hello, Chrissy, how are you?" She greeted politely.

"Oh, I'm good, Mrs. Holloway," Chrissy said. "How are you?"

"Well, some days are better than others but I'm getting by," she said.

"That's good. . .well, I was calling to check on Heather to see how working at the pool went," Chrissy said.

"Oh, she absolutely loved it until that awful Billy fellow started working there. I know how much he bothers her. You're such a good friend for checking on her," Mrs. Holloway said. "Heather isn't here right now. She's spending the night at Tina's, I think. Hopefully, my baby will be a good influence on that girl."

Chrissy rolled her eyes. If only she knew. . .which she didn't. Heather's mother was usually too deep in her own problems to notice what was going on with her daughter. She didn't even know Heather was a lesbian or that she and Chrissy used to date. After talking with her for a while, Chrissy was finally released from the conversation and hung up the phone. She went to her room and plopped on her bed, feeling a sense of relief. Heather was with Tina. So. . .why did she still feel so worried? Chrissy rolled over and hugged Peggy to her chest, letting Eddie inside her head. She drifted off to sleep with Eddie's presence washing over her.

The next day, Chrissy was dragged to Scoops Ahoy by her very annoying brother. Robin was leaning against the counter with headphones over her ears as she looked over the translation again. Meanwhile, Steve was busy trying to cover for her. The last customer walked away, and the Hendersons took their place at the counter.

"Ready to scout the area for any. . .enemies?" Dustin asked cheerfully.

"Yeah, just hold on," Steve said as he took off his hat and apron.

"Oh, hey, I didn't ask. . .how's Nancy doing at the Newspaper?" Dustin asked.

"Oh, well, she actually has an investigation of her own going on. Something about the rats going crazy and eating fertilizer. . .I don't know what that's about, but Nancy's determined to crack the case even if those stupid misogynistic assholes at the paper try to stop her," Steve replied.

"Well, I'm sure Nancy will show them," Dustin said.

"Yeah, she's great like that," Steve said smiling fondly.

"STEVIE! DUSTY!" they heard a voice yell.

Eddie skidded into the ice cream parlor with a pair of binoculars around his neck. Breathing heavily, he stood in front of Dustin and Steve. He was wearing his cutoff shorts again and a stolen polo of Steve’s. He had torn off the sleeves as well. Eddie was wearing a bright pink scrunchy of Chrissy's in his hair. It wasn't that strange. They had all stolen each other's clothes from everyone amongst their friend group. Gareth had stolen a couple of pieces from Jeff and Eddie. One of them was a red flannel that he cut the sleeves off. Robin either stole from Tina or from Ronnie or Steve. Nancy, Chrissy, and Heather usually swap amongst each other. Robin always joked that no one would be able to tell if anyone was cheating. It was just something that they did.

"Jesus, I don't think the entire mall heard you, Eds," Steve said sarcastically. "Might want to yell a little louder."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. . .Reporting for duty, captain," Eddie said, and Chrissy cleared her throat. "Oh, hey, Chrissy. . .what are my orders?"

"And he greeted me like I wasn't his fucking girlfriend," Chrissy pouted.

"Oh, shit, no! Hi, my love!" Eddie exclaimed. "I swear I'm just excited about the quest."

"I'm really worried that you really are going to leave me for Steve," Chrissy said.

"What?! No, I love you!" Eddie yelped. "Baby, listen. . ."

Eddie pressed his forehead against hers, and she smiled as she felt his love for her pour through their connection. Chrissy sighed happily.

"I love you, too," She said and paused. "Okay, I've decided. You can go play your little spy game with Dustin and Steve."

"Yes!" Eddie exclaimed and kissed her deeply, pouring everything he had into the kiss.

Chrissy watched him fondly as he took off with her brother and Steve as they went to look for evil Russians. Ronnie had entered just as they had exited.

"Do I want to know?" Ronnie asked.

"No," Ronnie and Chrissy said.

"I came here with him, but the asshole took off when we came through the door," Ronnie said. "I figured he was excited to see you, Chrissy."

"At the end of the day, he'll come running to me when he tires himself out," Chrissy giggled and stepped aside to let Ronnie approach the counter.

"Are we okay?" Robin asked Ronnie.

"I thought a lot about it last night, and I can't force you to tell me if you're not ready to. It's just frustrating not knowing what's going on with the people I love," she said.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could tell you," Robin said softly.

"Well, that makes me feel a little better," Ronnie said. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said. "Does it make you feel even better to know that I wish I could kiss you?"

"It does. . .you still working on that message?" Ronnie asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me help."

" . . . A trip to China sounds nice if you tread lightly," Robin read the other part of the message to her.

Ronnie leaned against the counter, frowning thoughtfully. Yeah, Chrissy couldn't figure it out either. Before Ronnie could open her mouth, Erica Sinclair marched her and her friends into the parlor to take advantage of their company policy. Ronnie and Chrissy moved back to let Robin deal with her. Once that was done, they went back to it until a delivery guy dropped off a package for Scoops Ahoy, and that's when Robin connected the dots. The message was talking about the stores in the mall. It was a time and place for them to meet or to drop something off. Chrissy and Ronnie had stared at her like she was crazy as she stood up tall in the middle of the mall. Although, Ronnie looked at her more appreciatively. They had run into the guys on the way out, and they had followed after them.

"I cracked it," Robin said. "I cracked the code."

It was how they later ended up looking down at the back end of Starcourt wearing raincoats late at night as the rain came pouring down on them.

"The things I do for you," Ronnie muttered, and Chrissy giggled.

"There's your Russians," Robin said.

"What do you think in there?" Steve asked, talking about the boxes they were moving.

"Guns? Bombs?" Dustin asked.

"Chemical weapons," Robin said.

"Dragons," Eddie said, and they all looked at him. "What? Like that idea is totally out of the realm of possibility?"

"Well, whatever it is, they're armed to the teeth," Dustin said as he looked through Eddie's binoculars.

"Great, that's great," Steve said.

They watched as the Russians down below opened a set of double doors to put boxes inside a room.

"It's just more boxes," Dustin said.

Of course, Steve and Dustin had to fight over the binoculars. Their tussle ended up causing a ruckus and alerted the armed guards. They all quickly ducked for cover, and Chrissy squeezed Eddie's hand with hers. She noticed Robin, Ronnie, and Steve doing the same. They managed to make their way safely back inside and out of the rain.

"Well, I think we found your Russians," Robin told Steve.

"Holy shit! Russians really have invaded Hawkins. . .what the fuck?!" Ronnie exclaimed. "I mean, why would they come here of all places? What's so special about Hawkins?"

Chrissy shared an uneasy look with her brother, Eddie, Robin, and Steve. Ronnie definitely didn't miss the way the way they all tensed up, and she let out a frustrated yell.

"Still excited about your quest?" Chrissy asked Eddie.

"Not so much," Eddie said. "The minute I saw the guns. . ."

They all waited inside the ice cream parlor for the rain to let up, and then they all escaped the mall. Eddie offered to drive Dustin and Chrissy home, squeezing in the back of his van with their bikes. He dropped a quiet Ronnie off at her house, wincing as she slammed the door. Chrissy crawled into her spot.

"I hate when she's mad at me," Eddie nodded.

"She'll understand," Chrissy said softly.

"Is it really that much safer if she's left I'm the dark?" Eddie asked.

"We have no choice, Eddie, we all signed NDAs," Dustin spoke up.

"Yeah, I know," Eddie replied. "I just put her through hell before with lying to her and everything about what happened with my dad."

"Yeah, you put Chrissy through hell, too," Dustin said, narrowing his eyes at him. "Don't think that I forgot about that. Any, you can NOT tell because they'll cart all of us off to jail or juvie or foster care. Hell, maybe they'll kill all of us and cover it up. Whatever they do, I'd rather we keep our family together."

"Dustin!" Chrissy exclaimed.

"What? It's the truth!" He yelled.

"You could be a little more sensitive about it," Chrissy said.

"I don't know how anyone can soften the blow for that," he replied.

"By the way, I think you're being a little hypocritical for someone who ended up being the one that let it slip about all of this," Eddie said.

"That's exactly why I'm saying this, Eddie! I did all that to impress a girl! I brought something dangerous into the house! It killed Mews, but it could have killed Chrissy or our mom or you! Bringing you into all of this, it's my fault. I can't stop you from following me and making sure I'm safe and we have no other choice but to stop these bastards from coming into our home! We have to cause as little damage as possible, and we can't worry about NDAs or worry about more people getting involved when they shouldn't!" Dustin yelled.

It got quiet in the van, and a moment later, they heard Dustin sniffling. Eddie stopped the van and turned around.

"I'm sorry, shrimp," Eddie said.

"I'm just tired," Dustin said softly as he rubbed his eyes. "I just don't want anything to happen to anyone, but I also want all the shit that we've been through to mean something."

Eddie leaned over to wrap his arms around Dustin, hugging him tightly.

"You've got the biggest heart of anyone that I have ever met," Eddie said. "Never change, Dustin Henderson."

"I won't," he said and sobbed into Eddie's shoulder.

"You don't have to carry this crap alone either," he said. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"We're going to get through this together," he said.

Chrissy watched them fondly and let them have their moment before wrapping her arms around both of them. After all the tears were shed, Eddie pulled away and started the van back up. When they pulled up in front of their house, Chrissy turned to her brother.

"Why don't you go in? I'll be there in a few minutes," Chrissy asked.

"Why? What are you going to do to Eddie?" Dustin asked.

"Do you really want to know?" Chrissy asked and Eddie snorted.

Dustin huffed, pulled the door open, and slammed it before storming into the house.

"I love you," Chrissy said softly to Eddie.

"I love you, too," he replied and paused. "You know that I don't want anything to happen to Ronnie either."

"I know that," Chrissy said. "And Dustin does too."

"Do you think the reason that the Russians are here is because of the Upside Down?" Eddie asked.

"I can't think of any other reason they'd be here," Chrissy said.

"Yeah," Eddie said. "Fuck!"

"I'm tired of this shit, too, Eddie," Chrissy sighed.

The wall that they had put up earlier was still there, and Chrissy could feel it now more than ever. She hugged him but they didn't kiss goodbye and as she walked to the front door, she couldn't help but wonder why she didn't kiss him. Maybe she was just too tired. When Chrissy entered the house, she found their mother fussing over Dustin and his wet clothes. Claudia had immediately turned on her as well. After drinking hot chocolate and watching some TV with their mother, they went off to bed. Dustin had nodded off on the couch and nearly spilled his hot chocolate. Chrissy crawled into bed and curled up with Peggy Munson. Thoughts of Russians, Eddie, and Heather filled her head. It was too late to call Nancy and talk about it all with her, Chrissy thought as she drifted off to sleep. Shit! Steve said something about Nancy investigating rats, and she had been dreaming about rats. Chrissy fell asleep before she could question it further.

Chrissy was falling, and she was falling fast. She was in the void, and she could hear someone calling her name.

"Chrissy?!"

"Heather?!"

She appeared before Chrissy, looking gaunt and scared, tears running down her face.

"I just wanted to help. I know he hurt you, and even though he did that, I couldn't help but reach out to him. . .but there's something wrong with him, Chrissy. There's something wrong with Billy, and I don't know where he brought me. I don't know where I am," Heather sobbed.

"Heather, what happened?" Chrissy asked.

"He attacked me, and there was this monster. . . ," she cried.

"What monster?" Chrissy asked.

Suddenly, the void and Heather disappeared. Chrissy was standing in an old abandoned house.

"Chrissy. . .she does NOT matter to you," a voice in the darkness called out to her. "She's unimportant, unlike me. . .you shall soon discover. . .where your heart truly belongs. . ."

A dark figure came rushing out at her, and vines wrapped around her body. Chrissy screamed. Darkness overcame her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight