#i need to get back to working on that master doc...

[randomly--accessed--memories]

I haven’t gone through all the lore for this au yet but I am so so interested in it and I would really like to make fanart for it sometime if that’s ok? :)

Oh!! Of course! 1000%!! It always makes me so happy when people make stuff for/inspired by this AU, go right ahead!

I've compiled the first half of the story here (skip the first two chapters, they're just my headcanons for Vox's backstory that I included for background info), but strict lore-adherence has never been a big deal to me. So many people helped me create this AU that everyone's allowed to have their own takes on/versions of the idea.

[felassan]

EuroGamer: 'BioWare knew the deepest secrets of Dragon Age lore 20 years ago, and locked it away in an uber-plot doc'

Original creator David Gaider on how "some of the big mysteries are being solved".

Rest of post under a cut due to length and possible spoilers.

"As I write about the secrets hidden in Dragon Age's mysterious Fade, and as I uncover some of them playing Dragon Age: The Veilguard, one question keeps rising up in my mind. How much did BioWare know about future events when first developing the series more than 20 years ago? That's a long time, and back then BioWare didn't know there would be a second game, which is why Dragon Age: Origins has an elaborate and far-reaching epilogue. Why lay so much lore-track ahead of yourself if you don't think you'll ever get there? But look more closely at Origins and there are big clues suggesting BioWare did know about future Dragon Age events. There are obvious signs in the original game, such as establishing recurring themes like Old Gods and the Blight and Archdemons. But there's also Flemeth, Morrigan's witchy mother, who's intimately linked to events in the series now - more specifically: intimately linked to Solas. Does her existence mean Solas was known about back then too? There's only one person I can think of to answer this and it's David Gaider, the original creator of Dragon Age's world and lore. We've talked before, once in a podcast and once for a piece on the magic of fantasy maps, where we discussed the creation of Dragon Age's world. And much to my surprise, when I ask him what he and the BioWare team knew back then, he says they knew it all. "By the time we released Dragon Age: Origins, we were basically sure that it was one and done, but there was, back when we made the world, an overarching plan," he says. "The way I created the world was to seed plots in various parts of the world that could be part of a game, a single game, and then there was the overall uber-plot, which I didn't know for certain that we would ever get to but I had an understanding of how it all worked together. "A lot of that was in my head until we were starting Inquisition and the writers got a little bit impatient with my memory or lack thereof, so they pinned me down and dragged the uber-plot out of me. I'd talked about it, I'd hinted at it, but never really spelled out how it all connected, so they dragged it out of me, we put it into a master lore doc, the secret lore, which we had to hide from most of the team.""

"This uber-plot document was only viewable on a need-to-know basis, he says, and only around 20 people on the team had access to it - other senior writers mostly. And even though Gaider left the Dragon Age team after Inquisition, and then eight years ago BioWare altogether, meaning he didn't work on The Veilguard at all, he believes - by looking at the events in the new game - his uber-plot lore "has more or less held up". That's impressive. What's even more impressive, or exciting, is that back then he also envisaged a potential end state for the entire Dragon Age series - a point at which it would make no sense for the series to carry on. "I always had this dream of where it would all end, the very last plot," he says, "which I won't say because who knows, we could still end up there. But the idea that this uber-plot was this sort of biggest, finite... That the final thing you could do in this world that would break it was there as a 'maybe we would get to do that one day'... There was just the idea of certain big, world-shaking things that were seeded in that arc, some of which have already come to pass, like the return of Fen'Harel." You've read that correctly: the idea to have Fen'Harel, also known as the Dread Wolf, reappear, was seeded all the way back then, way before Inquisition - the game in which he does actually reappear. But the concept for Solas, as a character who was Fen'Harel in disguise, was a newer idea. "That spawned from a conversation I had with Patrick [Weekes] and a number of other writers," Gaider says, "as an idea of 'what if you had a villain that spent an entire game where he's actually in the party and you get to know him?' Now, the god version and his larger role in the plot, yes that was known, but not that he would be presented as a character named Solas." Fen'Harel being known about means the other elven gods were known about, which means all of that stuff Solas reveals about his godly siblings - that they're not gods at all but evil elven mages he locked away behind the Veil - was known about back then too. "Oh yeah," Gaider says. "Everything that Solas tells you [at the end of Inquisition DLC, Trespasser]: it's all part of that original uber-lore - that was all in our mind." But why have so much lore if you're not certain you'll get to ever realise it? Well, to create a believable illusion. By creating an "excess" of lore, as Gaider describes it, Origins made Thedas feel like an old and believable place. A place with history, rather than a Western set that was all facade and no substance."

"BioWare also did something canny with the lore it did relay then, too: it shared it through the voices of characters living in the world, making it inherently fallible. In doing this, Dragon Age veiled its truths behind biases. The church-like organisation of the Chantry proclaims one truth, while the elves and dwarves proclaim another. Sidenote: you can experience this yourself through different racial origin stories in Dragon Age: Origins. This way, there's no one, objective, irrefutable, truth. "To get the truth, you kind of have to pick between the lines," Gaider says. So even though elven legends are coming true through the existence of Solas and The Veilguard's antagonist gods, it doesn't mean that's the one and only truth. There's truth in what the Chantry teaches and what the dwarves say, he tells me, which ignites my curiosity intensely. BioWare has also been tricksy in how it's rubbed out the lore the further back in time you go. "In general, the further the history goes back, we always would purposefully obfuscate it more and more," Gaider says - "make it more biased and more untrue no matter who was talking, just so that the absolute truth was rarely knowable. I like that idea from a world standpoint, that the player always has to wonder and bring their own beliefs to it." It leads into a founding principle of Dragon Age, which is doubt - because without it, you can't have faith, a particularly important concept in the series. It's where the whole idea of the Chantry's Maker comes from and with it, the legend about the fabled Golden City - now the Black City - at the heart of the Fade. This is the very centre of the lore web, and, I imagine, it's close to the series endpoint Gaider imagined long ago. All secrets end there. Did Gaider know what was in the Black City when he laid down Origins' lore? That's the question - and it startles me how casually he answers this. "Oh, yeah," he says. "What was in the Black City: that's the uber-plot. I knew exactly. "Was it as detailed in the first draft of the world?" he goes on. "No. I had an idea of the early history because that's where I started making the world. So the things that were true early-early: I knew exactly what the Black City was and the idea of what the elves believed, and what humans believed vis-a-vis the Chantry - that was all settled on really early. Then I expanded the world and the uber-plot bubbled out of that.""

"Gaider shows me the original cosmology design document for Dragon Age: Origins as if to prove this - or rather for the game that would become DAO. The world was known as Peldea back then. I can't share this with you because I see it via a shared screen on a video call, and because Gaider doesn't want me to, mostly because the ideas are so old they're almost unrecognisable from what's in the series now. But I can tell you it's a document that's just over a page in length, and that there's a circular diagram at the top showing the world in the middle and the spirit realm ringed around it. And on that document is reference to the Chantry's beliefs about a God located in a citadel that can be found there. Gaider says BioWare knew about Fen'Harel (the Dread Wolf) 20 years ago when it was developing Dragon Age: Origins, and that he'd one day reappear. The Fade wasn't known as the Fade back then, either, but as the Dreaming, because it's the place people go when they dream - an idea that lives on still. And if that sounds familiar to any fans of The Sandman among you, it should. "I'd say The Sandman series was probably fairly prominently in my head," says Gaider. "I liked that amorphous geography that was born from the psyche of collective humanity. I'd say yes, if I was to point at something specifically, that's probably where the very first inspiration of it took root." It's a lot to take in, but it reinforces the admiration I have for Dragon Age. Just as I have when hearing about the creation of my other favourite fantasy worlds, such as A Song of Ice and Fire, I begin to understand the magnitude - and the deliberateness - of the plotting that went on. I wonder if one day the Dragon Age series will end in the way Gaider first imagined, albeit slightly altered by the many other pairs of hands shepherding it along now. What a curious feeling it must be to know, so many years in advance, where things might go. Where that end is, I don't know, but I do know we'll take a significant step towards it in The Veilguard. After all, we're coming into contact with gods who were there at the recorded beginning of it all. "Yeah - we have access to people who can tell us the truth from first-hand experience," Gaider says, "although again, it depends on what the writers did with it. But if they continued the tradition of Dragon Age, you never know for sure if Solas is telling you everything, or what you're learning is the entire truth. "But yes, some of the big mysteries are being solved. I mean, will they one day definitively tell you about the Maker? Will we crack the big mysteries of the world and just make them answered finally? And does that ruin one of the central precepts that Dragon Age is founded upon? Maybe," he says. "Ultimately, that lore, when you make it big and you hint at it and hint at it and hint at it, it becomes a Chekhov's Gun of sorts. Eventually you got to pony up.""

[source]

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

2: The Garden - Jack Abbot x reader (Life imitates art series)

Summary: 2.7k words. here’s part 2 of Life imitates art, by popular demand :) A glimpse into your dates with Jack and his first of many visits to the museum. Here's the series (ahh!!) master list <3

The Art: The above artwork, "My Garden" (1915), is by a painter from Pittsburgh named Johanna W. Hailman. The Carnegie Museum of Art and the Westmoreland Museum of American Art house many of her works. I highly recommend checking out their sites! I had a lot of fun researching Pittsburgh art and artists for this series.

Warnings: reference to reader’s shellfish allergy (no description of allergic reaction though). Excessive and perhaps irresponsible use of italics and commas. Implied smut but nothing explicit, 18+ regardless,, mdni please. Reader is a Real Housewives fan.

a/n: I am now a Pittsburgh tour guide. at least my search history and the hours I poured into this instead of studying for my exam say so. Divider credit!

Doctor Abbot often lingered after his shifts. Doctors Shen and Ellis were ready to bolt home once the clock hit 07:01, but not Jack. He’d pause at the provider station and catch up with Robby. He’d hang around too close to the edge of the roof, sometimes with a beer in hand.

Today, he gave shift report in record-breaking time and was walking out the doors at 19:03 with his go bag slung over one shoulder and his phone pressed to his ear as he placed a pick-up order. 

Abbot didn’t ask you what food you liked, so he took a wild guess. He had a rare moment of downtime during his day at the Pitt, so he scrolled through takeout places near the museum that you might frequent. It was out of the way, nowhere near the conveniently short trip between the hospital and your apartment, but Jack figured the extra time would be worth it.

The museum director sent you home for the day, so you’d spent the past several hours rotting on the couch and looking disdainfully at the wheelchair you wrestled out from the back of your closet. The wheels needed a good greasing and it could benefit from dusting, but you decided that would be a tomorrow problem. Tonight, you were paying half attention to reruns of Real Housewives episodes.

I’d make a good house wife, you thought. Not in the actual sense though. If you were stuck at home all day, homemaking for a man that was more married to his job than you, well… stir crazy might be the understatement of the century. No, you imagined yourself with a Real Housewife’s budget and real estate space to start an art collection of your own. You imagined yourself in the dramatic dresses and strappy heels. You imagined yourself with a foot that fit into strappy heels.

Instead, said leg was covered underneath a blanket, which was covered in a stain or two of Ben & Jerry’s. The angry red skin was a reminder of the weeks to come. Confronting reality would also be a tomorrow problem, along with the wheelchair’s maintenance.

The episode’s cat fight was interrupted by a ping from your phone.

On my way.

You didn’t recognize the number or have it saved to your contacts, but you had a pretty good idea of who it was. Amidst the blues that painted the rest of the day, your date with the doc was somehow forgotten.

Shit. The sweat shorts and oversized tee shirt you’d since changed into didn’t exactly align with your typical presentation for a date, but given the circumstances, Jack might understand. Jack. To most of the hospital he was Doctor Abbot, but you got to call him Jack. It felt oddly intimate, even though it was just his first name.

Four knocks in quick succession. Not too loud, he wasn’t trying to break down your door, but loud enough to get your attention. Predictable, in a way.

The door’s peephole gave you a glimpse of his salty curls. They were tousled, like he’d been running his fingers through them—maybe even nervously so.

“What’s the password?” The day had drained you, but that didn’t mean you weren’t up for some more of the banter from earlier. Besides, you liked a man who could work for you. You loved a good chase.

“Uh, Union Grill,” Jack replied, the corner of his lip upturned as his gaze flickered between the bag of food and the peephole he imagined you were pressed up against.

Two comically loud unlocked locks and one unfastened door chain later, you stood, well, leaned on crutches face to face with Jack. Sure enough, the brown paper bag in his hand had Union’s logo stamped on the side. It was a short hike from the museum—you arguably visited the restaurant too frequently.

Jack smiled softly as he took you in. He took note that you traded your earlier floor-length dress for some comfier lounge clothes. God forgive him, he was still a man at the end of the day, and he’d be lying if he said your shorts weren’t a little distractingly short.

Jack looked different too. This time, you shamelessly let your eyes drag up and down his toned body. He looked worn, bordering on weary, but his eyes were bright. Brighter than you’d ever seen them, with a hint of mischief lingering. His black scrub top was abandoned somewhere in the backseat of his truck, he stood before you in a tight undershirt and his black scrub pants. 

His smile transformed into a smirk as he met your eyes. Caught ya lookin’, his eyebrow raised at you with a flirty glint in his eyes. You cleared your throat and let him in, cheeks heating up at being caught. So the chase begins.

“I got four different meals, didn’t know what you liked. And uh, made sure there’s no shellfish,” Jack scratched the back of his head and gestured to the abundant food covering your kitchen counter. If anyone from the hospital’s IT department, or God forbid Gloria were to ask him why he accessed a patient’s chart after they’d been discharged, he certainly wouldn’t tell them it was so he could see if his patient had any food allergies before he bought food for a date.

It was your turn to pin Jack with a raised eyebrow. You never told him about your allergy, but he evidently had his ways of knowing.

Conversation flowed easily. You opted to eat on the sectional instead of at the small kitchen table—which was covered in books, anyway. Plus, you could drape the blanket over your lap again. Out of sight, out of mind. Minus the throbbing. Jack clocked the wheelchair shoved into the corner of the room, but didn’t bring it up. He figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would.

Instead, you talked about Real Housewives, the rest of the doctor’s day in the Pitt, and the museum over your favorite Union dish. Jack couldn’t offer much in response to your tangents on art, but he was happy to listen. He was eager to learn.

Not too long after your second date, which was less than 24 hours after the first date, Jack visits you at the art museum. He’s pleased to see you’re off your leg during the tour and instead using the wheelchair that he helped you tune up. (The word “help” was doing a lot of heavy lifting. Abbot greased the wheels and tightened fixtures you hadn’t even thought to check while you observed from the sectional, snacking on the previous night’s leftovers.)

Jack is glad that the device doesn’t seem to slow you down. If anything, it seems like you’d taken advantage of the large open spaces in the museum after hours to learn some new wheelchair tricks.

The trauma physician was undoubtedly out of his depth at the Carnegie Museum of Art. He doesn’t understand about half of what you’re saying as you guide the group through the museum’s many rooms, but he’s determined to learn. The traveling exhibits are what most of the regular guests come on tours for, but you always find yourself lingering in the museum’s permanent collection. You point out different art styles and dive into the historical context. You have the artist’s biographies memorized like the back of your hand.

On your third date, Jack builds you a bookshelf to house the dozens of art history books and collections stowed around your apartment, on coffee tables and above your kitchen cabinets, wherever they would fit. It didn’t look too dissimilar from Jack’s dozens of medical journals. You’re more of an active participant in this project than the wheelchair tune-up. You hand him tools, but most importantly, you curate the perfect order of the books on the shelves, including ornate bookends and trinkets throughout the mini library. In seemingly no time at all, it seamlessly blends in with the rest of your apartment, which is also so you. 

It isn’t until your third date that Jack touches you beyond a fleeting squeeze of your hand. He’s been itching to feel your smooth skin against his calloused palms. Despite all his mental fortitude, he found himself bordering on anxious. He felt like a kid with a crush again, but worried that he might be misreading the situation. He liked spending time with you, a lot, and it would cut deep if you pulled back because he moved too fast.

Needless to say, he was more than pleased when you reciprocated his gentle kiss with a much firmer, sure one.

“Fucking finally, you old man,” you teased breathlessly before diving back in for more.

Jack pushed you back by your hips gently with a mock offended look on his face.

“Old man?” he squeezed your thighs with his large hands, awaiting your response with a chuckle. You both sat on his apartment couch, your legs straddled over his. You half-heartedly rolled your eyes and let your hands trail south to deal with his pesky pants button and zipper.

“You heard me. Fossil. Relic, if you will. Took you long enough to make a move,” he doesn’t resist when your lips meet his fervent ones again.

The first appointment with the prosthetist following your visit to the Pitt doesn’t go well. You need to be fitted for a new socket. The process is anything but fast… or cheap. Ironically, the new socket will cost an arm and another leg if insurance won’t cover it.

To no one’s surprise, you use your wheelchair as little as possible in the meantime. You’re no stranger to hopping around your apartment, using furniture for support as needed. You use crutches if you have to, and really only use the wheelchair at the museum.

While you’ve been down a leg, Jack offers himself for you to lean on. The doctor subtly eyes your leg when he thinks you won’t notice—which is his mistake; you always notice him—to check its healing progress. He supports your weight without complaint; your arm linked through his flexed elbow or his strong arm splayed across your back.

The second your prosthetist clears you to wear the new socket, you slide it on enthusiastically and practically skip out of the medical office like you’d never taken a break in the first place.

The amputee support group leader doesn’t comment on you and Jack showing up to and leaving meetings together. During a break, Abbot sees the younger girl you’ve spoken with before high five and grin with you as her eyes glance over at him. Subtle, Jack smirks.

Your floral tote bag hangs comfortably on Jack’s shoulder when you’re using your crutches. When you’re walking independently again, he still carries the heavy stuff for you, literally and metaphorically. Jack wordlessly grabs your bags—though they aren’t quite his style—and books and you never protest; it gives you a free hand to grasp his larger one. 

Pittsburgh’s Summer temperatures aren’t nearly as forgiving as late Spring.

The dresses that draped down to the floor of your closet were becoming less and less practical with the encroaching heat. You rediscovered some shorter dresses and skirts that you’d shied away from in the back of your closet, but were still hesitant to wear them outside of the 700 square foot apartment a certain trauma doc was spending more and more time at.

You assured Jack that you’re not ashamed of the prosthetic, though the words don’t even sound entirely convincing to you as they leave your lips.

“I just don’t like calling attention to it,” you admit, hands twisted together. You avoid his gaze as you sit side by side on the sectional sofa (Real Housewives plays in the background, as always). He nods and gently knocks his scarred thigh against yours. He doesn’t push for you to say more. The quiet is comfortable. A silent understanding passes between you two. It’s wordless, but it speaks volumes. When you burrow your head against his weathered neck, he kisses your forehead and pulls you into him.

Eventually Jack helps you build up the confidence to wear the shorter dresses and skirts that offer a clear view of your prosthetic out in public.

“Unfortunately I can’t pull off the dresses as well as you, so here’s the next best thing,” Jack announced as he shut your apartment door behind him. The spare key you hid outside had essentially become his key. He let himself in with a picnic basket.

Doctor Jack Abbot, emergency medicine physician, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center attending, and veteran war hero was holding a damn picnic basket. For you. Admittedly, he couldn’t take responsibility for the food within; it was all from Union Grill. It’s the thought that counts… right?

“Hmm?” you hummed, peaking out your bedroom door as you put the final touches on your outfit. Your boyfriend told you he had a surprise for you, and oh boy did he. Jack stood before you in a pair of chino shorts you’d never seen before.

The sturdy material of his prosthetic bumped against yours when he pulled you in for a chaste kiss.

“Did you just… cheers our legs together?” confusion and humor laced your tone as you mimed champagne flutes clinking against each other.

“Yes. And?” He countered, as if it was a normal thing to do. You shook your head with a smile and captured his lips in another kiss that lingered longer than the last.

A trip to the botanical gardens in late June could be a bit of a gamble, but today the stars (and clouds and humidity and low heat) aligned for a picturesque picnic date.

A handful of sideways glances were dealt your way. The dress’s hem brushed your midthigh and Jack’s “dad shorts”, as you called them, gave a full view of his right prosthetic. Abbot and you strolled through the gardens, your matching prosthetics moving in sync, though they aren’t identical. Jack kindly opted against the intricate designs you carefully painted on yours.

Abbot’s fingers intertwined with yours and gripped the picnic basket in his other hand. The breeze was relaxing, the garden was beautiful, but most importantly, you were comfortable. At ease. You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt this safe. 

A young child ran up to you and Jack. He skipped the pleasantries and instead dove straight into rapid-fire questions, shamelessly pointing at your prosthetic. Abbot felt you tense, and he was two seconds away from finding the kid’s parent to give them a piece of his mind, before you crouched down to the child’s eye-level, using Jack’s steady form to support yourself.

With a deep breath, you answered his questions. If you can handle three elementary school field trip groups in one day, you can handle one kiddo in the park asking well-intentioned questions. You spared the boy the gorey details—you don’t tell him that your leg got amputated because you had cancer. You don’t tell the child that the alternative was a slow, painful battle that you probably wouldn’t have survived—instead, you told the boy that your leg got sick and he didn’t ask any more questions.

A frazzled mother rounded the maze of bougainvilleas next. Her shoulders dropped in relief and her heaving slowed. In between exasperated breaths, she lectured the boy about running off without permission.

You offered the woman a smile as she hoisted her baby boy in her arms. Your eyes are soft and kind, but your lips don’t part to reveal your teeth. You were reserved. Apprehensive and defensive, maybe. The family doesn’t stay long before the boy demands to go to the seasonal jurassic-themed garden.

Jack wordlessly offered you a hand to help you stand back up. You ran a hand against your skirt—not to clear it of nonexistent debris, but to keep your hands busy, otherwise you’re certain they would twist together in an anxious grip. You squeezed Jack’s hand back tighter as you rose up to your full height.

In the brief time that you had the privilege of calling Jack Abbot your boyfriend, you both promised to help each other back up to your feet, sealed with a pinky swear.

a/n 2: Jack Abbot is a DILF minus the kids idc. You guys left so many nice comments and reblogs on part 1, it made me so happy!! Feedback is really appreciated mwah ❤️

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[spacedace]

Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help

-

Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.

The new Social Worker’s resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.

Crime Alley’s new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.

The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gotham’s shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.

That social worker.

“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again.” Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.

“I’d like to work for you.” The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. “I was told that you’re the person in charge of Crime Alley.”

He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. It’d just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. “I understood that part.”

“Look, Doc,” She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gotham’s most powerful Crime Lords, he’d be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. “You’re going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldn’t play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?”

Nightingale frowned a little at that.

“Is that what people are saying?”

“What else are they gonna say?” Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, “Head of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he don’t like. And everyone knows he doesn’t like anyone that can’t or won’t play his game by his rules.”

“Alright, well. I’ll give you that.” Nightingale conceded, “Payne doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. But for the record,” She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, “I asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.”

“You wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldn’t be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.

She just wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?

Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.

“I’m serious.” She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. She’d woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.

“I’ll admit, Gotham wasn’t part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.” She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. “But Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.”

She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. “The city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.” No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. “But where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.”

Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a bird’s wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. “No one deserves that. No one.” Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. “So yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.”

Jason considered her.

Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.

It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.

Crime Alley wasn’t a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I don’t live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit that’d get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didn’t exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.

For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didn’t ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.

And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.

He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.

“Alright.” He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why you’re trying to get on my payroll.”

“I’m not trying to get on your payroll.” She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. “I’m trying to get into your community outreach program.”

Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.

“Wasn’t aware that was something I had.”

Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.

“Yes you do.” She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. “I’ve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.” Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, “I’ve lived here for less than two weeks and I’ve lost count of all the things I’ve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that I’ve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.”

Oh.

Those.

“Those aren’t part of some community outreach program.” He said, “We are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.”

He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said she’d stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.

“Let me see if I understand this right.” She said, and he appreciated that there wasn’t any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought he’d been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. “You have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.”

Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasn’t just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.

“What makes you think any of that is free?” He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. “Just because we don’t charge money, doesn’t mean there isn’t a price to pay.”

Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.

[dropsnectar]

Fawning Rose: Vine Monster x GN!Reader

The Adventures of an Elven Herbalist Part One

NSFW or NSFT

This is my first time writing anything in 6 years so keep that in mind. Also my first smut fic. Or monster fic. I literally learned about the sexual parts of plants for this fic. Don't know how I got here but this was fun! btw if you don't like oviposition, I marked the parts with three !!! before and after that scene, so you can skip it if you want.

WORD COUNT: 3167, or 7 pages on Docs

It had been a long journey from your home country, having to cross an entire sea to get to the sleepy elven town of Hairevick. An Herbalist, you could craft pills to treat a human flu, create a poultice for a dwarves sore, work-tired limbs; even brew potions to help a beastmen ease out of a mating season-- but it was still lonely. Their were no elves about, except for the rogue eccentric nomad. 

Feeling as you had fully mastered your craft in that area, and curious about your kind, you set forth in hopes of bettering yourself. However, when introducing yourself to your neighbors, you found everyone to be polite, but detached. As far as elves went, you were quite young, and the people of Hairevick were elder and not so trusting of outsiders. But worse of all, everyone here seemed to have an excellent knowledge of the local flora and fauna, and their uses in maintaining health. There was no need for an herbalist, especially one so unfamiliar with their lands. 

You spent the entire week mourning your state over glasses and pints of botanical alcohol-- The local tavern drinks were amazing!-- until you finally met a sympathetic face. 

He had long silver hair and the wisp of a ginger beard around his sharp jaw; a peculiar trait. He greeted you friendly enough, asking how you were settling in. It turned out that he owned a store in town, selling odds and ends. He even had a little apothecary in the corner, where those who couldn’t be bothered to make a forest run would buy herbs and tinctures. 

Starved for companionship, you bombarded him with questions about clients, and local herbalism. He was jovial, and after quite a few dregs of honey yarrow grog, offered you a book on the local flora. After some midnight bonding over stories of patients, he gave you a proposition. 

He was having some issues procuring some materials from a special plant, a Fawning Rose. It had incredible healing properties, but a bad habit of uprooting itself and fleeing from anyone who wasn’t a youth. If you could lure it out and bring back anything, be it petals, roots, greens, he would pay you handsomely. Maybe even give you some lessons on how to work with local plant life.

It was for this reason that you found yourself two days into a trip to the heart of the Haire Wilds bordering town. It was not going well. 

***

The cool air caressed your skin as you entered the grove. You had caught a peculiar sweet smell, somehow floral and buttery at the same time, and had followed it with hope filling your heart. The scent had gotten so thick you could taste it, strong as a tea on your tongue. Blue wildflowers covered the ground, interrupted by the common tree route or vine. 

Your eyes followed the vines or small roots, colored a sage with a speckled gradient to midnight blue. They traveled up into the middle of the grove. Sunlight, so rare this far into the Wilds, fell down in large delicious specks from the trees. They refracted off a large flower, almost two yards in width. Its petals were raspberry pink, turning blood red in the middle. Vines from its base led upwards and rested on the low boughs of the nearest trees, framing the flower and its various young buds like some sort of ethereal art study. 

You grew excited, feet tripping over roots as you ran forward, losing a shoe. You lost balance again and landed face first into the crook of a particularly large vine and hit your head. Hard. 

Hot pain crashed through you, making you curse as you steadied yourself. You tried to get up but the heat struck your temple like lightning as you moved upwards. Alright. Best to stay down then. 

As you waited, you were able to see past the stars in your eyes and notice a slight powdery substance on the vines. It, too, was pink. 

Maybe it was the thrill of finally finding the damn thing, or the head injury, but you felt different. You could hear your heart pumping hard in your chest, pleasantly tight. Your breath was ragged, the air pushing a hard, chilling heat through you. 

Like a particularly good run, your mind registered. A high. 

Your limbs started to tingle at the tips.

The rose’s perfume felt more like a mist now. You were only a few feet away from the base flower, and the scent had turned heady. Your hunger from a missed meal seemed to be surfacing, goaded on by the delectable smell the plant was giving off. While the pain eased and the stars disappeared from your eyes, you noticed that the lightheaded fuzzy feeling stayed.

Uh oh. Not a concussion.

You had to work hard to bring the fear into your mind. There was very little anyone could do to help you out here. The best you could do was not move around too much, and hoped the Fawning Rose would cooperate.

Suddenly, you notice some movement from the roots under your palms. 

No no no not now! Please, I haven’t harvested you yet! You thought as you tried to scramble up. 

The roots moved upwards with you, shoving you onto your side. Sliding around your feet, one took your other shoe with it as it slithered about under you. Another seemed to upend itself and squeeze cooly between your toes. You jumped a bit, but your gaze and mind were slow.

Something thick gilded itself on your shoulder making you look up. Vines, three, four, five of them descended and started rubbing themselves against you like cats. The movement was kicking up clouds of the pink pollen, making you sneeze as you wiggled against the plants outer limbs.

A part of you was horrified, thinking that perhaps you had scared the thing off. After all, you had been warned that this type of rose was particularly skittish. But the plant did not seem to be gathering itself to run away, rather it was pulling you closer to itself, the dragging tearing at the underside of your clothes.

Try as you might, you couldn't seem to think. Foggy, fuzzy, your mind was like cotton. The tingling in your fingertips has spread through your body, and an embarrassed part of your brain noticed your lower body was starting to awaken too. A warmth was beginning to pool in your gut, slow and lazy. Tingly. Fuzzy, like your head.

The vines continue to rub against your body, tearing the rest of your clothes away until only skin remains. They were relentless, cool against your hot skin. Their outer layers were textured but still smooth; a foreign sensation but extremely exciting. It felt almost like something was licking you, the powder giving a wet feel as it spread itself all over. Liquid heat glazed the innermost parts of you, much to your embarrassment. 

Aphrodisiac. You finally registered. You started to curse out that damned store keeper. 

You’d been played. 

You were now at the base of the flower, with even more roots and vines cradling and moving over your body. You were… pushed? Pulled? A foot into the air, close enough so that some of the smaller buds were leaning over you, as if they were getting a good look at you. You felt a knowing, a presence from this plant now. It really was looking at you.

Some desperate part of your mind, far far back in your mind, tries to set off danger bells. That you needed to get up and run.

Ooze started to secrete from the smaller buds, and the already overpowering scent of floral butteriness seemed to multiply. It dripped out onto your belly, warm and tingling, then your chest, your inner thigh, even a bit on your cheek.

The syrup dribbled down into the planes of your mouth as you wriggled under the vines. A particularly mischievous one pushes through the plush cheeks of your ass and moves up, poking at your entrance, causing you to gasp. 

The liquid touches your tongue. It tastes just as it smells, deliriously delicious. Sweet. Hot. It was divine compared to the little rations you’ve been eating the last few days. Like youd been starving and had sudden.ly been given free reign of a pastry shoppe. But no pastry could top this silky butteriness

What little heat that had kindled inside you was now a roaring flame, putting your past arousal to shame. You groan, and pull your head up, sticking your tongue out for more. A part of you is screaming to stop and run, but it is a stupid part that is buried instantly under your sudden overwhelming need. You are desperately horny, and you deserve to feel good after all the trouble you've been through lately.  

Still sticking out your tongue, you start to moan even louder as the vine messages your entrance with its thick girth. At the same time, one of the buds above your face seems to notice your desperation, and leans down to your lips.You lick at its plush petals and sweet sweet nectar seeps into your mouth. It tastes much like a floral pastry and you suck greedily as it pushes itself deeper in. 

The petals are so soft, yet still firm in your mouth as a river of nectar floods your throat. You giggled around it as it started to take its full effect. You felt light as air, so good. 

The vines had moved over to allow a bud to circle itself around your most sensitive part. You gasped out as it started to suck you, making stars flood your already glistening eyes. Your wet lashes fluttered as it began to suck wave after wave of pleasure out of your body.You had never felt so good, you noted somewhere in your sex drunk mind.  The whole time, the bud leaked nectar, completely soaking all parts of your groin.

The nectar left your skin feeling sensitive,  and completely soaked. This seemed to please the vines, which continued to massage the oil about you, then finally push in. You cried out at the sensation. Drool started to pool out of your mouth, mixing with the nectar.

 The vines rubbed lazy curving lines around your walls, making your hips jerk and shake. They seemed to know what they were doing as they started out slow for a time, then sped up their pace, thrashing about inside you. You clench around them, overwhelmed by the unyielding sensation. The pooling heat in you was building high, and you could tell the walls were about to break.

A rogue, mischievous bud had decided to examine your hole, tracing around your entrance in lazy circles. The petals were so soft, softer than skin. The texture made you feel desperate. As if to read your mind, the bud stopped. It must have been blooming because you felt little feelers, probably stamans, tracing about your genitals, wet with its lovely, delicious pollen.

 You swore and whined and pleaded for more as the vines fucked you through it, voice garbled by nectar. Another, thicker vine veined in indigo added itself to its companions and you finally came. The rush was like being tossed in the ocean, a shock that completely enveloped your entire body in cold, pulsing ecstasy. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, your juices spilled down on the forest floor below. 

The echoes of the waves of pleasure were still rocking through you when the vines surrounded your body started to move you upwards again. The vines were slow and delicate as they handled you, as if you were precious cargo. You were brought upwards, almost as if they were about to set you on your feet. Your neck was out, as you were still suckling the addicting flower liquid. 

You noticed through your long damp hair that you were positioned just over the center of the Fawning Roses main flower. A drop of nectar slipped out from inside you and dribbled down and onto the flower's green pistil. The stigma was thick, with four fat lumps at the top. The stamen surrounding it swayed, almost as if there was a breeze. Their magenta anthers rained down more pollen, causing a beautiful gradient against the deep red at the middle of the large petals. It was a truly breathtaking sight. 

A single vine wiggled towards your face and pushed back your hair. You found the gesture almost sweet, leaning into its touch. You remained like that for a time, before the vines started to lower you on to the stigma. 

No no no, you tried to whisper, some understanding dawning; but the bud was being aggressive with its feeding, pushing further in your mouth. It had a job, and its job was to make you so desperately horny and stupid, you’d let this flower breed you. 

The stigma was a hard fit at first. Its lumpy texture felt so good rubbing against you, you couldn’t help but hump back into it. The vines around you squeezing your skin, tilting your hips this way in that, trying to make the fit. The surrounding stamen started to rub their anthers against you, two started focusing on your nipples. You continued to hump the stigma, smearing the nectars from your groin all over it. Then, finally, finally, You were able to squeeze it in. 

The vines had taken over the humping for you now, pushing you down harder and harder onto the pistil. The lumps dragged against your walls in such a beautiful way, that you screamed out babbling whines. Your skin was covered in nectar and bright pink pollen. Every part of you was being squeezed, rubbed, oozed upon with tingling liquid, that you weren’t even sure you had a body anymore, just pleasure. After you came for the fourth time, you started to feel a pulsing within the pistil.  It was like the thing seemed to grow within you.

! ! !

Ridges started to squeeze against your entrance, rubbing against your walls. They moved up, up, up, into the deepest parts of you. There was a sudden burst of warmth, then something small and squishy. You marveled at the texture, as the flower continued to lower you down on the pistil, now at a slower pace, in smaller movements. You ached so badly, but the new sensation of the objects and warmth inside you made you wanna keen louder. They felt sort of like eggs.

Seedpods. You registered lazily. You were being turned into a seedbed. 

This realization only seemed to turn you on even more. They felt so good, rolling about inside your walls. The warmth they brought rivaled the cool temperature of the pistil, a delightful duality. 

You moaned with every bulge, push, then pop of warmth and heaviness. It was getting to the point now where the vines were pulling you up off the pistil to make more room for the seeds. 

! ! !

You were cumming so much now you lost count. It was getting to the point that you were just continuously orgasming, as the seeds and the pistil dragged against your most sensitive parts. 

You may have been like that for hours, days even, the nectar kept you so dizzy you couldn’t tell time. But at some point you were so full that the pistil seemed satisfied. The wriggling stamen around you stilled, and the vines carefully lifted you off the pistil, giving one last drag within your walls.

The bloom inside your mouth slowly dragged itself out, making you whine in protest. The vines carefully laid you down at the foot of their roots, arranging your body in a comfortable position. The vines slowly retreated from your body. They lazily moved about, sometimes knocking into each other in a way that was almost comical. Their movements seemed lazy, almost like it too was spent. 

As the last vine left your skin, it caressed your cheek. Within you some affection of your own seemed to bloom. The haze that was in your mind was starting to dull, and replaced itself with the need to rest. Your heavy eyes closed and you gave into sleep.

***

You awoke without opening your eyes. You could feel that the curving mound of roots you’d been sleeping on had been replaced with fluffy grass and soil. The smell of freshly tilled earth flooded your nose, and you jolted upright, eyes wide.

The grove was quiet, and empty of the Fawning Rose. All that was left behind was you, the upturned soil it had left behind, and light dusting of pink pollen on the trees. Even the sweet pastry-like smell had left the grove.

You looked down at your naked, sore body and groaned. You could see a trail of bruises from where the vines had gripped you, along with dried out nectar and tons of pink pollen. Your stomach puffed out a bit more than normal, meaning all of this had NOT been a dream. Much to your surprise, nothing hurt though. Your body felt great, healthily spent like you had just run a marathon. Considering how hard you had been working there should have been some pain, but there wasn’t. Just the pleasant pressure of the seedpods against your insides.You recall the conversation with the shop owner at the tavern. Looks like this is the flower's healing abilities at work.

You continued to search around the grove. Your clothes were still in shreds on the forest floor, but your bag was safely tucked under one of the trees the flower had rested its vines in. With some effort, you managed to get yourself off the ground to pick it up, waddling the whole way. 

The pollen was still working its magic on you, but you guessed you had been exposed to it long enough to build a slight tolerance. Or maybe the growing rage within you was doing the trick. You pulled out one of the many glass bottles, and a silver knife. You went to work, scraping the dried nectar and pollen off your body, into the jars.

I’m gonna charge that asshole so much money, his kids will be poor. You seethed as you spent hours getting your money's worth off of every plane of your body. You’d have to birth those seed pods later too. Your insides grew warm at the thought. 

You tried not to think about how you were going to have to walk home naked, where you’d been and what you’d been doing laid bare upon your skin. It’d be free advertising tho, you tried to reason. 

You'd make a killing. Aphrodisiacs were rare, and extremely expensive, especially to a crowd of immortals. I think I'll sell these seed pods on my own though. You smiled. 

You’d make sure to be properly prepared the next time you went into the wilds.

Might do a part two, maybe with slimes next time? Also sorry about any switching of tenses, I have a hard time with that! Hope you guys enjoyed!

[virescent-v]

Appetizer

Summary: This is a shitty combination of two prompts I've had sitting in my inbox for awhile now. "Take your top off and open another bottle of wine for mommy" from Paget during a Drunk History episode and one where Emily teases reader in public. A/N: Idk how I feel about this one besties. The idea took hold and then this happened. If it's bad, I blame it on the fact that I haven't written/posted anything in months...and also my adhd running rampant during this writing session. But it did feel good to get words on a doc and to send it out to the internet void. Enjoy!

Warnings: It's smut! (Surprise, surprise! lol). If there are any typos, don't tell me Word count: 2.3k

When Emily cornered you in your bedroom before leaving for the restaurant, pressing your back against your vanity, you thought she was just going to kiss you senseless, leave you breathless, a taste of what’s to come later when you got back home. 

What you didn’t expect was for her to be kissing up your neck, whispering all the things she wants to do to you, as her fingers found their way up under your tight, little, skirt. 

With your head tilted back, each choking breath stuttering from your mouth, you tried to speak, to tell Emily you were going to be late to your reservation, but it didn’t seem like she was bothered by that fact. 

“I want to try something tonight, love,” she whispered against the shell of your ear. You weren’t even sure you could speak with how much she had already gotten you worked up, so you simply, albeit shakily, nodded. 

Emily pulled back from you, a wicked smirk plastered on her face. She reached around you to an unremarkable box on your vanity that you had missed earlier. Slowly, she pulled the lid off, each second seemingly passing with each breath you took. 

When the lid finally popped off, Emily glanced up at you, now a little more cautious than she was a few moments ago. Peeking inside, you could see a dark purple bullet vibrator nestled inside a cocoon of velvet. 

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Emily hesitated, her eyes on the toy. Running her finger lightly over the smooth, silky-like silicon, she whispered, “I want you to wear this. To dinner. It comes with a remote for me to control. We’ve never talked about doing something like this, so you have every right to say no.” 

Her eyes met yours. In them, you could see her want for this, but more importantly, her want for you to feel comfortable with doing something like this. Emily usually took lead with things like this, but you were always the one actually in charge. 

Leaning in, you kissed her slowly, pouring every ounce of want and love into it. Leaning back, you took a deep breath. “I want to. I trust you, Em. I know you’ll stop if I need or want to and you’d never put me, or us, in any harmful situation.” 

Emily released the breath she seemed to be holding, a smile spreading across her mouth. “You’re right. Now, panties off, angel.” 

*** 

Maybe this had been a bad idea. 

You were barely able to string together sentences to answer the questions that the waiter kept asking you in regards to your food and order. You were pretty sure that your cheeks had been flushed since you entered the building. 

Emily was a master at playing with you -  with playing with the remote that was nestled in her pocket. She’d turn the settings to different vibrational patterns, watching as your breathing would match the pace that the toy set inside you. She paid close attention to the way the faster settings would have you gripping the edge of the table, the way the pulsating settings made you squirm in your seat. A combination of both would have you biting your lip in hopes of stifling the moans that wanted to escape. 

You didn’t know what was hotter; the way you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with each quiver of the toy inside you, or the way Emily leaned back in her seat, enjoying the view of you trying to hold yourself together. 

Being so skilled at reading your body language, Emily knew exactly when you were reaching the precipice, ready to topple over the edge right there at the table. 

The problem, however, is that she wouldn’t let you. 

Worse, you couldn't even ask for her to let you cum. Every time you tried, your voice got strangled in your throat, caught between a moan and a curse that you had to swallow so as to not make your situation…obvious to the other patrons at the restaurant. 

Thankfully, when your food finally arrived, Emily took pity on you and turned the vibrator completely off. 

“How are you doing, pretty girl?” 

You almost wanted to roll your eyes. Almost. “You know exactly how I’m doing, Em.” 

Emily chuckled. “I sure do, but I enjoy hearing you say it anyways.” 

You were starting to feel a little…bratty… from the fact that you hadn’t been able to cum yet and the fact that you weren’t even sure when you would be allowed to. 

But two could play this game. 

With an almost bored, casual tone, you picked at your nails as you said, “I’m so wet, I’m not entirely sure it hasn’t gone through my dress yet. I love the feel of the toy inside me, but I wish it was your fingers or your strap instead.” 

You watched as Emily blinked a few times, her mouth agape, not anticipating you responding like that. You knew how much she loved it when you talked dirty, but she didn’t expect you to say it like that, nor in such a public place. 

She cleared her throat as you took slight pleasure in the fact that you had her flustered for once this evening. “Mind your words, princess. I can edge you even after we get home,” she said, her eyebrow raised. 

Part of you wanted to push back, lean into the bratty headspace you could feel yourself drifting into. But you knew Emily and that tone of voice. She wasn’t kidding. One time, she edged you for hours and still didn’t let you cum. Then proceeded to not let you cum for days. You didn’t want a repeat of that experience. 

“Yes, ma’am,” you mock saluted. 

Emily just smiled, amused at your antics, and continued to eat. 

You weren’t sure what to make of it; you expected her to fire back with some other quick-witted, snarky, sexy response. It kind of tilted you off axis, not sure of what happened. 

You decided to ignore it, picking up your fork to continue eating. However, once the food was on your fork and halfway to your mouth, Emily turned the vibrator on to its highest setting. The surprise vibrations sent your fork clunking back onto the table, drawing the gaze of a few other patrons. 

“Emily,” you hissed under your breath, your jaw clenched, as you tried to gesture an apology to the people sitting near you. 

Another smirk graced her pretty face. “Hurry up and finish eating, love. I want to enjoy dessert at home,” she said with a wink. 

*** 

You weren’t sure you were walking straight. Every few steps Emily would change the vibration pattern and it would cause your knees to buckle. If you stopped to regain your balance, or to breathe through the pleasure, Emily would turn the vibrator off completely. Even though they were absolutely ruined, you were thankful for your lace panties. Otherwise, you’re not sure the toy would even still be inside you with how wet you were. 

Reaching the door, you fumbled with your keys, struggling to find the right one, and struggling further to get it in the slot to turn the lock. 

You heard Emily chuckling lowly behind you. 

Finally getting the door open, you rushed inside, throwing your stuff on the small table by the door and kicking your shoes off. 

Turning around as Emily shut the door behind her, you went to pull her towards you, but she put her hand up. 

“I meant it when I said I wanted dessert at home, love,” she said, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the kitchen. 

You wanted to whine. You wanted to scream. You were so pent up you didn’t think you were going to be able to last another minute, let alone however long it took for Emily to eat whatever dessert she had in mind. 

You kept your mouth shut, figuring it was better to play along with her plan than to cause more issues for yourself later. 

Walking to the fridge, Emily pulled out a small cheesecake that you hadn’t known about. She grabbed plates and cutlery, serving you both small slices. Before you could start on yours, Emily’s hand went up again stopping you. “Uh uh, wait a second. Do me a favor and take your shirt off and open up a bottle of wine for mommy,” she smirked, licking her fork of the smooth dessert. 

You gulped, walking over to the wine fridge and pulling out a wine you knew went well with desserts. You pulled the glasses down, pouring a healthy amount into each. Before turning around, you slowly unbuttoned your blouse before sliding it off of your shoulders. You unhooked your bra and let that fall to the floor as well. Grabbing the wine glasses, you turned around, watching as Emily looked you up and down. 

You sauntered up to her, placing the glasses on the table. You waited until she looked up at you from her chair before you slowly unzipped your skirt, letting gravity take it to the ground. You watched as Emily’s hands flexed as if she wanted to reach out to you, but she managed to refrain. She licked her lips before looking back up at you. 

Pushing her legs together, you straddled her lap. As you sat down fully, you sharply inhaled as your laced covered cunt made contact with Emily’s dress pants. The urge to grind down, to feel the friction where you needed it most, overtook you. 

You got a few good rolls of your hips in before Emily’s hands shot out to your body, grabbing harshly at your waist. Even the bruising pressure of her fingers on your skin was turning you on further, a desperate mewl escaping your lips. 

“Such a desperate whore for me, hm? Couldn’t even wait until I finished my cheesecake.” 

You pulled your lip between your teeth, struggling in Emily’s grasp to move your hips. You were tired of playing her game, not even bothering to disagree with her. “I need to cum, please, Em,” you begged, your beautiful eyes trying their hardest to convince her. 

“Fine, if you want to be so needy, you can cum. But I’m not going to touch you.” 

Your eyes blew wide, watching as Emily pulled the remote back out of her pocket immediately pressing buttons to turn on one of the fastest, pulsating modes. 

Your hands shot out to her shoulders, your head falling back as a nearly obscene moan tumbled from your mouth. “Fuck.” Your hips started to move once more, the friction of the lace against your swollen clit hitting just right. 

“Go ahead, baby. Get yourself off on my lap.” Ignoring what she said moments earlier, unable to resist how tantalizing you looked, Emily’s hands started moving around your body, her fingers trailing over your sweat-slicked skin. They grabbed at your hips, forcing you down, making you grind faster before gripping your ass. She trailed them up, caressing the soft skin of your belly, trailing up to your heaving breasts, fondling your stiff peaks. Her hands never stayed in one spot long, as if she couldn’t decide where she wanted to touch you, as if she wished she had more than two hands. 

“Fuck, look at you. Riding me so well.” Emily brought her lips to your neck. “You look so pretty like this, flushed and needy and mine.” 

You couldn’t stop the moans from escaping. Each grind down - and back and forth - of your hips had your pussy clenching harder around the toy. With each movement of your body, you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, if it was even possible. You could smell your arousal, so strong from hours of Emily teasing you.

The toy felt so good inside of you, each buzz and pulse sent tingles through your body and down your spine, each vibration igniting a fire deep within your belly. 

You could quickly feel yourself getting close, the constant edging doing most of the work for you. It likely wouldn’t be your best orgasm - you meant it when you said you’d rather have her fingers or her cock - but something, at this point, was better than nothing. 

“Come on, baby. Come all over my lap so I can take you upstairs and clean you up with my mouth.” 

The vision of Emily between your legs, thighs wrapped around her face, with her tongue licking at your drenched cunt was enough to send you over the edge, Emily’s name repetitively falling from your lips like a broken prayer. 

As you came down, Emily stroked your hair away from your face, peppering small kisses over any part of you that she could reach. She kept whispering affirmations, things you’d heard a thousand times, but would hear a million more. 

You don’t know what you did to deserve a love as grand as Emily Prentiss, but you weren’t going to question it. 

Pulling back from you, Emily looked at you with all the love in the world. “How does a bath sound?” 

You tilted your head a bit, raising your eyebrow at her. “What happened to you cleaning me up with your tongue?” 

Tapping your hip lightly, signaling for you to get up off of her lap, Emily snickered lightly. “You have until I get upstairs to be naked and on your hands and knees, pretty girl.” 

You kissed her lightly on the cheek, a mischievous grin on your face, before racing up the stairs. 

“Oh! And leave the toy in!” She called after you. 

She heard a faint moan - or was it a groan? - echo down the stairs, an almost evil smirk breaking out across her face. 

Looks like that orgasm was just the appetizer of the evening. 

[peachglazewrites]

𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 ⸙ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: abby anderson x f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: medical procedures, tlou typical violence, PTSD 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: literal sleeping together, friends to lovers, slow burn 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n or any reader descriptions 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 6475k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Eight months ago, you sustained a life-altering injury while on patrol. Five months ago, you were officially dismissed from your unit and, after a tense meeting with Isaac, were transferred to the medical centre to train under your friend/roommate, Mel. Four months ago, you offered your couch to Abby to sleep on whenever she got kicked from her apartment for Manny's ‘sleepovers’. Two months ago, you started sleeping in the same bed. It works, this arrangement you have. She just doesn’t know that just over twelve months ago, you started to fall in love with her.

̗̀➛ master post

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𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸: 𝙸

“You good to stitch this while I wash up?”

Mel wipes at her sweaty forehead with the back of her arm, slippery blood coating her hands. The procedure got messier than expected, and with gloves being stretched thin across the different bases, you had to get real comfortable with blood on your bare skin.

“Yeah, of course. Need to practice my knots anyway.”

Malcom, the older WLF soldier, lays back on the bed, shirt cut away and blood coating his abdomen. A bullet caught him in the side, going right through his front and leaving out his back. If he got medical attention right away it would have been fine, but his thinner skin and continued combat just made the wound deeper, ripping right through his side. The two holes he would have had were now one big gash that needed to be stitched.

“Be sure you make all them bows pretty, doc.” Malcom grins at you, his chuckles stuttering into a nasty cough.

Your eyes roll as you turn to the surgical cart next to you, setting up the sutures. “Sure thing, Malcom.”

Wheeling the table over to the bedside, you grab the curved needle and sterile thread, sitting on a stool next to his bedside to get a good angle on him. You grunt and stretch your left leg out stiffly under the cot, trying to release some of the tension in the muscle.

“You know, they should give you one of those punch cards for coming in so often. Visit us five times and you get a treat on the sixth.”

He squints at you, wincing and cursing when you push the needle through his swollen skin.

“Yeah? And when’s that lesson on bedside manner comin’?”

Mel laughs from the back room, washing and disinfecting her hands. “Oh, this is as good as it gets.”

Flashing a grumbling Malcom a smile, you continue your stitching, doing a row of smaller ones that you need to cut off and tie after each knot.

You’re getting the hang of it, though tying all the small knots with the forceps was your weakest point. You were much better at doing running stitches, but for a wound like Malcom’s on such a mobile part of his body, these were the best option.  You’d obviously improved enough though, or else Mel wouldn’t have let you do them mostly unsupervised.

She’s a good teacher, Mel. You were hoping when Isaac approved your request to move to the medical centre that he would assign you to her. It only made sense. Not only was she one of the best here at the Stadium, but the two of you were already familiar with each other.

You share one of the Stadium apartments, have done for just over a year and a half. As far as roommates went, Mel was amazing. She’s friendly, respectful of your space, quiet. It was hard not to become friends with her. You spent late nights talking, would join her and her group of friends for meals. It was nice.

And then you got injured. Well, a bit more than injured—you fucked up your leg pretty bad. Mel was on call when you were dragged in and helped you as much as she could. She’s incredibly talented. Quick hands and quicker thinking. She had your broken leg splinted up and healing in no time.

Until you fucked it up again, leaving your leg to fuse itself in a weird spot. You can walk, sometimes even run for a bit if it’s a good day, but you’d be biting back the pain and severely regretting it afterwards. On a bad day? It’s a struggle to even stand for more than a couple of hours.

Now you have a limp that won’t go away, and your position as one of WLF’s many grunts taken away from you.

“We need soldiers, not bait. Next time you come asking me for your rank back, make sure you’re not shaking from your walk down the hall.”

Yeah.

Mel was the one to suggest becoming a medic. You’d spent enough time around Mel to pick up a thing or two, and those ten weeks in and out of the medical tent made you pretty familiar with the goings on. She even offered to be your supervisor, taking you under her wing to teach you all she knew.

You clip the final suture, placing the forceps and scissors back onto the metal tray next to you.

“Okay, I think we’re done. Mel,” you call over your shoulder, “Can you check this for me?”

Mel looks up from the chart she’s scribbling on, tucking it under her arm to come and lean over your shoulder.

“Nice work. You lost a bit of tension in the middle, but not too much that it wont hold.” She reaches over, ghosting over the segment in question. She brings her hand to rest on your shoulder. “Otherwise, they’re perfect. I think you’ve officially gotten the hang of it.”

You beam up at her, chest puffing in pride. It’s been good knowing that you’re good at more than combat. A relief. You don’t know what you would have done if this didn’t work out.

You’d rather not think about it.

Malcom shifts on the cot, twisting his body to look down at his stitches. He reaches a hand down to touch them, but you slap them away before he can.

“Touch them and I’ll put a cone on you like a dog.”

Malcom grins, laughing and rubbing at the red slap mark on his hand.

“You flirtin’ with me, doc?”

“Gross. Get out of here, Mal.”

His laughs once again devolve into gargling coughs, levering himself up off the bed with a hand from Mel.

She wraps him up, bandaging the wound while giving him the rundown.

“No getting this wet for twenty-four hours. After that you can shower, but no soaking. You’ll need to come back in two weeks to get the sutures out, so until then I don’t want you touching it or picking at the scabs.” She gives him a pointed look, and he has enough in him to look away guiltily, scratching at his chin.

“Yeah, I know the drill. Any sign of infection I’ll come back.”

Mel nods, stepping away from his side to grab a small bottle of pills off the counter.

“Take two of these when you need them, but wait four to six hours in between.”

“Got anything stronger?” Malcom winks.

“Not for you.” Mel’s lips twitch in a smile and she presses the bottle to his chest. “Have a good one, Malcom.”

Malcom takes the bottle and grins, bringing a hand up to tip an imaginary hat on his head. “Appreciate all you do for us, doc.” He peers around Mel, calling out to you in the next room. “And always a pleasure seein’ you. Remind me to take you up on that treat next time.”

“Goodbye, Malcom.” You call from the sink, scrubbing down on your knuckles. You stare him down as he leaves, laughing the whole way.

You roll your eyes, turning back to washing the blood off your arms. It had started to dry, making your skin tacky and gross.

Mel wanders over, leaning to rest against the sink next to you as she finishes filling out Malcom’s chart. “He’s got a point. You’ve got to be nicer to patients.”

“Malcom’s a dirty old dog. He’s fine. If he wasn’t going to be okay, then I’d be nicer.”

“The severity of someone’s injury doesn’t factor into how nice you are to them.” She’s trying to tell you off, but you can see her smiling from behind her clipboard.

You just shrug, turning off the tap and shaking out your arms. “Seems fair to me.”

She breaks, snorting and poking you in the side with the board as she walks past, placing it on a hook on the wall. She grabs the metal tray and wheels it away to be sanitised.

“You’re done for the day. Go home and relax, your leg is shaking like crazy.”

You look down at your leg, sighing as you watch the muscle of your calf twitch from the strain. It wasn’t too crazy today, but there was a lot of sitting down and standing back up. You were starting to feel it.

“You sure? If I’m sitting, I can- “

Mel cuts you off with her signature ‘excuse me?’ look, her brow raised, and her lips curled downward. That shuts you up real quick, as it does most people. Poor Owen is on the other end of that look too often, and he pouts for ages afterwards every single time.

You grab your coat from a basket under the sink, where you all put your belongings when you clock in.

“I’ll see you for dinner?”

Mel shakes her head, gathering up all the dirty tools and putting them in a metal tub for sanitation.

“I’m going to Owen’s tonight. We have the morning off tomorrow, so I think we’re going to head to the aquarium with Alice.”

You smile, throwing your coat back on. “That’ll be nice. I know Alice was antsy about getting out of the kennel when I saw her yesterday.”

Mel chuckles, “That’s how she gets you. You know she has to go on a diet because people keep giving her treats?”

You laugh along with her, the zip lock bag of jerky you save just for Alice burning in your coat pocket.

Coming up behind her, you press a chaste kiss to the back of Mel’s head as you pass. “Well, have fun. Drink responsibly. Use protection- “

“Shut your mouth right now.“ She hisses, whipping her head around to see who’s around to hear. She’s in the middle of cleaning up, but you know you’d get a punch right across your shoulder if she had a hand free.

Pulling back the tent flap you wave goodbye to Mel, grinning at her flushed face.

“I’ll see you when you get back!”

Swinging by the front you sign out for the day, writing down your reasoning for clocking off early. You only had two hours left of your shift, and you really do think you could have lasted if you were allowed to sit the rest of the day. But what Mel says goes, as both your supervisor and your doctor.

The sun is setting when you leave the tent, the November air nipping at your skin. Winter is right around the corner, and you can already feel it. You’ll need to take up Mel’s offer of making some legwarmers to wear under your clothes, knowing that the freezing temperatures are going to be hell on your leg.

Wrapping your coat further around you, you shuffle inside the stadium as quickly as you can. The caf should just be starting to serve dinner now, and if you hurry you can beat the rush before everyone clocks off.

Just as you predicted, people are already lining up at the food stations when you reach the mess hall. Each of the stalls are serving something different, though it usually all boils down to a combination of rice, meat, soup, and stew. Today it looked like everyone was lining up by the old pretzel place, which usually meant it was burritos.

You do an awkward shuffle, a small circle as you try to decide what to eat. The burritos stall is always packed for a reason, but it looks like the butchers finally got some of those pigs in-

A sharp whistle from behind you cuts through the rumble of voices.

“Hey, doc!”

You turn, looking over at the old Noodle Bowl.

A woman a bit older than you stands behind the counter, her cropped hair hidden underneath a backwards cap. Her tank top is drenched in sweat from the hot kitchen, her deep skin flushed from the heat. She holds out an opaque container, though you can already smell the rich beef stew coming from the kitchen behind her.

“Skip the line! You know medics get priority.” She grins, waving the container at you.

You smile and limp over, your leg starting to throb. You meet the woman at the counter, gently taking the container from her. It’s nice and warm in your hands, feeling them tingle as they heat up.

“Thanks, Isabella. You’re a life saver.” You sigh appreciatively. You crack the container open to peek inside, your mouth watering at the dark broth and floating chunks of potato and beef.

“You know what would be perfect with this?” You begin, looking up at her. She smirks, reaching off to the side.

“Bread?” she asks, sliding over a small parcel of tinfoil.

You gasp, reaching for it. “A woman after my own heart.” You laugh, placing the foil of bread on top of the container. “Remind me again why we didn’t work out?”

“You were way too out of my league?” Isabella teases, leaning across the counter towards you.

“Good answer.” You grin back at her.

Isabella chuckles, taking off her cap to smooth out her hair again before putting it back on.

“You take care of yourself, yeah? Enjoy.” She winks, rapping the counter with her knuckles before turning back to the kitchen.

Stew in hand, and a light blush on the highs of your cheeks, you make the long trek back to the comfort of your room. Luckily yours is only on the second floor, as opposed to being on the third or fourth, but with the escalators out of order it’s still a huge hike for you and your leg.

You end up taking your coat off to make a temporary bag for your stew, folding it up and using the arms as handles. It gives you more room to grip the rails as you need them, which becomes more and more often the higher you climb.

You’re slightly out of breath and coated in a fine layer of sweat by the time you reach your room, taking a second to catch your breath before stepping in. Maybe you couldn’t have done those last two hours. Dammit Mel for always being right.

The stew is still hot when you unwrap it from your coat, moving to hang it up on a peg near the door. If you were quick about getting changed, you could probably get away with not having to heat it back up.

Depositing the container on the dining table as you pass, you make your way over to your side of the room, having to pivot and turn back when you automatically start going down the steps.

You and Mel split the room pretty evenly, her having the slightly raised segment to herself, and you having the area in front of the window. You liked being so close to the giant windows, peeking through the curtains you both strung up when you couldn’t sleep and pressing your cheek to the cold glass on warm nights. But ever since your injury, Mel suggested the two of you swap.

It made sense, taking away as many unnecessary obstacles as possible, but you still kind of missed your old spot. Maybe if you asked ever so nicely you could swap again.

You strip in front of your wardrobe, quickly hopping into comfier clothing. It was by no means anything close to proper pyjamas, a pair of slightly more worn in cargo pants and a long sleeve henley. Something that you could feasibly run around and fight in if you needed to.

Your days as a solider are over, but old habits die hard.

The rest of your night is simple. It always is when you have the room to yourself. Having Mel around is always fun and you love staying up and talking to her, but it is nice to just be alone sometimes. It feels different, not like how it used to when you were fighting for your life before you joined WLF. You can choose to be alone now, knowing that you’re safe and warm and that your friends are just around the corner. You can enjoy it.

Setting up a CD to play some soft music in the background, you eat your dinner. Isabella had served you up richly, enough chunks of beef in your single serving to split across two. She’s always been like that, giving special treatment to those she likes and admires. Your brief but very intense history got you onto that list, and you’re thankful for every day you’re still on it.

Using the bread to soak up the last of the broth, you savour the final bite of your food. If Mel was here, you’d get to have her broth too (she only likes the chunks, apparently), but tonight you miss out.

With dinner done and nothing else to do, you decide to curl up in bed for the rest of the night, give your leg a much-needed rest. You keep the CD playing quietly and grab one of Mel’s textbooks, tossing it onto the bed.

You run through your stretches for the night, positioning yourself on the floor to bend and stretch your leg just as Pierre-- the closest thing to a physiotherapist you have around here-- showed you. It hurts like a bitch, so you give yourself some leeway tonight and stop when it gets too much.

Peeling yourself up off the floor, you practically crawl under your covers, dragging the book under with you. The book is heavy, one that would be used during school, but you’re finding it somewhat useful. A lot of what they’re talking about goes over your head, but there’s enough diagrams and things you recognise to somewhat keep up. A lot of what Mel teaches you is done through the real thing, so you don’t have a lot of time to learn the name of every single bone or nerve in the nervous system. It’s a lot more… ‘Don’t cut here’ and ‘If you don’t put pressure there, he’s going to bleed out and die’.

You fall asleep around eleven, the textbook flopping to the floor when your arms couldn’t hold it up anymore. You’ve shifted in your sleep, back facing the rest of the room and limbs tucked in. You should start looking for a thicker blanket now that it’s getting colder.

The corner of your bed dips under their weight as someone sits, trying not to squish your feet under the covers. The thumping of boots being kicked off their feet and to the floor is just enough to pull you back to consciousness, though it’s the rush of cold air under the blanket as they pull it back that wakes you up entirely.

“Abby… Cold.” You hiss, turning and trying to tug the blanket from her.

You can practically hear her eyes roll as she crawls under with you, shifting onto her side so she can press her back up against yours. It makes up for the biting cold she let in, her back strong and warm, heating you up more than your blankets ever could.

“How was patrol?” you mumble, brain still catching up.

Abby hums. “Fine. Normal.”

You nod, or think that you do. You’re so tired.

“S’good.” You yawn, burying your face into your pillow more. “Sorry Manny kicked you out.”

She shifts, her rolling muscles move against your back.

“Yeah,” she sighs, sinking into your mattress, “It’s whatever. He uh, got to the room while I was eating dinner.”

“Should talk to him. Tell him to keep it in his pants when you get home from patrols.”

You hear a ghost of a laugh, your music quiet enough for you to pick it up. It puts a sleepy smile on your face.

“I should, huh? Maybe tomorrow.”

“Mmhm.” You yawn, stretching out your legs before relaxing back into your mattress with a hum. “I’ll be your back up.”

Ever since you found Abby passed out in the library, an open copy of Lord of the Flies laid across her chest, she’s been sleeping in your room.

She rejected your offer initially, looking at you like you’d grown a second head before rolling back over to keep sleeping. Which was fair, you guessed. You weren’t exactly friends, just two people that hung out in the same group.

Not that you didn’t try to be. You knew from the moment Mel introduced you to everyone that you wanted to know more about Abby. She was intimidating, a bit rough around the edges, and more than a little cold during your first interaction. It should have been a sign to stay out of her way, to leave her alone. But unfortunately, it just made her incredibly attractive.

No matter what you did, nothing seemed to favour you to her. You eventually found out it was because of Mel, and while no one could tell you exactly what happened, you figured it was bad enough for her to dislike you through pure association.

Something must have stuck with her though, because soon after rejecting your offer she was knocking on your door, pillow tucked under her arm, ready to take over your couch.

And she did. Anytime she needed a place to sleep, and Mel wasn’t home, she would come over. You started leaving out nicer blankets, draping them over the back of the couch, switching out the throw pillows for softer, less scratchy ones. She never said anything, but you knew she appreciated it.

It wasn’t until two months ago, drunkenly collapsing on your bunk together after Manny’s birthday party, that you started sharing your bed. The nightmares you would have, that the both of you shared in common, seemed to fade away when you weren’t alone.

A silent agreement passed between the two of you then, an unspoken arrangement to slide in next to each other. Backs pressed together, sharing your warmth, getting hours of blissful sleep.

You feel a nudge to your calf.

“Go back to sleep. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” She whispers, drawing her foot back to curl into herself. The movement presses her back more firmly into yours. A contented sigh tumbles from your lips.

“You’re fine. G’night, Abby.”

“… Night.”

You both fall into comfortable silence, the soft music still playing from the corner of your room. The CD will finish soon, but you should hopefully be asleep by then. You wait for the telltale signs of a sleeping Abby before you let yourself fall back under.

While the nightmares aren’t as intense when you share the bed, all it takes is a particularly bad day for them to rear their ugly head. And while you have your own long list of issues, you’re not the one still in active duty, so you like to make sure that Abby falls asleep. That she isn’t left to stare into the dark until the sun begins to rise, or gets dragged into whatever hell her brain has fixed up for her.

Her breathing eventually slows, and while she doesn’t snore, her deep breaths are interrupted with the occasional huff and groan. The pressure of her warm back on yours builds as her muscles relax and she shifts into the divot in the mattress between you. Her foot twitches and she shuffles her legs, unconsciously nudging you to entangle your legs with her own.

Only when you are certain she’s out and her sleep is peaceful do you let yourself go back to bed.

⸙

She’s gone in the morning when you start awake, the sound of a door down the hall slamming closed making your heart leap into your throat. Shooting upright in bed, the blanket tucked gently around you falling to your lap, you reach out for your firearm. It takes feeling the lumpy, cold mattress beneath your fingers to bring you back to yourself.

You’re in your room. Not outside hidden amongst the trees.

There are no Scars here.

Knees come up to meet your forehead as you curl in on yourself, shutting your eyes and forcing deep, shaky breaths.

It’s been months since you were on any kind of active duty, yet your body wouldn’t let you forget a second of it. Once a soldier always a soldier, you guess.

Once your heartrate slows back down, the sweat that was beading along your temples cooling, you lift your head up from your knees, peaking at the curtains. The morning sun is breaking through, sending slivers of light over Mel’s bed and the couch. If you strain your ears, you can hear people shuffling in the hallway, tired grumblings as they make their way into work.

Without checking a watch you’d say it was around eight in the morning.

Mel wasn’t scheduled for work until tonight, which means that you too got to have the morning off too. Though you were really getting somewhere with your training, Isaac didn’t want you working solo until Mel had signed off on you. So, unless they were absolutely swamped or it was an emergency, you worked the same shifts as Mel.

Flopping back on the mattress you shut your eyes once more, stretching out your limbs across the entire expanse of the bed. You had absolutely no issues with sharing your bed with Abby, but this mattress wasn’t exactly a king, and often find yourself tucked right up against the wall.

You doze on and off for a few more hours, taking advantage of the free day to catch up on all the sleep you’d been neglecting. It feels like you and Mel have been working around the clock lately, being assigned long shifts at odd hours. Ideally, you’d nap until your shift tonight, but your body refuses to let you sleep peacefully after 10am.

You putter around the room for a bit after dragging yourself out of bed, getting changed into your clothes for the day and drawing open the large curtains to let the sunlight into your room. The rays warm you as you do your morning stretches, flexing and pulling your leg into repetitive positions.

You so desperately want to just laze on the couch, curl up with a book or a magazine and rest your leg, but looking around the room you spot multiple piles of belongings neither your nor Mel have bothered to tidy up. Knowing the two of you, they’ll never get done if you don’t tackle them now. And who knows, maybe Mel will be so impressed that she really will swap spots with you.

You stomach begins to rumble around lunch time, just as you’re standing up from the CD rack you spontaneously decided to reorganise. Sure, there was probably something more important to do, but now your CDs are back to being in alphabetical order. For now, atleast.

Checking the fridge, you grimace at the lack of edible food left on the shelves. A withering carrot, some marmalade, and leftover rice and beans from a few nights ago make up its contents.

Sighing, you shut the door and grab your jacket. You’ll just get something from the cafeteria. Maybe when Mel comes home you can figure out her schedule, see if she’ll be willing to split some groceries with you.

⸙

“Hey, doc! Come sit with us, huh?” A voice calls out to you as you walk past their table, a container of stir fry hot in your hands.

You swivel around, eyes roaming the few tables in front of you when you spot Manny, waving you over. He’s seated with a few other soldiers, some you recognise from prior hangouts, others that must be part of his unit.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip as you toss up between sitting in the cafeteria with company or scampering off to your room to eat in private. Not that you don’t like sitting with Manny and his friends. They can just get real rowdy sometimes without Mel or Nora around to talk to.

You open your mouth to politely decline, wanting to chill as much as you can before your shift tonight, when the person opposite Manny turns around to look at you.

Abby.

She looks good this morning. Her usual braid is draped over her shoulder, getting long enough now to do so. It brushes the collar of her t-shirt, the sleeves of which she’s rolled up to the seam to fit her arms. She’s holding a bowl of rice up to her chest, spoon hanging out of her mouth as she looks at you.

Unable to hide the small smile that twitches your lips, you give Manny a nod and head over, weaving back through the crowded hall. Manny grins and shuffles along the bench, pushing against Jordan to make room for you next to him.

“There she is! How’s it going? Seen anything gross lately?”

You laugh, pushing yourself into your spot between him and Jordan, having to climb over the seat to get there. “Unless you count touching Malcom, then no. Not lately.”

Abby huffs a laugh around her spoon, twisting back around to face the table. You look to her as you set your container down on the table, smiling when you see she’s already looking. Her eyes flick down to your food and back to you, brows raised slightly in question.

Tilting your container you show her your lunch, the stir fry still steaming and warming your hands.

“Malcom isn’t that bad,” Manny laughs, diving back into his own food. Some sort of sandwich from the looks of it. “He’s a good shot.” He muffles through a mouthful of food.

You roll your eyes, picking up your fork and stabbing at a few vegetables, “Yeah, and a bad dodge. He keeps coming in to get stitched up, but I’m convinced it’s because he gets his chest felt up.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying his best. Not all of us are as lucky.” Manny snickers, elbowing the man beside him. The rest of the boys laugh back, the noise at the table picking up.

Abby just shakes her head, slouching over her bowl of rice to continue eating. From where you’re sitting it looks like plain brown rice. Knowing her, it probably came with a side that she’s already eaten all of, not planning out her bites ahead of time and just going right for the tasty part.

You twist to the side to face Manny, reaching up for his ear.

“Speaking of--” You pinch the top, yanking on it to bring his head down to your level. He yelps, grabbing at your wrist and swearing. “You need to stop having your play dates the same day Abby gets back from missions.”

Manny eyes you as he curses, briefly looking over at Abby before turning his attention back to you. Across from you Abby tenses, spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

“How’d you know I had someone over?”

You sniff, letting go of his ear and turning back to your food, getting a bite in before answering. “Caught her in the library again.” You lie, hopefully smoothly.

The two of you never agreed to keep her sleeping habits a secret, but you knew enough about her to know that she liked to keep her business to herself.

Manny grins, throwing his hands up guiltily. “What can I say? I have poor timing. Well, not all of the time...” He winks.

You fake a gag, grimacing as you pick up your food container.

“And with that, I need to go get ready for work tonight. I’ll catch you all around.”

Manny laughs, his voice booming through the hall. He playfully grabs at your sleeve, tugging it as you stand up to leave.

“Baby, don’t go! Please, I can change!” He pleads, gently trying to pull you back down to the table.

You stumble and laugh, batting his grabby hands off your clothes as you squirm away. Nearly tripping on the seat, you pry yourself free, stepping out of Manny’s range and across the table.

“Bye, Abby.”

You slide your container of food next to hers as you pass, having eaten all the vegetables and leaving her the beef. Her head whips up to yours, eyes questioning and mouth full of food. A piece of rice is stuck to her bottom lip.

Cute.

She tries to swallow her mouthful to say something, but inhales wrong in her haste, choking on rice. Manny, observing the interaction, bursts out in a fit of laughter as he slides over his canteen of water, watching Abby gulp it down to clear her throat. Some of the guys sitting next to her lean over to slap at her back, chuckling along with Manny. He’s calling her something in Spanish as she pushes all the hands away, the tips of her ears reddening as he jeers at her.

The last thing you see before the crowd shuffles and blocks your view is Abby, leaning over the table to punch Manny in the arm.

⸙

“He even said that we could decorate for Christmas. Apparently, he knows some department store that has trees and everything.” Mel gushes, setting up the surgical cart for the night.

“You two are so fucking cute.” You smile, spinning yourself in the office chair they have back here.

Mel flushes, feeling the heat of her cheeks with the back of her palms, “I just… I don’t know. I feel stupid for getting so giddy about it all but he’s just sweet, you know? Thoughtful.” She smiles softly to herself, reaching up in a cupboard for some gauze. “We haven’t even been dating a year and he’s already talking about getting new room assignments.”

“And you want that? He’s not like, pressuring you to go too fast or anything?” You slow your spin, digging your heels into the tent floor to stop to face her.

She shakes her head, laying out a handful of freshly bleached bandages and some scissors. “No, he’s been really good about it. I said that I’d like to wait until the New Year at least. Start fresh.

You nod, looking at her. Mel is a kind person, though she can be very outspoken and tough when needed -- you’ve seen this enough times when dealing with Abby or an unruly patient. But you’ve never seen her so happy. So flustered.

She giggles sometimes. Mel has never been a giggler.

Owen has been good for her. She needed someone to stop her from overworking herself, to make her feel appreciated and special, and if Owen is anything, he’s a hopeless romantic and a great distraction.

You let out a sigh, dramatically throwing you hand up to your forehead, pushing with your feet to spin on the chair.

“I can’t believe my wife is taking our child and leaving me for another! Leaving me to wallow in our shared home all alone.”

She snorts, throwing you a look over her shoulder, “Our child?”

“Alice, obviously.” You peek at her from behind your hand. “I expect visitation.”

Mel laughs, throwing her head back, “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of keeping her from seeing you.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, Mel double checking the contents of her cart.

“Maybe when I move out you can see about getting someone else to move in so you’re not as lonely.”

You shrug, leaning your head all the way back on the headrest so it hangs over. You feel something shift and pop in your neck, a pressure fizzling away.

“Yeah, no. I’ll just live it bachelor style until someone needs the space.”

Mel hums, “So you wouldn’t even offer it to your mystery woman?”

You try so hard to school your reaction, to not make it so obvious how right she is, but it’s difficult when she gets you like that out of nowhere. You tilt your head up to look at the back of her head.

“My who?”

Mel turns around, a smirk playing at her lips. She knows she’s caught you out. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’ve been having someone over while I’m gone.”

Your cheeks pink as you go to defend yourself, but for the life of you, you can’t find a non-damning answer. You’re left stuttering, gaping like a fish.

“I- Who- You don’t know that.”

“Oh? Then why do you always ask if I plan to be home or not?”

“Can’t I be invested in your safety? As your friend- “

“And, “ she cuts you off, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the sanitation sink, “We both know you have trouble sleeping alone. But suddenly on the nights I’m gone, you come into work having slept like a baby? Nuh-uh.” She points an accusing finger your way. “You’ve got someone you’re bringing home that you’re not telling me about.”

She looks triumphant. Victorious in having called you out on your sneaking around.

Your hands come up to cover your face, hiding from her gaze.

“Mel, it’s not like that,” you groan, sliding down in your chair.

“Seems like that to me.”

“No, it’s just… we’re just friends. I’m just hanging out with a friend.”

She doesn’t believe you. You don’t have to be looking at her to know that for a fact. “And you’d be content to just… stay friends?”

“Obviously I’d be fine with whatever she wants,” you rush out, getting overwhelmed with the intimate questions.

Theres a beat of silence.

“But…” she prompts.

You throw you hands up, looking up at her, “Yes, Mel. Fine. If she was interested, I would take her up on it. Happy?”

Mel nods, pleased as punch at getting you to admit this out loud. She has a bad habit of doing that.

“So,” she breaks the silence, kicking off the bench, “Are you going to tell me who it is?”

You cringe. Seeing as they aren’t exactly on speaking terms, you doubt that she’s going to be super thrilled about Abby hanging out in her home while she’s gone.

“I… I don’t know, Mel. Sorry, I just- “

“Hey, it’s fine. I get it.” She says softly, walking over and placing a warm hand on your arm. “No hard feelings. I’m not going to be mad because you don’t want to tell me who you’re crushing on.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief, sagging against the backrest of the chair. “Thanks, Mel.”

“But if you ever wanted to talk about it- “

“Yes, yes,” you wave her off, unable to help yourself from smiling, “I’ll come to you about it.”

Mel smiles, pushing you on the shoulder so that you spin around in your chair.

“Come on, time for work.”

«« masterpost ꩜ next »»

[calcifermovesthecastle]

Sharing a Moment

Tooth Rotting Sanji Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Whole Cake Island spoilers if you squint.

2460 ish words

Warnings: Panic attacks, mentions of past trauma, mentions of burns, mentions of Slavery.

This is actually an excerpt from my self insert one piece google doc, but I turned it into a reader insert. Character is afab, uses she/her pronouns, and is described with breasts. I do not shy away from "controversial" topics and do not censor any of my work. this does not mean that I condone or agree with the things that I write about.

This is what I do instead of therapy lmao.

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Sharp, uneven breaths pierce through the silence that surrounds you on the island. Your transponder snail sleeps peacefully on the ground, your hands trembling too violently to pick it up. 

Your head swims, and each new breath you take is shorter and sharper than the last. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, scrambling backwards on the forest floor. 

"I'm gonna find you, bitch!" The words aren't real, but they echo in your head nonetheless. You press your back up against the large tree you're under, clawing at the collar of your shirt around your neck. The night seems to close further in on you. 

You weren't lost. Not at first. You started out on the beach, picking through shrubs and bushes to resupply Chopper with some fresh herbs and plants. The rest of the crew's voices had faded away, dispersing in their own searches, leaving you alone in yours. The deeper you got into the woods, the darker it got, and the more anxious you felt. The more your mind began to race. 

Suddenly, you weren't a straw hat anymore. Suddenly, just like that, the shackles tightened around your neck and wrists, and your master calls after you, screaming all of the horrible things he'd do to you once you were found. 

Your transponder snail continues to snooze on the ground in front of you, a mocking reminder that you can call for help at any time, if you could just get out of your own head. 

"When I find you, I'm gonna gut you like an animal! You'll fucking wish you were dead when I'm done with you!" 

Oh, how you wish you would breathe quieter. Your head throbs and your vision swims, the lack of air and the blood pounding in your ears making you lightheaded. At this point, passing out seems like a blessing. 

"Do you want your hands set on fire again?! Or would you rather I stick them in boiling oil?" 

"No!" You manage to gasp out. You claw more at your shirt collar, ripping the fabric apart down past your breasts. A heavy, loud sob bursts past your lips, and all you can hear is your own rapid heart beat. 

Then, clear as a bell, you hear someone say your name. 

Your eyes fly open, chest heaving as you look around for the source, and stare up at Sanji, who's rounded the tree and is staring at you with eyes just as wide. Your voice gets caught in your throat, but your body almost buckles in relief. 

You cant seem to calm yourself down, though, and your throat constricts again, the ghost of that awful collar tightening around you. You pull your torn shirt even further away from you, your hands trembling so violently you have to grasp at it multiple times. 

Sanji crouches in front of you, shrugging his blazer off, not breaking eye contact once. 

"Sweetheart, would you like to go back to the ship?" 

You nod, bawling loudly. Sanji nods, never breaking his eye contact with you. He looks at you as if you'll run from him at any second.

"Okay, I'll take you home. I need you to calm down first, okay?" 

"I cant-" You choke out, taking another short, sharp breath in.

"Okay, I'll help you." 

Ever so gently, Sanji reaches out and pulls you close, resting his chin on top of your head. He takes your hands in his and squeezes, taking slow, steady breaths that you're supposed to mirror. It takes a few tries, but finally, your breathing returns to normal and your head stops swimming. Though you're still shaking, you're back to reality, and you know that you're okay. 

"Are you ready?" 

You had no idea Sanji's voice could sound so tender. Your lower lip trembles as you nod, and he gently pulls you to your feet, draping his blazer over your shoulders. 

When he pulls his hands away, you reach out to him, your voice breaking. 

"Don't go away." 

That's funny, you meant to say "Don't let go." Sanji's eyes widen briefly, but they soften just as quick, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders as soon as he's picked up your transponder snail and put it in the blazers pocket.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sweetheart," He says quietly. "I've got you." 

Slowly, he guides you through the woods back to the Sunny. You lean heavy on him, gripping the fabric of his blazer in your hands as tightly as you can to feel grounded. 

"Please don't tell the others," you whisper. Your eyes swim with more tears as shame blooms through your whole body. Sanji squeezes you firmly. 

"I wont. If they ask, I'll just say you got lost and called me to come get you." 

"Thank you," You rest your head against the side of his chest, listening to his heart beat. 

Another wave of relief floods your body when you finally land eyes on the Sunny. Sanji helps you up the first few rungs of the ladder, then starts climbing up after you. Once on board, you follow him to the kitchen, sitting at the table. 

He doesn't ask why, doesn't prod more information out of you, he just sets a warm mug of tea in front of you, ruffles your hair, and gets started on dinner. 

The warm lighting in the kitchen helps to soothe your frayed nerves, so you sip on the tea, mindfully taking slow, deep breaths. Sanji's company proves to be very grounding as well, so while he cooks, you slip your burn gloves off and stare at your hands.

Chopper has done a phenomenal job repairing some of the scarring. He's also helped you gain a ton of function back. But the flesh is still mangled badly, and the nerve damage is majorly irreparable. You can grasp and hold things, but your fine motor skills are gone. There's no getting that back. You open and close your fingers, grateful for the movement you have gained back. 

But the damage is still there. The pain of it is seared into the back of your mind forever. you frown, lost in thought. 

"Your tea is getting cold, d'you want me to heat it back up for you?" 

You jump, looking at Sanji with wide eyes. His eyes go from your face to your hands, and you can see his brow furrow behind his hair. He puffs on his cigarette and sits down next to you, reaching out and grasping them before you can pull away. 

Since they've been burned, nobody has touched your bare hands. You've always kept the gloves or bandages on, for fear that it would hurt too much otherwise, or trigger a bad reaction in you. 

But Sanji's hands don't do either. They feel cool, and the pressure is comforting. You stare wide eyed down at where your hands are, your heart stuttering in my chest. 

"You have beautiful hands," He says quietly. Your eyes fly to his face, but he doesn't look at you, he just studies your hands, turning them over in his own. 

"Don't lie," You whisper. It's barely audible, but he shakes his head. 

"I'm not lying. They really are beautiful." He says it with such conviction it makes your heart clench. 

"Look at you, you're fucking worthless, you pig bitch. You can't even serve me right with those fucked up hands of yours. Clean this fucking mess up and get the fuck out of my room so I dont have to look at how disgusting your hands look." 

"The scars on them don't mar the way they look," He continues. "They're quite striking." 

He sits and admires them for a few more minutes, and you stare at him, your eyes as wide as dinner plates, your face flushed red. 

You can feel butterflies in your stomach as he runs his thumb along one of the longer scars, humming. When he looks up at up at up at you, he smiles. 

"I guess I just never noticed." 

"Nobody," You whisper, for fear that your voice may break again. "Has ever said anything so kind about my hands." 

Sanji tilts his head, puffing on his cigarette. When he speaks again, his tone is tender. 

"Sweetheart, you should stop worrying so much. Nobody is ever going to hurt us again. Not like this." 

He squeezes your hands, ruffles your hair again, and gets up to check on dinner. 

Us?

Wait. Us?

"Sanji, what do you-" 

"Did you want me to reheat your tea?" He asks, as if he didn't hear you. You blink, glancing down at your cup. 

"Uh, sure. That would be really nice." 

Humming, he reheats your tea for you, then pulls some vegetables out. You put your gloves back on and pull his blazer tighter around your body. 

"Sanji?" 

"Hm? What is it?" 

"Could I have a cigarette?" 

He turns his head towards you, frowning. He sees how tense you are, how shaky your breath still is, and closes his eyes. 

"Just this once. These things are bad for you, you know." 

"I know," You smile slightly. He jerks his chin up once. 

"They're in the left pocket in my jacket. Just one, ya hear?" 

You heed his words, thanking him when he lights it for you. The first few puffs you take are followed by very harsh, loud coughs, but the next few burn less in your throat and lungs. It's a nice distraction. 

The rest of the crew still isn't back by the time you finish the cigarette, but you're not ready to be by yourself just yet, so you stay in the kitchen with Sanji. You finish your tea, and eat the food he puts in front of you, and when they're still not back after you've finished eating, you rest your chin in your hands and watch as Sanji continues to work in the warm yellow glow. By the time Luffy bursts in demanding dinner, you've fallen asleep at the table. 

"Hm? What's she doing here?" He asks, prodding at you gently. Sanji smacks his hand away, shooing him out of the room. 

"She got lost and called me to find her on the transponder snail. You get out and go sit in the lounge with everyone else for your dinner. She already ate." 

Luffy looks at you, frowning slightly, but concedes to letting you sleep for now. He bounds out of the room, yelling for everyone to go to the lounge so they can eat. 

You jerk awake sometime later, the shadow of a nightmare fading from your mind, leaving in its wake a sense of uneasiness and the deep seated need to not be alone. 

There is no light coming from the porthole, but the swaying of the ship tells you that we're back to sea. You stand up, steadying yourself with the table, and exit the kitchen. 

You hold Sanji's jacket tightly around you, climbing the ladder up to the crows nest. The smell of smoke tells you that that's where you'll find Sanji. 

Sure enough, he's standing with elbows resting on the ledge of the crow's nest as he stares out at open water, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray perched next to him. You walk straight over to him and wrap your arms around him from behind. 

He doesn't say anything, but turns slightly so he can wrap one of his arms around you. You press your ear against his chest, searching for his heartbeat. When you find it, you close your eyes and focus on it. 

For a while, the only noise is your breathing, his heartbeat, and the sounds the ocean makes. You're grateful for how expertly Sanji seems to handle you when you're at this low point, how he seems to know exactly what you need. How instead of fawning over you, he stays collected and steady and oh so kind and tender. You tighten your hold on him, closing your eyes. 

"I'm sorry," You murmur.

"What for?" He responds, just as quiet. You breathe out, tears welling up in your eyes. 

"Being such a fucking mess." Your voice breaks, and a quiet whimper escapes your throat for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight. "Sanji, everything came flooding back. I'm not strong enough to pretend I'm okay, and I don't know how I'm going to hide it from everyone. I don't want to be a mess. I don't want my past to control me but it does. Just when I think I've got a good handle on it, something triggers it, and I don't know what to do to stop myself from shutting down. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

His hand reaches up to stroke your hair as you cry, and after a while he pulls away from you, squeezing an arm in each hand and crouching to your eye level. 

"Sweetheart, you cant change what happened to you. And it's still so recent for you that of course you're going to have days where it's harder for you to feel normal. You're going to have days where it feels like it's all a dream, and you're still stuck in those shackles. I saw you, that first day. Remember?" 

You nod, weeping openly. 

"You may not think so, but you are doing so much better than you were. He cant hurt you anymore. Say it." 

"H-he can't hurt me anymore." 

"Again." 

"H-he can't hurt me anymore." 

"That's right. He can't. But it's going to take time, right? You can know that there is nothing he can do to get to you. You can know that you're free. But it's going to take time for you to believe it. That's part of healing. So don't be sorry for your bad days. We understand, more than you could ever know."

Something distant clouds Sanji's eye, but it's gone before it takes form. Weakly, you reach your arms out to him, asking for a hug. He pulls you close, careful not to hold you too tight. 

"He can't hurt me anymore," You blubber. You feel him nod. 

"That's right." 

"I'm safe." 

"That's right." 

"I'm free." 

"You're free, love." Sanji tightens his grip on you for a moment, exhaling. "Would you like to lie down in bed?"

"Mhmm" You sniff. Truthfully, you'd rather stay awake with him as long as possible, but your body is so tired that you know there's no fighting the sleep that's coming. "But please don't leave me all alone up here." 

"I'm not going anywhere," Sanji says. A sharp wind blows by, causing both of you to tense. You shrug his jacket off, holding it out to him. 

"Since I'll be under the covers," You say hoarsely, "I suppose you could have your jacket back." 

He laughs, taking it and putting it back on. "I'm honored."

You smile back, getting cozy in bed. Sanji watches you, turning back around when your head finally hits the pillow. It's not long until you're out, your soft snores falling on his ears while he watches the night sky.

[beefboyandbabygirl]

Titty-Shirt! (18+)

pairing: pervert!rollercoaster operator!jeonghan x bigtiddie!fem!reader

genre: theme park au??? lmao, coworkers to lovers, kinda enemies to lovers, smut, fluff, lil crack, lil angst

description: you start your new job and your mentor, jeonghan, is the biggest piece of shit you've ever met. you swear you hate him. you swear. he's just also the most gorgeous man you've ever seen.

warnings: whew this requires a lot of warning, first of all a lot of DUBCON BEHAVIOR FROM JEONGHAN INITIALLY (we know she enjoys it to some extent, but he doesnt know), hes a sleazy perverted fuck, tiddie playing, tiddie sucking, tiddie fucking, fingering (f. receiving), dry humping, mirror sex, praise (f. receiving), dirty talk, FINGER SUCKING HNG, a lil degradation (f. receiving), meanie condescending jeonghan turning all soft for ur tiddies :(, V TIDDIE-CENTRIC IF U COULDNT TELL, belinda loves jeonghan, WEED LOTTA WEED, explicit depictions of smoking weed, high sex, this fic sounds rough but it actually has some really soft cute moments, im pretty sure thats it lmk if i forgot smth

quotes from babygirl (@joshibambi): "shove ur cock down my throat treat me like the whore i am", "FUCKING STEP ON ME", "omg hes so disgusting..... im so attracted to him"

wordcount: 13.2k

a/n: the way i raced 2 finish this before im actually moving out... ALSO thinking ab making this a series? like one for each member, the theme being "unusual jobs". like not stuff youd immediately think of like coffee shop or lawyer or ceo or whatever. like. strange jobs. would u guys b on board?

“We’re so excited to have you working with us.” 

She had a mole on her nose that was hard to ignore. It was big and exceptionally round - your thoughts flitted back to your dearest Discovery Channel, and how amazing it was that nature could create such perfect spheres. The thought of your couch and your blanket and your most cherished nature docs brought upon a wave of uncertainty. You could just be lying at home, you thought. 

“Happy to be here,” you smiled tightly. She was your new manager and she was short and stout and had gray hair and a lovely smile and a round mole on her nose. You tried not to make it obvious you were staring at it. 

You were standing in your city’s local theme park under a long path with flower archways. People, kids and parents and ninth graders, swarmed around like bees, standing at booths and in lines to old, janky, rusted roller coasters. It was summer and you were wearing the branded shirt they’d given you, slightly too small, and the matching cap. Insects buzzed past your stray hairs and you looked up at the bright blue sky. 

You needed a job, you had known, and your mom had certainly known it too, so you could only lounge around after graduating for a short while, before you opted to apply. This had been your last choice. You’d tried to become some sort of lobby-worker, tried makeup stores and even regular stores. You used to make fun of the people who worked here. But now that person was you, and standing under the archways in the summer sun slathered in sunscreen, you figured you would make the best of it until the busy season was over. 

“So,” your manager, Belinda, began after a brief pause of polite nods, “new employees such as yourself are required to be trained and surveyed by an existing worker for a two-week period, but after that you get to run the rides all by yourself.” 

She said it like it was something to look forward to. You tried to believe that it was.

“Of course,” you said, and once again the space between you was filled with polite and exaggerated nodding. “Need to learn first before you get to be the master.”

“Exactly!” she said. Her lipstick was barbie-pink and a little overlined on the right side. She smelled faintly of gasoline. “So we’re handing you off to one of our star-employees!”

You hummed and noticed her taking a step backwards, indicating you to follow. She began walking, trudging over the cobbled paths and shuffling awkwardly in between walls of people. You followed behind. “He’s been working here for the past two years, so he knows the place in and out.”

As you walked, passing twisting, gnarly tracks with screams emanating from them and stands with oversized, China-made plushies hanging from them, you tried to imagine what a star-employee at Caratland Theme Park looked like. 

It was probably someone that loved roller coasters, maybe someone like yourself, who strived for approval and perfection, maybe someone that found a certain joy in being a good service experience for guests. Someone who was good with kids? 

“So you’ll be training with him for a bit before we leave you alone with the coasters, of course, but it should be no trouble, he’s a fun guy!” 

You passed by a haunted house, where a group of kids psyched each other up in the queue. Dodging a tree, you finally came up on a certain blue ride where Belinda stopped and put her hands on her hips, power posing in front of the creaky, old machinery. 

The Pirate Swing. That’s what it was called, and it was a big ship attached to a huge, metal pole on each side, and it was currently swooshing up and down with a large, grating sound. You cringed at it. Belinda noticed and frowned, fingers fiddling with the edge of her shirt. “Maybe we should oil that one.” 

Kids and parents were lined up at the stairway leading up to it in a parade of artificial polyester colors, and on the edge of the platform where the ship was shoveling through the air, a little booth was sat. Peeking through the frankly grimy windows, you could see him. He was slumped back in a wooden chair, wearing the same shirt as you and Belinda, and wearing big, blocky, black sunglasses. 

“Jeonghan!” she called, and you saw the figure jolt. He looked briefly dazed, before he snapped his head up to peer through the glass, smiling and waving. The kids in line turned to glare at you. He scrambled up from his seat clumsily and with sporadic movement, and you both watched how he hunched over the door, shaking it in its frame before it finally let open. He took one long step out the door and was finally outside, looking down at you from the platform and leaning on the railing. 

“Belinda! Nice to see you,” he breathed, smiling in a way that seemed to indicate he did not find the prior sequence of events embarrassing. In fact, he seemed to think he had the upper hand - the confidence rolled off of him in waves. You grimaced. 

You could see him much better now that he was outside, not broken up by the greasy glass, and whatever you had envisioned the star-employee to look like, this was not it. He was young, maybe just a little older than you, and he was thin, with long black hair that just kissed his shoulders. About half of his face was hidden away behind the frankly humongous sunglasses on his face, but he had pale pink lips and a pronounced cupid's bow, and even though you were a little skeptical of him, the cockiness in his smile was well-received. 

“This is Y/n!” Belinda said (yelling to overpower the severely loud child glee), gesturing to you, and you almost felt self-conscious when he looked over at you and smiled. “She’s a new employee and you’ll be her mentor during her training period.” 

“Sure thing!” he said simply. Again with the polite nods, you thought, before you felt Belinda’s hand on your shoulder. You glanced over and she squeezed. 

“Good luck, Y/n! You’re in great hands!” Now that you weren’t so sure about. Had the two of you not seen the same thing? 

You mumbled a thanks and she padded away, once more dodging and weaving through huge chains of people, and you squinted after her, before you turned back to Jeonghan. He was already looking at you, a lazy smile on his lips. 

“Welcome to The Pirate Swing, matey! Get up here and let me show you the ropes,” he padded back to the booth, now visibly more relaxed, as his back returned in a hunch. “I should probably stop the ride,” he mumbled to himself, pressing a button on a long controlpanel with a grid of eight buttons. 

You climbed up the stairs unsurely, hand smoothing over the railing as you went. At the top you squeezed in beside Jeonghan. It was a fairly small space, just big enough for the two of you to stand next to each other. Jeonghan smiled a straight smile at you, before brushing past you to let out the dizzy guests. 

“Was it a good ride?!” You heard him ask distantly, while you studied the interior of the booth. 

It was reeking with a sweet herbal stench, and for a moment you might’ve chalked it up to sweat and cologne, but when your gaze danced over the grid, you became aware of a small, open ziploc of weed on the countertop, crumbs of it dotted by the opening. An energy drink, most certainly warm from the sun flowing in, was perched next to it, and you saw more cans by the foot of the wooden chair (it seemed like a chair that had been dragged in from somewhere else - it was almost reminiscent of the one from your grandma’s house).  

You grimaced, looking over to where Jeonghan was waving kids off and shuffling over to let in people from the queue, a big sign for checking heights in his hand. The sunglasses, of course, you thought and frowned at the room. Luckily it seemed pretty straight forward, so maybe you could escape this Jeonghan character earlier than two weeks. 

“Right,” Jeonghan clapped his hands together, pushing past you again. “This is how you turn it on,” he said and pressed one long, skinny finger to a black button that read ‘dispatch’. 

Sure enough, the huge metal set to work again, screeching as it lifted a boat-full of nuclear families through the air. 

“You turn it off with this other one. Usually rides just stop by themselves when they reach the end, but since we got a little shitty one today it’s manual.” 

“Okay,” you said, nodding along and watching when his hand danced and pointed to the set of buttons.

“That’s pretty much it!” he said, collapsing in his chair again, sunglasses sliding halfway down his nose and revealing his bloodshot eyes. 

“What about the other buttons?” you ask pointedly, arms crossed.

“Don’t worry about them, sweet cheeks,” he waved you off. “They don’t do much.”

The empty cans by his chair clattered when he reached down a hand for one, toppling over and hitting the metal flooring. You scrunched your nose in disgust. 

“I like your shirt,” he mumbled, nimble fingers picking up a particular empty can. It was bent on one side, little holes pricked in it - it was a makeshift bong. You scoffed at him. This was the star-employee?

“We have the same shirt,” you deadpanned. 

“Yeah, but I like yours better,” he grinned lazily, can now in hand, when he leaned forward to fetch the ziploc of weed. “Nice and tight.” 

“You’re gross,” you spat, brows furrowed. “This is a kid’s establishment, you know that, right?” 

“Ninth graders fuck here all the time,” he shrugged. You gasped, not only because it was an extremely gross fact, but also because that was not what you were suggesting. “I’m referring to the fucking weed in your hand, jackass!” 

“Woah, calm down!” He shushed you, and you might’ve genuinely scared him, because he looked around each window of the booth, light cascading down his tan skin. He was wearing a pair of shorts, and you saw his knee bounce. When he’d secured the area, he turned to you with a hiss: “That’s a secret, woman! You can’t just throw words like that around.” 

“Then maybe you shouldn’t smoke here!” You snapped, but Jeonghan was doing exactly the opposite. Ducking down so it wasn’t totally visible from the windows, he’d placed a little nugget of weed on the grate, and was now setting it alight with Transformers-print lighter.

“This is your first day, right? Trust, you’re gonna end up being high on the job too,” he ended his sentence by placing his lips around the mouth of the can, sucking in smoke.

“That’s such a safety hazard,” you murmured, looking down at him from where you stood. He pulled away, smoke still in his mouth and you saw a twinkle in his eyes from above his falling sunglasses. Then he lunged forward and blew it into your face, a concentrated stream of weed smoke bouncing off your shiny cheeks. “Hey!”

You sputtered and spat, shoulders tense and straining against the fabric of your shirt. Jeonghan settled back down in his chair, legs spread.

“The kids love me! With or without weed!” he said, voice a little groggy from the smoke. You coughed, discontent. 

“Maybe they love you because you get them contact-high,” you mumbled under your breath. Jeonghan grinned at that. 

Suddenly he leaned back in his chair to study you, one hand on the can, the other taking off his sunglasses. He stared up at you with fire-red eyes and soft, long hair and a bemused grin on his lips. Seeing his full face, you gulped under his intense gaze. He was really pretty. Annoying. More annoying than pretty. But still. 

Distantly, kids screamed and a constant buzz of countless conversations overlapped in each inch of the park. Jeonghan reached out a finger and poked your jean-clad hip once. 

“You’re funny,” was all he said, something resembling curiosity in his eyes. “Yeah. Funny girl with the tight shirt.” 

You were going to retaliate (they truly had run out of your size and had opted for this as a temporary option, it wasn’t your fault!), but Jeonghan coughed suddenly, eyebrows furrowing as he sat back up in his seat. 

“Oh shit, should probably stop the ride now.”  _____________________________

You thought about quitting. 

You could honestly say that Jeonghan made you think about quitting, and maybe you would even have brought the plan into action, had it not been for the fact that you had been rejected from just about every other job that you’d applied to. It seemed you were stuck. 

You showed up the next day in your shirt and it felt even tighter than the day prior, and the cap tightened around your scalp like you were a toy in a claw machine. 

Fortunately for you, the park seemed much less crowded today. It was a Wednesday, parents were still working and apparently no one sought out the thrill of scary, old, decaying rides on such afternoons. You admired how much lovelier it was when it was still, as you walked up to The Pirate Swing. 

“Hey, titty-shirt!” 

The loveliness was ruined. 

Jeongan was standing on the railing with someone else you didn’t recognize, long, black hair swaying out from the rim of his cap. He waved enthusiastically, watching your form slump at his words. 

“Hey, Jeonghan,” you muttered, approaching the steps. The boy beside him looked mildly uncomfortable at the interaction. 

“It’s a good thing you’re here, N/n - can I call you N/n?” he didn’t let you answer, simply continued talking like a telemarketer. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here. Me and my buddy, Junhui, from the Beetle Bug ride were just discussing something that I think is extremely valuable to learn about this place!” 

“Are you gonna teach me about the rest of the buttons?” you drawled, eyes half closed in feigned boredom (as much as you disliked him, it certainly wasn’t boring). 

“No!” Jeonghan snapped his fingers at you. You noticed he had this way of smiling, that irked you. It was void of sincerity and was instead wolfish and teasing, something genuinely animalistic and mean-spirited. It was distasteful.

“On days like these-” he hovers and outstretched hand to gesture to the mostly bare land of the theme park, “- you can steal food from the restaurants.” 

After just one eight hour shift with Jeonghan, you find yourself not even remotely surprised at this. You cross your arms over your chest (Jeonghan’s eyes briefly flick down to them, and you think you might actually hate him): “I have a packed lunch.” 

“Packed lunches are for geeks and nerds,” he said, unbothered. “You can come along if you want to get some delicious, warm pizza, or you can stay here like a loser and explain to every kid that comes by, that you’re not allowed to give them a ride on the coaster and watch them cry until you get fired. Your choice, babe.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you snarled. Jeonghan shrugged with puckered lips and the Beatle Bug guy - Junhui - scrunched his face in disgust at the two of you. 

“Not gonna lie, I’m gonna go find Seungkwan,” he said, not even attempting to hide his dismay for your dynamic. He brushed past you on the stairs, hands buried in his pockets. “If you guys fuck, do it in the bathroom Chan uses!” he yelled, trudging past the pillars that held up the haunted house. 

“Sure thing, Jun!” Jeonghan smiled, and you could punch him. Again that animalistic, joyful, laughing-at-you-not-laughing-with-you smile.

“What if I snitch on you?” you asked, hoping it would knock some sort of sense into him, but he only shrugged.

“Belinda loves me. Whenever she works on Valentine’s day, she cries in her office and I let her rant about her shitty boyfriends,” the visual was somehow not hard to imagine. Belinda in her office chair (you’d seen it once, and all you could say was the interior looked like something from a log cabin) and Jeonghan, 19, feeding into everything she said. “You can say what you want, but she’ll just fire you for making up rumors.” 

Your brows furrowed. “That’s so concerning.” 

“Nothing about this place works right,” he admitted and it was maybe the only time you’d sensed an ounce of truth in his words. “So, are you coming?” 

You hesitated. You really were working up a real distaste for Jeonghan, but talking to spoiled, crying kids seemed worse than anything else at the moment. You decided you could live through Jeonghan’s lewd comments and maybe make friends with some other park workers. 

“Okay.” 

“I knew you loved me,” he teased, and then grabbed your wrist from the top of the steps, bouncing down and pulling you along with him. “Hey!” you yelped, but Jeonghan was, as always, unbothered. 

He pulled you by a narrow walkway into the toilets, passing by a single, confused family, as you stumbled behind him. There was a fountain with a hen figurine on top, which he steered around, your arm jerking limply, as he went down a flower-walkway. 

“You do this often?” you remarked, out of breath from jogging to match his strides. 

“Oh yeah. Mingyu works there and he’s like 16, he lets me do anything,” Jeonghan giggled evilly, glancing over his shoulder once, and you gulped, and hated the way his eyes were so big and pretty, and the way his hair blowed softly along carvings of his cheeks. 

“It’s great that you have so many people here to enable your bad habits,” you said. Whatever sarcasm you portrayed in your tone, Jeonghan ignored it, still smiling when he said: “Right?” 

When you stopped you were standing on the backside of a blocky building - one of the many offers of food you provided, prices marked up to drain the suburbs of their cash. You felt something underfoot, and looked down on the gravelly, rustic pavement, only to see circa 20 cigarettes jammed in between the rocks. You scrunched your nose. 

“What? You don’t like cigs?” you looked up at Jeonghan’s voice, to see him grinning cheekily at you. His eyes sparkled and for maybe just a second it was kind of attractive. 

“I don’t..” you broke off eye contact. “I don’t mind, it’s just.. Is everyone here like you?” 

“Sweetheart,” he tutted, and you nearly flinched at the feeling of his long fingers tapping your cheek, cool on the warming skin. You looked back up at him and he had tilted his head to the side. Why was he being attractive? Why were you finding him attractive? “There’s no one like me.” 

Before you could respond, Jeonghan pushed open the backdoor, the heat of the kitchen simmering out in one brief wind, before it slammed shut behind him, and you were left, alone and dumbfounded on the stones in a mountain of cigs. 

Then you scoffed.

You stood for a moment, letting the fresh air cool the inevitable warmth on your cheeks, huffing (because you were annoyed, you told yourself, not because he had just done something terribly, horribly attractive!) and puffing with your arms crossed over your too-tight-shirt. 

Then you pushed open the door and stepped inside the tiled kitchen. 

The room was filled with steam and it smelled like canned marinara sauce and fake cheese and most of all it was unbearably hot - so hot and humid, you felt the particles of water sitting on the fabric of your shirt. There was a decidedly oversize pot simmering with sauce on a stovetop, and on a hotplate three untouched pizzas sat; one with potato-topping, one pepperoni and one margarita. 

A very tall boy was running frantically around the kitchen, three different kitchen utensils in his clenched fist like claws. Sweat was dripping down the side of his frowning face and red speckled his shiny cheeks. Jeonghan draped himself against the counter lazily.

“It’s just me today,” the boy, Mingyu, cried, “Thomas sent home the other two because there’s no one in the park, but I can’t do this alone!” 

“Seems real stressful, Gyu,” Jeonghan mumbled, leaning on his hand. 

“Yeah, so if you aren’t too busy, maybe you could stir the marinar-” 

“That’s really great, man. You’re doing God’s work. But hey, we’re just gonna-” While Mingyu’s back was turned, the tall boy hunched over the sauce, Jeonghan limply pushed the pepperoni pizza to the edge of the hotplate with a pair of tongs. He winked at you, scooping the pizza into his open palm. “We’re just gonna head out now.” 

“Jeonghan, please help me out and don’t-” 

Mingyu turned around and his tortured expression dropped into one of shock, his tense limbs falling limp at his sides. Jeonghan stood, hand in the cookie jar and pizza in his palm, frozen in front of him with a sort of cartoonish ‘oopsie’-face. Steam clouded the room while you watched from the doorway.

Mingyu’s eyes narrowed and when he spoke again, his voice was lowered in warning: “Jeonghan. We’ve talked about this. Put. The pizza. Down.” 

There was a moment of indifferent silence. Jeonghan contemplated.

Then he nodded, lips pursed and eyes cast down to the pizza.

“You know… I would.. But. Y/N, OPEN THE DOOR OR KNOCK HIM OUT!”

“WHAT?”

“OPEN THE DOOR.” 

You did. Apparently Mingyu hadn’t seen you, because he jumped at your voice behind him, body twisting to see you just in time for you to open the door and Jeonghan came scrambling out of it like a rat. You cannot believe you just aided this man’s crimes, you think, Mingyu’s expression of horror forever imprinted in your retina, before you followed suit. 

However bad Mingyu’s puppy expression made you feel, the rush of adrenaline as you bolted down the pavement under row after row of flowers and sunbeams brought forth something sinister and mean that had you giggling at your evil-doing. Jeonghan was laughing as well, and his genuine laugh was bright and bubbly and very unlike him. 

Mingyu sprung open the door behind you, yelling over your shoulders: “HOODLUMS! THIEVES! YOU’RE LUCKY I CAN’T LEAVE THIS SAUCE.” 

This made the both of you laugh even harder, disappearing behind another building, leading up to the chicken-fountain. You caught up to him, still holding the pizza in his open palms, now sweating and panting in between bright, heart-thrumming giggles. 

“I thought-” you panted, bending at your knees and warding away the image of the betrayed Mingyu. “I thought you said he let you do whatever he wanted.” 

“Yeah,” Jeonghan heaved, cheeks rosy and shiny, as he gently padded over to a bench with the pizza out like the plate in the hand of Oliver Twist. “That’s my bad. I forget he was 16 two years ago and has since then lost all respect for me.” 

This made you laugh. This had your eyes squinting closed and a deep, ringing laugh bouncing up your ribcage and your throat and exploding into the summertime. Eyes closed, you missed the way Jeonghan’s face lit up at that.

“That made you laugh? Self-deprecation?” he asked incredulously, but somehow amazed. 

“Oh,” you cried, opening your eyes and willing your laughter to calm. “I think it’s just the first time you haven’t been baselessly confident and cocky.” 

“Baseless?” Jeonghan echoed, face screwed in poorly-concealed glee.

“Yeah,” you nodded, face also screwed in poorly-concealed glee.

“What? Am I supposed to collect, like, fuckin’ data?” 

“Yeah, evidence.” 

“EVIDENCE?” 

You and Jeonghan went back to The Pirate Swing, splitting the pizza in the booth and every 45 minutes or so, letting guests on when they came by. He was still annoying and in all fairness he’d dragged you into his crimes against humanity. But. He was also a little funny and sweet. 

And the pizza did taste better than your packed lunch. _____________________________

Two days of normal work followed. 

There were too many people to really fuck around, so you and Jeonghan stayed in the booth, and you even managed to pressure him into telling you about the rest of the buttons, as well as the mechanics of the bigger machines. 

Everytime Jeonghan saw you he greeted you with “Hey titty-shirt!”, equally enthusiastic each time. Everytime the clock hands read 8 PM he pulled out his weed and began smoking. Everytime he began smoking he snaked a hand on the back of your leg where you stood (still no chair!) beside him, rubbing the flesh under his palm. You shooed him away half-heartedly, then felt guilty for not meaning it. Jeonghan was a sleazy piece of shit, but his hand was warm and felt nice on your thigh. You liked to tell yourself you were just lonely or something. 

“TITTY-SHIRT!” 

That Saturday you came walking into work, still wearing your shirt and your cap, and was immediately alerted to the fact that something was off; Jeonghan was ecstatic. 

He always had this front of joy and constant bemusement, but you’d learned to read how he yearned for his shift to end - you saw it sometimes when he gazed out of the windows of the booth, thinking you were surveying the kids. That day, he was happy. Genuinely. 

“TITTY-SHIRT!” he called again, causing a family of blonde children to turn their heads in dismay. He paid them no mind, rushing down the stairs with loud, trampling steps, to meet you at the foot of the platform, before you could even settle down in the booth. He grabbed your forearms in his hands and grinned at you childishly. You couldn’t help the small, bemused smile that parted your lips.

“Great fuckin’ news,” he said, “Belinda is fucking gone. M.I.A.”

“Okay?” you grimaced, unsure of what he was getting at. 

“Okay?! Do you know what this means?” 

“No, not particularly,” you mumbled. 

“This whole fuckin’ area,” he let go of your arms to motion vigorously to your part of the park. "Unsupervised. Unaccounted for.” 

“Okay?” 

“Okay?! This means we’re gonna go shoot the shit at the arcade, come on!” He threw a hand over his shoulder to gesture to the arcade area. You frowned and crossed your arms challengingly. 

“Shouldn’t we go take care of our coaster?” 

“Are you kidding me? If no one is working it, people just assume it’s shut down for maintenance. Come on, this only happens, like, twice a year!” He whined, stomping his worn-down Nike sneakers into the pavement and pouting at you. You hated to admit it made your facade melt like an overpriced ice-cream in the hand of a child. 

“Alright, but-” 

“Yes!” 

Without further nonsense, Jeonghan grabbed your hand in his, and began to once more drag you through the park. As you ran behind him, you looked at your interlocked hands and thought, briefly, that it wasn’t too bad to look at. And it felt kind of good. 

“What happened to Belinda?” 

“God knows, I think it was something with her kids.” 

“She has kids?!” 

You and Jeonghan messed around at the arcade - Jeonghan miraculously had been granted the keys to the arcade by Belinda (something about her trusting him?), and unlocked the machines and you played games with already-used coins. 

First was Whack-A-Mole, then the boxing game, then those motorcycle races, and then you played the basketball game.

“I’m gonna beat you!” you squealed, throwing a miniature basketball through the hoop with a small jump. You grinned in triumph when it landed right, punching the air like a dork and turning to him with victoriously glean. 

Jeonghan wasn’t even played, you realized. You’d been so caught up in actually landing the ball in the hoop that you’d managed to forgo the way Jeonghan leaned against his lane, eyes half lidded and shadowed under his cap. You turned to him, now much more aware that you’d been acting like a dork. 

“Uh, aren’t you gonna play?” you asked sheepishly, blushing. You wished you’d missed how Jeonghan’s lips quirked upwards at the sight. 

“No,” he sang, “I think I’m just gonna stay here and watch you play.” 

You narrowed your eyes, suspiciously, and that was all Jeonghan needed before he sighed and shrugged in defeat, like a criminal caught for his crimes.

“Sorry, I just like watching your tits bounce when you get all excited,” he deadpanned. Your mouth gaped open and crossed your arm over your chest.

“You’re so gross, Jeonghan!” you said, now thoroughly uninterested in playing anymore. Jeonghan only scoffed though, to which you snapped your head back to him with an outraged expression. He smiled at you in that cheeky son-of-a-bitch way. 

“Oh, don’t act like that,” he said cockily.

“Like what?”

He laughed, rolling his eyes, letting a small pause linger in the space between you. You hoped he couldn’t see the way your eyes twinkled with excitement every time he said something like this. As hot as he was, Jeonghan was a cocky, sleazy piece of shit and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

“Like you’re scandalized,” he said simply. You wanted to respond, wanted to defend your honor, but Jeonghan saw right through you, and he took one step forward to speak again: “Like you hate the way I talk to you. You act all innocent and nice and so uptight, but you know what?” 

He took daring steps forward, one after another, until you were half-sat on the basketball machine and he stood, looming over you, surprisingly menacing despite the get-up. The air seemed to suddenly thicken and warm, tasting foul in your mouth. Then he leaned in, eyes glimmering brilliantly with amusement and that evil smile on his lips, breath hitting yours. 

“I think you love being treated like a slut.” 

Fuck.

He was so close to you, body heat rolling into you. You knew he saw the mechanisms of your brain turning behind your eyes, saw the fear when you realized he had seen right through you, and he smiled, and he might as well have had fucking horns.

He tilted his head, and, fuck, if every angle of his face wasn’t perfect. It was unfair. It was so unfair. 

“I-I don’t-” your voice was a meek, half-hearted protest, cut off before you could even begin.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I think you do. You don’t just let any man massage your thigh, hm?” 

At those words, his hand dropped onto your thigh, finger digging into soft flesh. You mewled at the feeling, causing his grin to spread wider. 

“Oh, poor baby,” he pouted in fake-sympathy. “Am I making you wet?” 

“JEONGHAN!” 

Thank God for Kwon Soonyoung with the impeccable timing. 

Soonyoung was “the pool boy” - he did not work at the pools, but he was the victim of a dunking-machine that was set up in the summertime. Kids and adults alike paid to throw balls at a big, red button that would lower a trapdoor and dunk Soonyoung in ice-cold water. You’d seen it in action and it was pretty hilarious. 

At his voice, you and Jeonghan scrambled apart, his hand flying off your thigh and body twisting to back away from you, and you dropping off the machine and landing flat on your feet, blushing wildly and somewhat out of breath. 

Soonyoung, the poor boy, was sprinting through the park, stopping awkwardly where you and Jeonghan had been standing. He was out of breath and had a wild look in his eyes, like he was being chased by some supernatural monster. 

“Belinda is back! Get back to your coasters!” If he’d noticed your philandering he certainly didn’t mention it, breaking into a sprint again the second the words had left his lips. 

“Shit, thank you, Soonyoung!” Jeonghan yelled, receiving only a limp thumbs-up from the trackstar in response. Jeonghan grabbed your hand and the two of you ran back to The Pirate Swing as fast as your legs could take you. 

Your heart fluttered at your interlocked hands again, and you stared at them, focused on them, as the world became a blurred mess around you. His warmth streamed into you.

You couldn’t even look at him the rest of the shift. Something about his confrontation stirred a mimicking phenomenon in you. Did you want to fuck Jeonghan? You did, you realized, and thus you were unable to raise your gaze from the floor, pressing yourself against the wall to be far enough away from him, that he couldn’t touch your thigh again. He didn’t. He just let your cheeks blaze and pressed buttons and talked to kids, and he even waved at Belinda when she walked by, and she smiled wide and waved back. 

You went home at 9 PM, shirt too tight around your chest, and chest too tight around your heart. You simply couldn’t believe it, because not only did you want to fuck Jeonghan;

You had a fucking crush on him. _____________________________

Having a crush on Yoon Jeonghan was maybe the worst revelation you’d had in your life.

You’d kept all the things you admired about him hidden under the veil of your shirt; he was sleazy and gross and he smoked weed at work and had a certain disregard for child safety. But, and there was always a but, you realized, he was also witty and easy to talk to, and it was cute when he was happy or he got excited about something, and he was so damn charismatic, and you realized you would do anything to see him with that childlike joy again. 

The worst part was that Jeonghan did not like you back. In fact, you couldn’t even imagine him liking anyone. He thought you were hot and wanted to fuck and that was the end of it. All the ways you cared about him were unreciprocated. He did not care to see you happy. He did not care for the twinkle in your eyes when you were excited. He liked your tits in your shirt and was working his fingers up, day by day, to touch you. Yoon Jeonghan did not like you back. 

Three days of work passed, three days of being muted and awkward around him. Jeonghan’s shine was not dulled by your lack though. The kids loved him, Belinda loved him, and he didn’t love anyone back - just let himself be showered in admiration. He was greedy like that. He took all the love and gave none out.

On this particular day, all you did was lay in your bed before work, willing time to stop so you wouldn’t have to go. Legs flopped on top of your bedsheets, work shirt on and cap on your bedside. You waited.

You waited with a metal ball in your stomach, rolling around and causing a ruckus. It rested heavy there, rolling to and fro and grazing your heart from time to time, and it hurt. 

Maybe the reason it felt this bad was because you did it to yourself. Of course, Jeonghan wouldn’t like you back. He was Jeonghan. And yet, you’d had your guard down and his effortless charms had worked their way into your brain. You wondered how many girls had been in the same exact position as you; being graced with Jeonghan’s presence, being smitten by it, and now lying in bed, realizing the admiration would never be bounced back to them. 

You went to work. 

In the damn shirt, you walked in through the staff-door and journeyed towards The Pirate Swing. 

There were so many people that day, you could hardly believe your eyes. The queues were mile-long stretches, and every pathway was spotted with body after body, walls of families, crowds swarming like insects. It was enough to induce a slight panic. 

“It’s good that you’re here, Titty-shirt,” Jeonghan said, when you walked into the booth beside him. He had a bit of a wild look in his eye and he was chewing on a banana. You stood by the door of the booth, looking out at the queue - a genuine queue? To The Pirate Swing? - as the boat swung catastrophically behind you. “We’re fucking busy.” 

You hummed, then turned your head to him. He had sat down, seemingly exhausted and pouting a little. 

“You brought a packed lunch?” you asked, nodding towards the banana in his hand and he looked up at you. His cheeky smile made you want to die. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I stole this from Seungkwan,” he said and you laughed, and you hated that he made you laugh. The walls of the booth muffled the loud, indistinct buzz and shielded you from the chaos. The flimsy, windowed walls had never felt as intimate. 

“It’s gonna be a shitty day,” you declared ceremoniously. He grunted something in agreement, voice strangled by the now finished banana. Forever himself, he discarded the peel on the corner of the control panel, among his ziploc of weed and empty cans. 

It was a shitty day.

The constant swarming of people, crying children, the non-stop screech of rusted roller coaster tracks; everything brewed together into a pounding headache, as you and Jeonghan hunched together in the booth. Beads of sweat collected on your skin, where the unforgiving sun streamed through the windows. 

Around 8 PM you’d had just about enough. Your head was pounding, you were hungry, and most terribly you were sad. You were sad, sitting next to Jeonghan on the dirty, hard floor of the booth, and you could cry every time he said something snarky and lewd to you. He would never like you and you were a fool for ever letting yourself get attached. 

The day was constant work, constant talking to kids and putting on an energetic front. Finally the crowd seemed to thin out. Slowly but surely, the suburban families returned home and only a few people remained, and the night time glowed soft and warm. 

“Dude,” Jeonghan said, neck craned to look at his phone. With most of the guests gone, he’d finally gotten a chance to waste away on his phone, putting his mouth to his makeshift bong and smoking pot. You kept the booth-door open to let the smoke out. “Wanna go see a crowd of teenagers dunk Soonyoung? Junhui just texted me.” 

You were so tired. Every inch of your body yearned to relax where you sat, cross legged on the metal floor. With dark, sunken eyes and no courtesy left, you simply shook your head. 

“You sure?” he asked, eyebrows raised. You were just tired enough to miss the small frown on his lips. 

“I’m tired, you just go.” 

Jeonghan shrugged then and stood up. He left the bong on the floor and stepped over you to exit. 

“I’ll be back ASAP!” he yelled out, and you didn’t even try to look at him, to call something witty back. You just sat. 

And as if it weren’t the last thing you needed today, just thirty minutes before closing, a woman and her son strolled up The Pirate Swing. You saw them, eyes glazing with worry as you flickered your head to Jeonghan’s empty chair.

“We want a ride!” cawed the woman, holding her son by the hand. You scrambled to your feet, stuttering as you dusted off your pants. 

“Uh, I-” hopeful, you looked around, hoping to see Jeonghan and his long, poodle-y hair somewhere near. The pathways were deserted. “I-I actually can’t-” 

Not waiting for an explanation, the woman clucked once more: “You’re still open, aren’t ya?” 

You nodded, tiredness painted thick and greasy on your face. “Yes, we are, um, open, but I-” 

“Well, then give us a ride?!” 

This woman was going to be the death of you. Why were they even here now right before closing? You closed your eyes, collecting yourself and mustering each ounce of patience you had left. 

“I’m not allowed to because I’m new-” 

“Well, where is the operator? Why are you here if you don’t know how it works!” 

“He’s, uh,” your face fell, “He’s using the bathroom right no-” 

You’re not even sure why you lied. 

“Alright,” she huffed, strained and impatient. “Well, you just ruined me and my son’s night!” 

She tugged her blonde kid by the hand and began to turn around, grumbling with a red face. 

“I’m so sorry, but- it’s a matter of safety-” 

“Next time just say you don’t know how to do your job!” she yelled over her shoulder, mean glare coming out over her shapely glasses. Then she was jiggling away with a pouting child. 

Your mouth fell open in shock. A part of you wanted to be angry - a part of you was angry - but you found yourself weighed down and sliding down the wall of the booth with a much heavier feeling; you were exhausted. 

This was the last straw for tonight, you decided, resolve melting like a dropped ice cream. Booth door half-creaked open and weed vapor in the air, you buried your head in your hands and began to cry. It was small. It was not loud and sorrowful, it was small and petty. Nothing grand about crying on the dirty floor at your workplace. Sniffles and single, wet tears and a quivering lip, all dying out in the soft glow of the fairy light decorating the park.

“Y/n?” 

“Shit,” you lifted your head from your hands, wiping hard on your reddened cheeks. Jeonghan was standing in the open door, looking down at you on the floor.

“Sorry, uh-” 

“Why are you crying?” 

You paused, hands fiddling with the collar of your shirt and effectively covering your breasts. Your breath was shaky and snotty, eyelashes coated in tears. Red patches your skin around your puffy eyes, and your lips pressed into a thin line. 

Jeonghan did not look like himself when you looked up at him. It must have been a completely different person, you decided, because his features had  tightened and screwed into an expression you had never even seen a hint of before: concern. 

It looked so utterly foreign on his face - there was always a lightness to his expression, a joking, teasing look, but now he was frowning and his brows were furrowed and his eyes were big and red and round. It made  you feel small and frail. You didn’t like seeing him like that; unwell. But it seemed that feeling was mutual. 

“Um,” you began, voice hoarse and shuddering like a frail old fence-gate, that’s been slammed shut. “I’ve just had a shitty fucking day and- this woman came and wanted to ride and she was just so fucking mean when I told her I couldn’t..” 

Telling it all again made you feel so pathetic, it wracked another sob from you, hurdling past your lips. You caught it in your hand, pressing it to your mouth and squeezing your eyes shut up. 

God, you were pathetic. 

But your heavy, heavy eyelashes blinked open and you looked up to see Jeonghan’s expression softened into something else entirely;

Guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. 

“No, it’s fine-”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, now at your level and up close, so you could see every tensed muscle and every strain on his beautiful face. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he said solemnly and for the first time since you’d met him, Jeonghan was merely expressing his regret, not bartering for some sort of gain. His words were dripping with sincerity and it was so strange, you had to laugh.

“What?” he asked, a small grin growing on his face. That was more familiar. 

“I just- I’ve never seen you so serious, it’s okay, Jeonghan, I forgive you-” 

He broke into a laugh as well, rhythmic clucks dancing through the air from the booth, and it immediately cheered you up: he was beautiful and practically glowing, a small rim of light encapsulating him. 

“I’m very serious, I think,” he said. You rolled your puffy, old eyes. 

There was a significant pause. 

Your head lolled over and your gaze landed once more on the makeshift bong by the chair, now abandoned. It reminded you of how different you were. You tried too hard because you liked when people liked you, you were a hard worker, your shirt was too tight. Your shirt was too tight and that’s what had landed you in this situation. 

“Can I…” you trailed off, daring to look at him again. “Can I smoke some of your weed?” 

Jeonghan’s face was practically split in half the way he was smiling. There was something akin to triumph in his eyes, but it was almost fatally overpowered by sheer, bubbling, striking adoration. It made you blush. 

“Of course, babe, I thought you’d never ask,” he breathed, still smiling when he scrambled forward for the bong and stretched out his arm to finger at the control panel, finally feeling the soft plastic and snatching it down to the floor with you. 

“Just put your mouth to the can, baby, I’ll light it for you,” he giggled giddily, scrambling for the lighter in his pocket. 

“I know how it works,” you tried to sound stern, but you were smiling and your eyes were twinkling. 

Jeonghan messily pinched off a nugget of weed and placed it on the gridded holes in the can (which he had pricked with his work badge; “Hi, my name is Jeonghan!”), and you placed it to your mouth, while he held the lighter to it. 

“You’re so hardcore,” he said sarcastically, face close to yours as he flicked the lighter, sending a warm flame onto the can, so the nugget lit ablaze. 

“Shut up,” you said, and then you inhaled and the flame went out and turned into a glow, and warm, crisp smoke traveled down your throat, leaving it sore and burned. It felt great. 

You held it in for a moment, then exhaled, and Jeonghan watched eagerly as your chest rose and fell under the restricting fabric of your shirt. 

You and Jeonghan sat side by side for the last half hour, smoking together, eyes turning red and breaths turning sour and casting laughs into the night air. There was a warm buzz in your chest, a low drum, and you basked in the proximity to him, in how the heat of his body met yours in a fierce battle, at how he caught your eye when he joked, and how he smiled when you laughed. Your responsibilities melted away; your shirt felt looser. 

“We’re closing now,” you hummed after a while, somehow lighter and heavier at the same time. Your eyelids felt heavy and your cheeks were warm from giggling. Jeonghan placed his hand on your wrist, squeezing and tearing your eyes to his. 

“I have such a good idea right now,” he grinned lazily and you couldn't help but echo it. His eyes were red and half-lidded, and his voice was groggy from the smoke. He had run his hand through his hair one too many times and now it was puffier, poodlier than normal. He looked so handsome, you thought, studying the tan from many days in the sun. You figured he didn’t use sunscreen. 

“What is it?” you breathed.

“Come on, come with me!” 

Then the two of you were sneaking from building to building and giggling indiscreetly, two hunched silhouettes becoming one with the backs of buildings. Jeonghan insisted the two of you go to the toddler playground (Sunshine Dance Club, as it were called), because, in his words: “those dumb prick security guards never bother to actually check it”. He pulled you into the pastel green, red, blue, and yellow dreamscape, pulling you up a wooden tower, where you would be shielded by the railing. 

The two of you sat against the railing and waited while a security guard checked the place before closing. 

The mischief had made the two of you even more giggly, scratchy throats producing choppy snickering, as you leaned into each other on the wood, breathing in each other’s air. You liked being so close to him, you thought, and you were almost high enough to just spit it out. The distant stream of light overhead revealed his pores, but you liked those too. 

“Shut up, shut up,” Jeonghan whispered at one point. “I think he might be coming!”

“You’ve said that three times-” 

His hand clasped over your mouth and he fought not to laugh at the surprise in your eyes. Sure enough, this time he was right, as you heard booted footsteps in the distance, and the beam of a flashlight danced across the sloping and bouncing playground. 

You held your breath, not only because you feared, for the first time that night, getting caught, but also because Jeonghan had leaned so close to you, that you could see every stirred acrylic in his eye, every color of brown, swirly sundae. 

Both of you stopped laughing and stared at each other. 

His hand dropped from your lips. 

“I have cotton mouth,” he whispered, footsteps fading away. You couldn’t tell if it was the weed or what, but the air seemed thicker and you felt heavier, like imaginary hands were tugging you down. Jeonghan was no better - you couldn’t quite place the emotion on his glowing face. He almost seemed vulnerable.

“Me too,” you whispered, breathless. 

A pause.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, pink and plush.

“Can I kiss you?” 

You were almost bristling for a moment in pure surprise, before you recollected yourself and nodded eagerly.

“Yeah.” 

You thought his lips would smash into yours; you thought he would conquer you, because that would simply be the most Jeonghan-thing he could, to take what was his, to be cheeky and horny and sleazy.

To your utmost surprise, his hand was shaking when he lifted it, brushing so softly, so gently across the skin of your neck, resting on the back of it, cold from the icy, night breeze. His hand kissed the tips of your hair, and he gently slid it up, breath shaking, as he stared at your lips. Then he leaned in. 

His lips were soft like the bouncy castle on the edge of the playground, so impossibly gentle and flowing and warm. He breathed out shakily against your skin, eyes squeezed shut. Had you seen it, you would’ve almost believed that the kiss pained him, with the furrowed brows, but you didn’t, and it wasn’t painful at all, it was just that his heart was exploding and so was yours. Tender and slow, that was what it was, and you had never thought you’d use words like that to describe him.

A moment of entangled lips, slow making out and warm air covering your skin, his hand in your hair. The Sunshine Dance Club was filled with the sound of spit.

Then he pulled away, breath still shaking, but now, less vulnerable. His lips curled into a smile, spreading that childlike joy on his face. It made you smile as well. 

“That was-” he shook his head at himself, cringing. Then he restarted: “Can I show you something?” 

You chuckled, cheeks heavily flushed and eyes twinkling. “What is it?” 

The cheekiness returned to his eyes, as he scrambled to his feet: “A surprise.” 

And once again the two of you were giggling through the park, this time hand in hand, looking over your shoulders for the security guard that by this time had definitely gone home. The halted steps over the cobbled paths echoed in the dead, empty park. 

It would’ve been a strange feeling - seeing everything closed and dark and empty, every inch usually crammed with people strangely void - had you not been entirely consumed by Jeonghan’s presence. His hand in yours, his laugh, his starry eyes, his face softening when he looked at you.

Jeonghan led you into Belinda’s office (he had a key because he was her favorite, he said), allowing you to sit on the edge of her desk, while he sauntered off into an attached room. You sat there, overhead light dull and buzzing, and basked in the log cabin aesthetics. Your chest was warm.

Then, from beyond the other room, sounding much further away and thereby being much bigger than you had initially imagined the attached room to be, you heard the mechanical sound of several switches. They sounded heavy and important, having a sort of resonance that continued into your room, where Belinda’s desk chair was spun halfway. 

“Jeonghan?” you called, a twinge of worry in your voice. “What did you do?” 

He came jogging back into the office, all wide grinned and puffy-eyed. 

“You’ll see.” 

Once again he grabbed onto your hand, pulling you off the desk and barging out of the doorway.

The night air enveloped you completely, stealing you away from the warmth of the office, kissing your warm skin, as you stood on the cobble. The feeling was so great, you almost missed what Jeonghan had done.

It was beautiful. 

The switches had turned on the lights everywhere. In every color imaginable, illuminating dramatically sloping tracks in the distance, fairy lights on the pathways, signs re-lit, and the whole park before your eyes seemed to have become a disco-ball, sending faint streaks into the star-spotted sky like aurora borealis. 

You, now red and green and yellow and blue, let out a disbelieving laugh, smiling wide. You squeezed his hand, unable to communicate further. There was something about it that left you entirely speechless. It was an inability to overcome and conquer the lights before you - your eyes feasted on them much too eagerly. 

“What do you think?” 

Jeonghan was looking at you. 

“It’s-” you sucked in a breath, trying to compose a sudden sincerity you felt. You looked over at him. “It’s so pretty, Jeonghan. It’s really beautiful.” 

“I knew you would like it,” he murmured happily, body turned to yours. You turned to him as well. 

There was a moment of silence. The two of you basked in the light and in the gentle glow and the cool night, and in each other. 

“Thank you for cheering me up,” you said and pursed your lips. He smiled in a gentle way. It looked nice on him. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, “we were having fun.” 

The conversation lulled again, and while you turned your head back to the light show, the flickering lights and the ombre, Jeonghan continued looking at you. 

You felt his eyes on you, and you turned to him, shyly: “You should look at the beautiful lights.”

He shook his head, lips twisting upwards: “No.. Not right now…” And that was all he said.

The words left a bit of a void in you, like a black hole sunk in your stomach and you turned to him curiously. Jeonghan sensed your confusion, because he licked his lips and gave you a knowing smile, and then explained. 

“I wanna kiss you again, love.”

And his voice was so angelic, such a grave contrast to the boy you’d come to know, but he’d been so strange tonight. Your first kiss had been so tender, now he was looking at you and his pupils were dilated and a smirk spread across his face, and you needed to know something; just one thing, before you threw yourself at him, and gave to him, something you would not be able to take back. 

“Do you just wanna fuck me?” your voice echoed off the walls of the empty park, resounding accusingly. He laughed.

“Of course, I wanna fuck you, baby,” he laughed a little, shaking his head in disbelief. You stayed staring at him, bristling. “You’re hot as shit.” 

“No, I mean,” you paused, because suddenly your heart was climbing into your throat and it seemed like everything you’d worried about was true, that you were just another girl that was hexed by his charms. “Do you just wanna fuck me?” 

His smirk dropped. There was a moment where all you could hear was wind and the electrical whirring of the many, many lights, draining energy from the earth by the second. 

“Do you honestly think I’d do this for just any girl I wanted to fuck?” 

“I-”

“I thought you were smarter than that, N/n,” his lips spread once more in a smile, but this one seemed more fitting on his face - condescending and confident. Whatever vulnerability had hung in the air was replaced by warmer, thicker danger. Was it the weed making you feel this way? On edge or excited?

“I just-” you stammered, feeling bashful suddenly. Did that mean he liked you? Yes, that meant he liked you. You had truly not even considered the possibility, not really thought it through the way you had the negative outcome, so now you were standing and you didn’t know how to respond. A stuttering, blubbering mess of red cheeks and avoidant eyes. “I just- I thought you just- because you talk so much about my boobs-” 

“Shhhh,” he shushed you. The cocky motherfucker actually shushed you, staring you down in a way that made you feel like prey and taking two steps forward, and closing the gap between you. He was so, so close to you, chest inches away from yours and leaning his face down to tilt his head at you. 

“You’re so cute, baby,” he cooed, eyes dancing around your face. 

You and him watched it, as one lean hand lifted itself to your chest, tightly wrapped in polyester-fabric. You sucked in a breath. His fingers lightly grazed it, trailing over the soft plushness of it. Then he cupped it, experimentally, like feeling the weight of it in his hand. You whimpered pathetically. 

“Hm,” he hummed, ripping his gaze from your tits very briefly at the noise, “you sound so pretty.”

In an effort to steal more noises from your pretty lips, his delicate thumb rubbed over your nipple, watching it harden under the fabric with a bemused smirk. Your breathing became heavy and shaky. 

“Can we– please?” you whined, but he only tutted, watching the fat crook under his finger.

“Hang on, sweetheart, I’m having my fun,” he said, nonchalantly, another hand snaking up to your other tit. “Been waiting for this since the first time I saw you.”

You couldn’t help but whimper quietly, his caresses and his intense gaze sending electricity straight to your core. You fingers wrapped around his forearms where they flexed, as he kneaded your chest eagerly. 

“That’s right,” he whispered and leaned into you, eyes half lidded and lips wet from spit. “Be a good girl and let me play with your pretty titties.” 

Then he kissed you again, groaning into your mouth at the weight of your tits in his hands. His groping became more rough and hurried, as he bit your lip and slipped his tongue in your mouth. 

“Fuck, baby, need to get your shirt off, it’s so tight,” he groaned, licking into your mouth. You whined, back arching into his hand. “Poor baby, shirt so tight it’s strangling your pretty tits.” 

“Jeonghan, please!” You cried, putting one hand on his chest to push him away from you. He pulled away, lips red and swollen and cheeks delightfully flushed. 

“Okay, baby,” he whispered, comfortingly. “Okay, okay, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.” 

You could cry. The way he was touching you so intimately, but refusing to snake his hand down to your burning core, where you could feel yourself fucking dripping. Your body was on fire and your voice was hoarse from the weed that still coursed through your body. 

“Please, please,” you mumbled, and it was desperate enough that Jeonghan pulled his hands from your chest (which took more willpower than he was willing to admit), sliding them over your back and pulling you into him. You nosed into the crook of his neck, sighing happily. 

“Alright, baby,” He breathed, hand in your hair. You felt his neck crane, looking around. 

“Come with me, baby, I know just where to go.” 

You didn’t even have time to whine that you didn’t want to go anywhere, you wanted him to touch you. Jeonghan grabbed your hand and crossed the pathway, and you saw the yellow, lit-up sign for the funhouse before you disappeared into the entrance. 

The first room had a large circular hallway, and when you stepped onto the red plastic, it rolled a little. You and Jeonghan both stumbled rockily, and you nosedived into his chest. He laughed, steadying you with warm fingers on your waist. “Silly girl,” his voice cooed in your ear. 

“Jeonghan, please touch me-” 

“We’re almost there, baby,” he said, and he was being a little annoying, because he’d just played with your boobs and made you so fucking wet that your panties were sticking to your folds, and now he was trudging you through the hallways of a funhouse. You both skiddered out of the circular hallway with much trouble. 

The next room was slanted, and in your intoxicated mind, this was more than a challenge. The whole room was blue and your knuckles became celeste, as you gripped the slanted railing. 

“Jeonghan, I can’t-” 

Not another word out of your lips, before Jeonghan was scooping you up in his arms, walking with seemingly no problem through the room. “Shit!” you yelped when he did so, but he only smiled at you, a mixture of adoration and teasing. He ran with you, his bride, through a black and white doorway. 

The next room was the mirror maze, and Jeonghan’s face lit up at the sight of it. 

“We’re here!” he panted giddily, gently lowering you. You found your footing and looked around, a little speechless at how quickly he’d constructed this plan. There were at least 20 different angles of you, and you cringed at your own disheveled appearance and how your tiny shirt dug into your skin. A hall of reflection, the roof and flooring was pitch black and only you and him existed in the void, copycats at every corner.

You saw Jeonghan in the mirror, walking up behind you. He was smirking, planting his head on your shoulder and peering up at you, as his hands caressed your waist, riding up your shirt and exposing your stomach 20 times over. You hated to say it, but seeing his veiny, big hands on you made your breath hitch. 

“Was it not worth it, hmm?” he sang innocently, blinking at you with a bunched up cheek on your shoulder. His sleazy hands worked the fabric upwards, just under the impressive bump of your chest. 

His eyes flicked over to the most nearby mirror. Breath becoming shaky, his hands lifted the shirt, finally, over your chest, exposing your simple, black bra and the soft skin of your tits. You could breathe easier, without the fabric digging into your chest. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, soft hands immediately dipping inwards to touch over the skin. “Shit, you’re so perfect,” his voice was strangled, all composure gone as he looked at your chest with something akin to wonder. 

You moaned, feeling his dick, fully fucking hard from just playing with your soft mounds, grinding into your ass. Like a horny teenage boy, he moaned shakily, big hands covering your boobs and squeezing, and rutting into you from behind. As much as you wanted him to touch you, you couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of Jeonghan so utterly fucked out, using your body to pleasure himself. It was so erotic, the way his pretty face twisted in place and his fingers dug into the fat of your chest, panting into your neck. Then the sight untangled itself from your body.

“Sorry, sorry,” he was out of breath, removing his hips from your ass. “I got too caught up.” 

“It’s okay-”

He spun you around, pushing your body against the mirror. You stood back to back with your reflection. 

“No, it’s not,” he breathed, working your shirt the rest of the way off hastily. You lifted your arms to help the fabric off. 

You very barely registered Jeonghan snaking your pants off, and then his own clothes. You leaned your head on the mirror and you could finally breathe without the tight shirt, and you somehow felt stronger, not vulnerable like you would have expected. And when your eyes flicked to another mirror and you saw Jeonghan shirtless too, you realized the two of you were much more similar now. 

Jeonghan was standing in his boxers now, and you in your panties. 

“You know, I always thought you’d be more composed during sex,” you mused, returning your focus to him and smiling teasingly, because even now he was transfixed on your bare chest, heaving for air. Jeonghan scoffed, seemingly genuinely offended by this. 

“It’s not my fault your fat fucking rack has been staring at me through that tiny fucking shirt every day,” he spat, and in a sort of retaliation he cupped your pussy through your panties. 

Finally, he touched your cunt, and God, was it worth the wait, because it shot straight through your stomach, even the slightest touch on the cold, wet fabric. Jeonghan grinned cockily at the state of your underwear. 

“You’re one to talk,” he teased. “Your pussy is fucking weeping for me.” 

You moaned and your back twisted against the cold surface of the mirror, as Jeonghan slipped his finger upwards to circle your clit slowly. 

“N-ngh, fuck..” 

“There you go,” he said in fake sympathy, pouting, and even with his hand on your clit, you could almost believe it, because he just looked that angelic and pure. “Finally your greedy cunt has my hand, hm? Bet you’ve been thinking about this since we met.” 

He couldn’t help himself. He trailed his free up to your chest again. It just looked so delectable, unblemished skin, jiggling at every twitch and shake from you, and nipples hardened to pebbles. “I’ve been thinking about you since we met,” he sighed happily, pinching the nipples between his fingers and relishing in your strangled whine. 

Jeonghan slipped his hand in your panties, scoffing to himself at just how fucking wet you were, leaking from your hole like a slut, when his finger prodded at it. 

“P-Please, Jeonghan, please, fuck-” 

Your plea was cut off by Jeonghan’s hand gripping your throat. He smirked at your tortured expression, one hand circling your hole and the other wrapped around your neck, thumb climbing up your chin to rest on your lip.

“What do you want?” he tilted his head challengingly. You gulped, face flushed and baby hairs sticking to your sweat-gleamy face. 

“I-I want you to finger me,” you mustered, building up all the courage you could to hold eye contact with him and his lopsided grin. He raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. 

“Really?” he sang, “you want gross, sleazy, perverted Jeonghan’s fingers up your tight, pink pussy?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. Of course, all those moments of shaming him for thirsting over you. Now you were basically fucking naked, tits perked up from your arched back and writhing under him for just a single finger in your glistening hole. 

“Jeonghan, I’m sorry-” 

His thumb on your lip tugged downwards, effectively muffling your words and shushing you. He watched your pretty lip bend to the will of his thumb, humming. 

“Then say it,” he shrugged.

“Wha?” your speech was slurred by his heavy thumb.

“Say you want gross, sleazy, perverted Jeonghan’s fingers up your tight, pink pussy,” he repeated, acting exasperated, like it was your fault for not being able to keep up. Legs spread and utterly naked, you flushed and felt dumb, and you felt even dumber when you began to speak, and his thumb stayed where it was, weighing down your lip.

“I-I wan’ gross, sleazy, perverted Jeonghan’s fingers up my tight, pink pussy,” you slurred. Somehow the embarrassment translated into a wave of slick exciting your hole and landing on Jeonghan’s hand. He grinned at your obedience, hand pushing up so his thumb entered your mouth, pressing down on your tongue and the rest of his hand cradled your face. 

“Good girl,” he purred, head craned down to look at you, suckling his thumb with wide eyes. He finally heeded your request, two fingers pushing into your sopping heat. “Now suck on my thumb like the good, big-titted girl you fucking are while I make you cum.” 

He was immediately bullying his fingers in and out of you, curling them. Drool escaped where your lips wrapped around his thumb, as you moaned on it, feeling him poke and prod at your tongue with an evil smirk on his pretty face. You saw his dick print straining against his boxers in the corner of your vision.

“Been waiting for this pussy to be mine,” hummed Jeonghan, long eyelashes coming over his eyes when he looked down at you. “You know, if you’d been a little more cooperative I could’ve had my cock in you everyday for the past week.” 

You sobbed around his thumb, panting for air through your nose. His fingers felt so good, pistoning into you and so thin you could feel the bulge of each crooking knuckle churning in and out. His thumb sneaked back up to rub your clit again, and you clawed at his shoulders, trying to stabilize your suddenly shaking legs. 

Jeonghan let out the most erotic, guttural moan you’d ever heard, when he watched drool slip from your swollen, red lips and languidly ooze on your trembling chest. His face twisted in pleasure at the sight of them, becoming all shiny and slicked up from your own spit. 

“Fuck, you’re so pathetic. Can’t believe you’re fucking drooling all over your tits,” he spat, cheeks flushed as he leaned back to look at them, all pretty and slick and glowing under the maze’s fluorescent tubes. He slipped his thumb from your mouth to begin smearing the spit all over your skin. 

Your cunt pulsed around his fingers, clenching and unclenching as something in your belly tightened. You heaved for air, moaning loudly into the maze and practically crying. 

“F-Fuck, Hannie, f-feels s’ good!” you whined, chest thrashing under his needy hands. He lifted his gaze to smile at you, where he was crooked over to look closely at your spit-slick boobs. 

“I know, baby, I know. Cum on my fingers, now, m’kay?” He smiled cheekily, pressing especially hard on your clit. You saw white, orgasm so potent, you almost didn’t even register how Jeonghan dived into your chest, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples 

The wet, smacking of his lips and his pleased humming into the soft skin only spurred on your orgasm, as your cum coated Jeonghan’s fingers. His nose, buried in the flesh of your tit, breathed out a dam of warm air into it. 

His fingers stilled within you, slowly pulling out, while he continued to lap at your chest, warm tongue on your areola. You tried to catch your breath, but it was hard with how he moaned around your fucking tit, sucking and smacking his lips, while holding you to him. You cried out softly when he nibbled at it, to which he finally pulled away, smiling teasingly. 

There was something about the way he was so shameless about it, that almost made you feel even more ashamed, especially when you saw your form in the mirror, and how wet and red your boob was from his insistent sucking. You blushed deeply. 

“You gettin’ shy on me now?” he tapped your cheek, eyes twinkling. 

“Not used to seeing myself,” you mumbled sheepishly. Jeonghan’s ever lust-filled gaze was overtaken with a very deep, fundamental adoration. His smile became genuine - not teasing nor in feigned sympathy. Despite being the sexiest person he’d ever met, Jeonghan found you so severely cute in that moment, all heaved breaths and glossy lips and rosy cheeks.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, tapping your nose. The action would’ve been annoying were not entirely too fond of him at this moment. His eyes wandered, trailing down your collarbones and back to your cleavage. Then returned the lust: “Beautiful, pretty, gorgeous girl with big, bouncing fuckin’ tits.” 

His fascination with them was genuinely insane, but you thought he was pretty and sweet, so you let him marvel.

As if he could never get enough, he reached out one hand and cupped your tit again. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and let me fuck your pretty tits?” Jeonghan asked, experimentally pressing the mounds together and licking his lips at the sight. He had to swallow (and he would never admit this) because the idea actually had him salivating. 

“Yes, Hannie,” you said sweetly, because although you really wanted his dick inside you, he had that twinkle in his eye that made your heart burst, and, indeed, you would do anything to keep the starlight blazing in his pupils. Jeonghan looked up with raised brows - this time, the surprise was not feigned. Swiftly, he grabbed your head and kissed you, deeply and appreciatively licking into your mouth. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, rowing the two of you away from the mirror-wall with his tongue down your throat. “Good fucking girl.” 

He pulled away from you, frantically looking around, and you simply waited for his command. He began to crawl onto the floor, lying down on the hard, sleek black flooring, resting on his elbows. 

“C’mere,” was all he said, and you sat down on top of him, confused. He wantonly pushed you by your shoulder so you rested further down, while he lifted his hip to free his cock. 

It was long and right by your fucking face. 

Impossibly pretty and pink near the tip, it oozed sticky, white liquid, dripping down the veiny side, and now you were salivating, because you almost wanted to take it in your mouth and suck his soul out. 

“Shit,” he groaned, studying your face next to his hard, heavy dick with a tortured expression on his face. It seemed his thoughts had traveled the same road as yours, because when he spoke, he said: “There’s so much I wanna do to you, doll. Give me another couple shifts, I’ll have your cum all over the fucking park.” 

Without another word, he leaned forward and grabbed each of your tits, hovering just below where his dick extended out, proud and tall like a gothic church. You helped by crawling further over his tan body, lying down on your stomach with your chest raised up. 

Jeonghan enclosed your tits around his dick, breath shaking and eyes blinking shut. The sounds he released were angelic, wetting and rewetting his fiery lips, and he struggled to keep his eyes open from the pleasure. He didn’t want to close them though, because the sight of you was insane. 

You were so pretty, smiling in adoration where you laid between his legs. Prettiest girl in the world, he thought, just letting him bounce your fat tits up and down his shaft like a good, obedient girl. Your rack was like a fucking cloud around him, jerking him off and spurting pre-cum on the already slick skin. 

“S-Shit, you’re so fucking- pretty-” he stuttered, breath trembling and face flushed. From every angle he saw you, perfect, pretty, cute and sweet you. Every version of you in the mirror was perfect, he realized, every copycat a perfect picture. 

“You’re pretty,” you mused, wrapping your hand around the lower part of his shaft where your tits didn’t quite reach and squeezing it. Jeonghan moaned, stammering the breathy noise. He gulped then. 

“I-I’m gonna cum, shit-” he sucked in a harsh breath. He could not believe how lovely you were, how witty and funny and sweet and how big your fucking tits were bouncing up and down around his cock. “C-Can I cum on them, baby?” 

“Of course, Hannie,” you obeyed sweetly, watching how he desperately bucked his hips upwards. Squeezing your hand around the base of his cock, you let out a final admission to help him cum: “Want you to cum on my tits, Hannie, want it so bad.”

Sure enough, it was that easy, because without warning long ropes of thick, white cum spurted into the valley of your breasts and climbed up to your collarbones and neck. Jeonghan cried out when he came, eyes finally squeezing totally shut and hips stuttering into your chest. He sounded angelic, even with his voice hoarse from the weed and grunting. 

You let him calm down, waited until his pants turned into soft, regular breaths, and released his now flaccid cock from your cleavage. 

“Oh shit, baby,” he sighed happily. “Come up here.” 

You crawled up to his chest, curling into his open arms and feeling him under your cheek. Your legs entangled on the funhouse floor, mirrors a little foggy from the sweat and the sex. It was perfect, lying in his chest, having him, knowing he wanted you and liked you. Perfectly timeless, you draped over each other limply. 

Or almost perfect. 

You wiggled your hips away from his body, hoping then he wouldn’t notice how you were still leaking from your poor, puffy hole. Jeonghan frowned when you did so, though, both hands grabbing your waist and tilting his head down to look at you. 

“What is it, baby?” he asked.

You looked away bashfully, shaking your head, but Jeonghan gripped your face in one hand, just as condescending as his thumb had been earlier: “You’re covered in my cum, baby. You’re not getting shy on me now. Tell Hannie what’s troubling you.” 

His voice was stern. You tightened your lips the best you could with his hand squeezing your cheeks together.

“I just..” you were embarrassed again, with how your words became muffled and slurred by his flexed hand. He paid it no mind though, looking at you intently to continue. 

“YouweresoprettyearlierIgotwetagain.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. From beyond the dark void, you heard Jeonghan laughing. You opened your eyes and he removed his hand from your face, instead brushing it through your hair lovingly. 

You were gonna get whiplash with how lovingly he looked at you, how sweetly and with so much wonder and adoration; and how it stood in such a stark contrast to the words that left his mouth: 

“Baby, you just get up and bounce your fat tiddies around a little bit, I promise you, I’ll get hard in the next five fucking minutes. Then you can get my cock in your cute, greedy pussy. How’s that sound?”

Really fucking good.

[creatingblackcharacters]

Sorry to bother, I felt it was better to ask here than your main. Not to be so blunt but, what's your method for doing research? Done you have any advice for someone with adhd or attention span issues? I feel I've tried everything. i have adhd and struggle with studying and note taking, i can go on entire rabbit holes but retaining the information is a problem (even saving information, i have so many bookmarks and tabs but i don't remember for what lol), your lessons are very informative and has been helpful! you said your research takes a while but the end results are so well done. I want to do my own research for my own essays and personal projects, but this was something I always struggled with in HS... I'm no longer in school so the pressure of a deadline isn't entirely there anymore so I'm in no rush for a long answer! have a good rest of your day!

I feel like this gonna be a disappointing answer 😅 well, part of it really was just being taught how to take notes. When I was an 8th grader, I had a history teacher who said he would teach us to take notes by speaking them, and the most important things he'd say three times, but that's it. Not a PowerPoint, nothing. Dare I say it, I learned how to take outlines better and it has lasted me my entire life. (Granted I like history and I enjoyed listening to him talk bc his voice was pleasant)

But I also... Think in outlines, if that makes sense. It makes me less stressed than just a Mass of Information, when you break it down. So what I'll do is I'll start with random notes that fall under one topic on my phone. Then, as time goes on and I add more things, it sort of starts to break down into categories. Rather than keeping up the tabs (because tabs and notifications stress me TF out) I just save the URL under the category and move on. So I now know whatever this is, it falls under this point. I'll essentially organize "beginning", "points", "conclusion".

Once the outline gets too large (subjective, when I feel like I'm overwhelmed) I move it to a word doc and make it an actual outline. When I feel like it, I eventually go back and fill in the details, read the articles at hand. Thing about the articles is, you gotta be able to skim well. Not just skim quickly to say you read it; but to be able to say "out of all of this, this section here and here will strengthen my essay". I admit I do read fast though, but I also read multiple times. No need to rush- you're here to understand, not pass a test. So I might go "today, I want to focus on reading stuff within Category 2".

As for attention span issues, I deal with that by doing shit when I want, and also doing what little I can manage. Anything is better than zero. If all you can do that day is five minutes of review, so be it. Make it count. But I also am the type of person who will go from "five minutes every week" to "I'm at the computer obsessed for six hours" so that's probably not helpful 😅

If it helps, I've got a whole Masters degree. I've had to work hard and practice note taking and retention, via what works for me. You don't have to hold yourself to that strict of a standard for research that you enjoy, I just do what I'm used to from academia. Plus this is all stuff that I've lived- it's easy to retain information when it's literally your life, versus something wholly new.

[simmeradventures]

Boba Legacy Challenge (TS3)

I have taken a break from sims 3 and while I am still working on my lepacy, I sometimes need a break and so look for more challenges. @tomatosoupcat posted a Boba challenge and didn't see a TS3 version so decided to covert it. THIS IS NOT MY IDEA AND I MIGHT NOT BE THE ONLY ONE. I kept within the theme and didn't write a massive story to them but did try add a creative spin.

GOOGLE DOC!!!

Gen 1: Brown Sugar

Leaving home is tough, but you will always have mum's cooking to keep you safe.

Traits: Couch Potato, Natural Chef, Green Thumb (Randomise The Rest)

LTW: Bottomless Wine Cellar OR Master Chef

Career: Nectar Maker OR Culinary

Skills: Cooking, Gardening and Nectar making

Colours: Brown, White

Master LTW

Marry a sim with 2 matching traits.

Max out skills

Gen 2: Blueberry

The farm life was nice, but there's a great big world waiting for you.

Traits: Non-Committal, Loves The Outdoors (Randomise The Rest)

LTW: Seasoned traveller OR Grand Explorer

Career: Part-Time Jobs Or Skill Based Profession (after quitting business job)

Skills: Fitness or Martial Arts (or both if your fancy), Scuba diving

Colours: Blue. Purple

Reach level 3 of the business career before quitting to travel

have a one night stand on your travels

never marry

Travel until child is a young adult

Max skills

Gen 3: Matcha

You've seen the world, but now all you want is a career and a forever home...or mansion.

Traits: Ambitious, Snob, workaholic (Randomise The Rest)

Careers: Any (based on degree)

Skills: logic (plus whatever is related to the degree.)

Colours: Light green

Go to university and graduate

Befriend and date co-worker (either break up once you reach level 10 of career or get married.)

Go to the spa every weekend

Complete LTW

Max Career

Max Skills

Gen 4: Passionfruit Mango

All work and no play so pick up a guitar and play anything you want.

Traits: Socially Awkward, Family Oriented, virtuoso (Randomise The Rest)

LTW: One sim band OR Rockstar

Career: Music

Skills: Guitar, Bass, Drum, Piano

Colours: Yellow, Orange

Play instruments throughout childhood

Date and marry someone with the Avant Garde or artistic trait

Go on art dates (museums or a cute art café)

Complete Career

Max Skills

Gen 5: Sakura

You are a party girl, but also a lover girl.

Traits: Flirty, Family Oriented, Hopeless Romantic (Randomise The Rest)

LTW: Master Romancer OR Master Mixology OR Surrounded By Family

Career: FREE PASS

Skills: Mixology, Charisma

Colour: Pink

Have a high school BFF

Sign up for online dating and date 5 sims (and fail)

Marry BFF

Complete LTW

Gen 6: Dragon fruit

Who needs love when you could rule the world?!

Traits: Evil, Childish, Irresistible (Randomise The Rest.)

LTW: Heartbreaker OR Gold Digger OR Emperor of Evil

Career: Criminal

Skills: Charisma, Athletic

Colours: Dark Red, Purple

Marry a wealthy sim and have them get into a "tragic accident."

Have a negative relationship with children

Max career

Max Skills

Gen 7: Taro

Never give up on your dreams even if life throws a baby at you.

Traits: Genius, Cat person (Randomise The Rest.)

LTW: Scientific Specialist OR Become A Creature Robot Cross Breeder

Career: Based on LTW

Skills: Science, Handiness, Logic

Colours: Light Purple

Join after school club (idk if its a mod but there's a chess club, can add other ones through Nraas)

Go to university and drop out when pregnant (if not using mods or using mod that allows you to go to university in hometown then drop out and then get pregnant 

Work part-time till the baby is a toddler

Go back to university and graduate

Adopt a cat. 

Gen 8 Lychee

“You're always on that damn phone!” and “I hate normal people.” made a baby 

Traits: Unflirty, Loner (Randomise The Rest.)

LTW:  Blog Artist OR Forensic Specialist

Career: Based on LTW/ Free pass

Skills: Social Networking, Science

Colours: Pink, White

Have a plant sim

Max Skills

Max Career

Gen 9: Thai Tea

Sometimes it's good to look back. Spread the founder’s love of food! 

Traits: Adventurous, Perceptive (Randomise The Rest)

LTW: Star News Anchor OR Professional Author 

Career: Journalism OR Writer Profession

Skills: Writing, Photography, Cooking

Colours: Orange

Visit France, China and Egypt to collect recipes 

Throw dinner parties (once a season.)

Max Career

Max Skills

Gen 10: Sunset

Humans have been fun, but everyone knows the supernatural have the most fun.

Traits: Hopeless Romantic, Good  (Randomise The Rest)

LTW: Master Mysticism OR Resort Empire

Career: Based on LTW

Skills: Scuba Diving, Alchemy, Painting

Colours: Purple, Red, Orange

Fall in love and marry a supernatural (if you choose resort empire LTW then you have to marry a mermaid.)

Decorate home with your art.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 10 - Always On My Mind

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I'm only a girl, about to make Bucky Barnes drink boba.

Chapter Title from Good Days by SZA

Word Count: 13.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Things get better, and worse.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Read on A03!

You don’t want to look him in the eyes.

Bucky’s right there, all the time, and it’s so fucking hard to look him in the eyes.

He might see it. He will see it. When he says something in a slight Brooklyn accent—deep and rough and commanding—while looking at you with the I’ll pull you apart if you ask me to, Butterfly. See what you’re really made of, gaze.

Those things together are dangerous. His voice has been in the commanding tone a lot, and you don’t think he’s even doing it on purpose. Or maybe you’re just weaker to it. There is less of a fight in your body against him anymore. Less of a desire to win, and an entire shift in what constitutes winning.

It wouldn’t be Bucky leaving. Not anymore.

That’s part of the issue.

Because if he’s looking at you and seeing into you—just like he always does—while using his commanding, no room for argument tone, you might just fucking tell him. You might be rambling about nothing at all, and Bucky might say your name in the way that’s trying to get your attention, and you’ll fucking slip because none of your mastered control fucking works around him.

“Did you know there’s no such thing as a fish?” You’d asked him last week, lying flat on your back in your office, and Bucky had frowned over you.

“Of course there’s such thing as a fish. I saw one yesterday.”

“Where did you see a fish?”

“At the harbor- That’s not the point.” Bucky had leaned further forward, his tongue flicking slightly over his lips. 

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

It hadn’t been helping. 

“I think it is the point.” You’d hummed pretending to look at your nails so you don’t have to look at him. “Why were you at the harbor?”

“My therapist gave me homework.” 

“To go see fish?”

“To go see something bigger than me.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“It was supposed to remind me that in the grand scheme of things, we’re all just dots or something.” Bucky had been glaring at you, but it wasn’t for you. What Bucky glared at you for you, it made the fluttering part of you whine, and he looked like he wanted to eat you alive a little. 

This was just grumpy. Annoyed.

And you should’ve looked away. But Bucky had never told you about therapy before, and you didn’t want to fuck that up. Friends. He was your friend. And friends listen and talk to each other, looking each other in the eyes and not thinking about their friend grabbing them by the waist and pulling them up to their chest and kissing them stupid and breathless-

Friends don’t do that. 

You needed to stop doing that.

“That sounds like a stupid exercise.” You’d hummed. “We are all small, but the kind of too insignificant to create change mindset leads to lethargy and apathy.”

Bucky had raised his brows, and you’d given him a small smile.

“Laziness and-“

“I got apathy.” Bucky had shrugged. “Just needed the first one. And the Doc said that I’m supposed to let go of some guilt ‘cause of it.”

“Did you?”

“No. Just smelled like freakin’ fish for the rest of the afternoon.”

You’d giggled, and Bucky had blinked at you. And done the tongue thing again.

“You gonna elaborate on the fish aren’t real thing, Butterfly?”

“No.” You’d given him a wide, teasing grin. “Good use of elaborate.”

Nostril flare. “Thanks. Fish are real.”

“They’re not.”

“Kid, you say a lot of funny things-“

“Aw, you think I’m funny-“

“Yes. Shut up.” A heat had spread through your stomach at the sharpness of Bucky’s words. Like they were obvious. And he’d just kept fucking talking. “But fish aren’t real isn’t even a good joke.”

You’d shrugged, twirling your hair between your fingers. “It wasn’t a joke.”

Bucky had grunted your name, and your smile had hurt your cheeks. 

“There was this guy who studied fish all across the world, and he found out that there was no common denominator in what we call fish. It’s too broad a term for the ecological diversity. It would be like calling every single land animal a primate. It’s just inaccurate.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” You’d stuck your tongue out at him. “Told you.”

“Sometimes you just say shit, Butterfly.” He’d shrugged. “And you’re real good at selling it. That was your truth voice, but I wasn’t just going to buy fish aren’t real right off the bat.”

You’d frowned at him. “What’s my truth voice?”

Bucky had frowned, scanning over you with the I’ll pull you apart gaze again, and you could’ve fucking sworn his voice had dropped when he finally spoke. “You smile more.”

That wasn’t a voice thing. You’d wanted to argue that you smiled a lot anyway, but you didn’t, and this was why you weren’t supposed to look at him or know him in the first place.

But you hadn’t managed to agree. He’d sounded so sincere, and knowing that about you meant he’d been paying attention to you. And your smile. It made the raw part of you keen and settle so comfortably, and this was all getting very confusing, very fast.

But Bucky hadn’t seen it on your face, so you’d held his gaze. You could manage it. It was impossible and daunting and dangerous, but so it goes. You’ve survived worse than a crush.

Because that’s what this was. Is. Won’t stop being. Just a crush. 

And that’s fine.

You can’t control a crush. It’s a chemical reaction in your body to someone attractive, who you get along well with, and want intimacy with on a level a little above physical. And Bucky’s the first viable option since you met Miles—his skin isn’t sagging off his body, his teeth are all still in his mouth, he’s not a trust-fund prick who’s heard about your past and thinks he can do whatever he wants to you, and you don’t see him as a brother—so you’re going to be more susceptible to his charms.

Sort of charms.

Bucky doesn’t really have charms. 

Not normal ones.

“Why are you making that face.”

You’d frown at him from your desk a few days ago. “What.”

“You’re making a murder face.” Bucky had said, his arms crossed over his chest as he sat across from you. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. Only moving to the couch when you moved to the floor. “Who’s the sorry asshole of the other end of it?”

“There’s no idiot-“

“Yes, there is.”

“James-“

“You’re destroying the paper.”

You’d glanced down, and he’d been right. You’d been shredding some unimportant report, scattering and arranging the pieces over your desk in one of those weird patterns you couldn’t stop making. 

Bucky had given you a slightly smug look, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Who are we killing?”

You’d blinked at him. “We?”

He’d nodded, grinning at you from his eyes, and he was luring you. Baiting you into thinking about anything but the dumbass fuckhead lawyers you really needed to fire. 

You’d taken it.

And Bucky didn’t need normal charms. Normal charms were a hidden trap. One of those baited bear-traps, hidden until the promise of something sweet and a lot of colorful leaves. Normal charms had gotten you on the leash you had now. Bucky’s charms told you exactly what he was trying to do, because there was no Show. From either of you. Ever.

That was where the crush had to come from. You’re growing attached to Bucky because you don’t have to preform for him. And his job is to protect you—even if he hasn’t actually done that yet—so it gives you a sense of security that you haven’t had in a while. And he’s so handsome it makes you a little dizzy, and he only does that tongue thing more and more, and he pays a lot of attention to you because you’re together all the time.

It’s the perfect storm for a crush. 

But that’s all it is. All it will get to be.

You can’t leave Miles. That’s just a blanket, obvious statement that should be a kill switch—you can’t leave Miles, so there’s no future with Bucky—but only seems to make the crush grow, because now you’re getting pathetic little fantasies about Bucky saving you. About him looking on those stupid cameras and seeing a worse night, then bursting through the door and carrying you to safety.  

That won’t happen. Bucky doesn’t care about you that much—nobody who can see you could—so it’s just a fantasy. A really, really dangerous fantasy. 

And you don’t need Bucky to save you. You’ve survived this long by yourself. And you can’t be saved, because this isn’t like Tony on the balcony, offering you an escape from the wilderness life had dropped you into. You were the idiot. You gave Miles the bond. Nobody gets to save you, because that’s just not how this fucking works.

So you had to come up with other reasons for the crush to die. 

Bucky’s doesn’t want you like that, is a big one. He couldn’t. You’re you and he can see it, plus he knows who you were, and nobody ever reallywants you when they learn that. Bucky might not have minded it as your friend, but as more is a different story.

You’re damaged goods.

He won’t want that.

You want him to want that. If he wanted that, you might melt about it. But he won’t. So the crush has to die.

It won’t. No matter how many reasons you give it—he’s Sam’s friend, he doesn’t even know about the bond, there’s no future there, he didn’t even like you until last month, let alone want you, he can see you and that’s dangerous—the crush just keeps rooting deeper and deeper into your body, twining over all your nerves and blooming up your spine with the Mist.

At least you know. Now that you know, you can adapt, and keep moving.

You can find just the right amount of cover for Bucky to never see the slight flush you’ve developed whenever he looks at you, or the sheer levels of ditzy your smile reaches under his attention. You just have to start giggling more, at whatever you hear. And smiling like a dummy at other people. And leaning your body closer towards random co-workers, even if they’re not the perfect kind of warm like Bucky is. 

You’ll need be careful of keeping it as a crush, though. A crush will fade, and then you’ll get to have a friend. You really want a friend. You haven’t really had a friend since Tony, and he’s incredibly dead.

And Sam doesn’t count. Sam’s a brother, a pseudo-uncle. There’s no world where you lose your relationship with Sam, because if he was going to be sick of you, it would’ve happened a long fucking time ago. You’ve given Sam an uncountable amount of reasons to tell you to fuck off, the least of which was being friends with Tony.

But Sam’s family.

So he stayed.

Friends are different, though. You think.

You don’t have enough experience in the field to say for sure. Your only benchmark wasn’t exactly an average friend experience.

But you talked to Tony about—almost—everything. Just like you’ve been talking to Bucky. And friends do things for each other. And spend lots of time together. And know a lot of things about each other.

Tony knew about your family. And your childhood, and your past.

The only thing he didn’t know about was the bond. He would’ve tried to fix it, not understand that it is the fix. You’re the overloaded, unbearable thing, and the bond keeps you in check. Tony would’ve said that was dumb, and started looking for ways to remove it. Then he would’ve called you an idiot for giving it to Miles—Tony had never liked Miles, calling him Satan’s Little Helper even before the long nights on the bathroom floor started and the bruises began to gather—but still helped you all the same. That’s what friendship Tony had been. Both of you being too much, all the time, almost in a competition to see who could break the other first.

You’d made Tony watch sweeter, happier things, just like you were doing with Bucky. Your logic had been you have a daughter now, Tony, you can’t make her watch John Wick. And he’d listened to you, because Tony always listened to you. Pepper had once compared you to two little dogs, running in circles and sniffing each other’s butts, trying to out dog the other all the time.

Bucky’s not like that. He’s more along the lines of a bigger, better-trained dog that never barks, and only bites. Just sitting and watching you chase your own tail with vague amusement on his features. When you’d talked to Tony, it had been a sparring match. 

Talking to Bucky had become more like a dance. Everything flows, and you have to move with him. Not faster or louder. Even if you’re doing most of the talking, Bucky’s good at finding the right places to jump in and take over.

And Bucky’s really far from being Tony. In a lot of ways. You have to explain a lot more things to Bucky, but he never counters it with something he knew. Bucky just absorbs your words and stares at you with an expression you can’t really read. You could always read Tony’s expressions. He was horrible at hiding them, and worse at pretending he was hiding them.

And you’d never looked at Tony and wanted to know everything about him, but maybe just because he told you everything.

You’d never wanted to tell Tony everything about you, because the things you kept hidden were for everyone’s sake.

You never dreamed of Tony saving you. You were terrified of it. 

You didn’t want to be his problem.

But you want to be Bucky’s problem. You are Bucky’s problem. You’ve already made his life impossibly complicated. And if he saved you—which he won’t, and you’ll only entertain the thought on the longest and darkest of nights, when there’s no one around to see—you think he’d do it right. You have no proof of that, just like you have no proof that he’d want to save you at all, but you just think he would.

There had never been that same instinct with Tony.

You’d never had vivid sex dreams about Tony, either.

And Tony had never looked at you and ignited a part of you that hadn’t existed before.

Maybe that’s just a Bucky thing. Maybe whenever he looks at Sam, there’s just a little piece of him that flutters and blossoms under Bucky’s gaze. And the same thing happens to Sarah, and they just never warned you about it.

That’s probably not the case.

It doesn’t help that you’ve never really seen Sam and Bucky be friends, so you can’t tell if this is how Bucky is with all his friends—all two of them, which is still better numbers than you have—or he’s just like this with you.

If he’s only like this with you, you’re not allowed to read into that. Or think about it. Or let it bloom and grow into something like hope, because this crush needs to wither and decay as fast as possible, or a lot of things will be in danger.

But Bucky’s not making that easy.

Of course he fucking isn’t.

“Chinese or Mexican?” 

You frown at him, sitting across the desk, his attention on his phone. “What?”

“For lunch.” He mutters, glowering at the screen. “Why are there so many fucking choices?”

“Because we live in a city. Hold on, Buck, I need to pull up the website-“

“No.” He looks up at you with a firm, almost violent gaze of determination. “I’ve got it.”

“You’ve…” You pull your lip between your teeth, scanning over him carefully. His whole body is tensed, like he’s about to try and jump on a grenade. “Got it.”

“Yes. I do.”

You raise your brows. “Convincing.”

“Shut up.” His glare falls back to his phone. “What’s boba.”

“It’s a type of tea. With little balls in it.”

“Little balls-“

“They’re called tapioca.” You shrug. “You’d hate them. They’re kinda gooey.”

Bucky pauses, looking between you and the phone with another unreadable expression. “Do you like them?”

“Yeah, but-“

“They have chicken too.” He mutters, and it’s his low, mostly to himself tone. “I can eat chicken.”

“Congratulations on that, but-“

“You like red meat more.”

You blink at him, and the fluttering part of you is going haywire. You have to bite you cheek to get your thoughts back together from a haze of his attention, the Mist rising so fast up your spine you feel a little dizzy. “Yeah. I do.”

“Is calamari a red meat?” Bucky frowns slightly. “Nah, it’s a fish. Worked that one out myself.”

He licks his lips again, and gives you an almost proud expression.

There’s the better trained dog. The Doberman, asking you for a treat. 

“Good job.” You try to make your voice a dry, sarcastic drawl. If Bucky hears the nervous breathiness, it doesn’t show.  “James.”

He grunts, his attention back on the phone, and you take a long, deep breath.

“You’re not gonna like boba tea-“

“We’ll see. How about- They’ve got like a sausage and cheese sandwich thing. You want that?”

“Yes, please. But- What about the Jell-o, I told you you’d hate that and you did-“

“Technically you said Jell-o is shit, James, don’t eat it.” He shoots you an amused look. It’s not helping. “It did taste like shit. I shoulda listened.”

Jesus Christ. “But- Listen now, Bucky, you won’t like it-“

“You like it.” He shrugs. It’s too casual a movement, and it’s spreading a fuzzy feeling over all your nerves. “So far you’ve been a pretty solid authority on good things, Butterfly. And if I hate it, you can say told you so. Not that complicated.”

Not that complicated. Friends trust each other’s opinions and tastes, so it’s not that complicated.

Nobody really trusts you like that, and Sam’s told you that Bucky never trusts other people like that, but it’s just not that complicated.

But the Mist doesn’t seem to get the memo. It just keeps rising. 

You were right. Bucky hates the boba. One little tapioca shoots up the straw and into his mouth, and he spits it out like it was poison.

“Fuckin’- What the hell was that?”

“Boba.” You hum, grinning at him from around your own straw. “Can I say told you so?”

Bucky snorts. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart-“

“Told you so.” You reach out one hand. “Gimme.”

Bucky blinks. “I was just gonna trash it-“

“Don’t.” You flex your fingers with a pointed look, and Bucky passes you his cup with a sigh.

You give him a small smile, swapping the straws in your cups and sliding your previous boba back across the desk.

He doesn’t take it. “What are you doing.”

“I’m giving you that one.” 

“It’s the damn same drink.”

“Wrong.” You shrug. You’d been ready for this. You’d known he’d hate the tapioca, but he’d gone out of his way to order lunch for you, and you wanted him to do it again. “Those,” you nod to the cup, Bucky still eyeing it wearily. “Are popping boba. They taste like strawberry.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Strawberry.”

“Yep. Try it.”

He doesn’t move, and you sigh.

“C’mon, James. Trust me.”

That works to well. Bucky grabs the cup with a cautious hand, gives you an odd look, and takes a slow sip.

His eyes widen when the popping boba hits his mouth. 

But he doesn’t spit it out.

You won.

He likes it.

You knew he’d like it. You’d ordered it because you’d been so fucking certain Bucky would like the lighter, softer flavor of the popping boba, and the gentle sensation is always calming, and you were right.

A new game starts, after that. It’s maybe more crucial than the first one, because the first one was all biting and mauling each other for the sake of the Show. The first one, the prize was you get to keep going, alone, just as it’s supposed to be.

This game has no prize. And you’d really fucking lost the first game, because you’re never alone anymore. Bucky’s everywhere. He’s with you every waking moment, sitting on your couch or across your desk or fucking looking at you. Always looking at you, and you can’t ask him to stop, or you’ll have to explain why.

You don’t want to say why.

Nothing good can come of telling Bucky that you can feel it when he’s watching, and that does odd things to your body. And that now you think of him whenever you look at your bookshelf, and a vague thought of would Bucky like that crosses over your head. He’s there—in your head, which is far more concerning than out of it—whenever you eat good food, and want to share it with him to see that rare smile. When you trip and almost don’t steady yourself, because you’ve gotten so used to Bucky catching you. Whenever you do an orange coded, boring and horrible meeting, and you wish he was there to tell you that you didn’t have to.

Whenever Miles reminds you that you’re not the type of girl that gets to say no, honey, and you can almost see Bucky’s silver-blue eyes on yours, his voice in your ear say that shit’s not your fault either.

He’s fucking everywhere, so there needs to be a new game. And there’s no Show to be found, in this one. It’s just a game for the sake of playing.

And Bucky’s a really good playmate. 

It starts after the boba. The next day, Bucky drives you to work—just as always—and follows you into your office with only his usual small nod to Grace. Then he’s standing up with his phone in hand, and you frown at him from across the desk.

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.” He grunts, and you tilt your head at him.

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s my building, I’m allowed to worry about it.”

“Well, stop worrying about it.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being weird.”

He shrugs it off. “I’m always weird.”

“No. Not like this. What’s downstairs.”

“I said-“

“I heard you. I’m not accepting your answer.”

Bucky raises his brows. “Not accepting it.”

“Nope.” Your arms fold over your chest, and you raise your chin as you hold his gaze. “And you’re not supposed to leave me alone anyway. What if Hydra comes?”

“Hydra won’t come.”

“But they might.”

Bucky sighs your name, glancing down at his phone. “I gotta go-“

“Get something?” You shrug at his tight nod, turning back to your computer. “I’ll send Grace down to get it.”

Bucky pauses. “Your assistant.”

“Yep. Just tell me what she needs to look for-“

“I’ll tell her.” Bucky snaps, whipping around and almost stomping to the door, muttering low words to Grace that you—apparently—don’t get to hear. 

“Is it a secret bomb?” You ask as he returns inside. “Are you finally trying to kill me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d just do it. Wouldn’t need a secret bomb.” He pauses, a small frown on his face. “But I won’t. I don’t want to kill you.”

You feel a like you’re floating, because Bucky said that like it was really important for you to understand. Like you might have spat in his face or tossed him out just for his joke.

And he’s just staring at you, standing tall before the desk with his shoulder thrown back, rather than dropping into his seat. You can’t tell if he’s waiting for permission. He shouldn’t be. You’re not his boss. 

You still offer him a small smile, and tilt your head slightly. “Aw. I don’t want to kill you either.”

That was the right thing. Bucky’s shoulders relax, and a smile twitches on his face. “You couldn’t if you tried, Butterfly.”

“I think I could.” You shrug. “I’m tricky, Buck. Fast and wily.”

“I’m fast and wily. You’re overconfident.”

“I am not.” You pout at him, and his nostrils flare. “And confidence is half the battle.”

“Not the winning half. The winning half is bullets and skill.”

“If you’re not confident enough, yeah.” You shrug. “When Hydra comes, I just have to convince them they can’t take me.”

He snorts. “As much as I’d like to see you try that, I don’t think it would end in your favor.”

“That’s loser talk, Sargent. You think I wouldn’t win?”

“I think,” Bucky’s voice is slow, and his gaze is driving right into your ribs. “That if I threw you into the jungle for a week, I’d come back to monkeys braiding your hair and the birds brinin’ you water.”

“Oh.” You frown, turning over the words in your head. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky gives you another odd look. “You know how to punch, kid?”

“Yes.” Your answer is too quick. Bucky hears it—of course her does, asshole—and gives you a pointed look with those fucking eyes. You crack under nothing but the Mist. “No.”

He grins. “That’s what I thought. We’ll fix that.”

Before you can ask, there’s a knock on the door. The quick double knock that means it’s Grace, and no one else.

“Mr. Barnes?” Her head pokes in, and Bucky draws back to his full height in half a second, his features becoming somehow more unreadable. You’re not sure what just happened. 

“Did you get it?” He asks, walking back across the room, and Grace gives a small, nervous nod.

She keeps looking at you. Like you’re supposed to know what’s happening.

You don’t.

“Good. Thanks-“ Bucky pauses, and Grace looks like a deer in headlight. “Grace.”

“You’re welcome.” She whispers, shooting you another look, and then she’s gone.

“Bucky, what-“

“Coffee.” He cuts you off with a grunt, and when you turn, that’s really all it is.

Bucky’s holding coffee. 

Fancy coffee. The kind that they put little leaves in, that’s never worth the price.

You always buy the coffee when you were buying for Grace. She deserves it. And because of that, you have your own order.

The order in Bucky’s hands.

“Did you get Grace some too?” You blurt before you can think better, and something strange flashes over Bucky’s face.

He’s back in the eased form. Where he’s looking down at you with an almost unnoticeable smile that starts into his eyes.

You wish you knew what it meant.

“Yes.” He thrust your cup forward. “Here.”

This is so stupid. It’s just coffee. 

The right coffee. That Bucky got for you.

Unprompted.

For you.

“Thank you.” You whisper, trying to keep your voice even, even as the Mist rises up and up and up your spine. 

His grin grows. Spreads over his face like some sort of beautiful, blossoming vine that just reaches everywhere. Even his hair looks softer. 

His chest puffs a little bit out. Like he’s proud.

Like he won.

He’d known. He’d known that you’d gotten the popping boba just for him. 

He has to have known. Bucky must have figured it out, and this is his payback.

But he doesn’t get to have the last word.

So the game begins.

You order next. Sandwiches for lunch, but not because that’s the goal. The sandwiches are a cover for the desserts.

“What’s that.” Bucky points to the paper cup-holder, and you grin at him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a milkshake. Didn’t they have like, soda shops in your day?”

“Yeah, but I was poor, sweetheart. And Steve and I spent all our money on Coney Island.”

“Did they not have milkshakes there?”

He rolls his eyes. “Smart mouth, Butterfly.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, and you get lucky. Bucky’s too busy staring at the milkshake to see your flush.

“Why is it pink.”

“Because it’s mystery flavor.” You hum, rolling your own straw around its plastic cup. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“You’re no fun-“

“Butterfly-“

It’s not good how you’re just responding to that now. 

How you expect it.

“Bucky.” You grin back at him, lowering your tone to match his, and he scowls. “It’ll be good. Try it.”

“Tell me what it is-“

“Cotton candy.”

Bucky blinks. “In a milkshake.”

“Yep.”

“Why.”

“We’ve got all kinds of flavors now, Sergeant Barnes.” You lean back in your chair, your gaze still trapped on Bucky’s as you hold up your fingers, and start to count. “Neapolitan. Banana. Peppermint. Peppermint stick. Brown Cow. Rocky Road. Banana split. Blueberry. Hawk-chock. Mango. Hulknana-foster. Stark Strawberry. Regular strawberry. Purple cow.”

Bucky gives another look. It’s firm, but not angry or annoyed. There’s something soft under it that you really want to see more of, and casts the Mist out over your spine.

You’re a little dizzy from it.

“You done?”

“Yeah.” Your grin doesn’t waver, and the look on Bucky’s face grows. “Which one of those do you think was fake?”

Bucky’s brow draws together, his tongue flicking out over his lips as he thinks. “Purple cow.”

“Close. Brown cow. And Hawk-chock. That was a failed Hawkeye brand pitch.”

Bucky raises his brows. “Too close to cock?”

“Too close to cock.”

He chuckles, and takes the milkshake. 

He likes it. 

You win that one.

But Bucky wins the next one. He orders lunch from the diner a few blocks down, and gets you a burger.

“How’d you-“

“’S what you got after the play.” He grumbles, pushing the container forward, and you swallow.

“Oh.”

It’s all you could manage. 

He’s really been paying attention.

Of course he had. He’s Bucky.

You up him the next day with the correct sushi order. He ups you with Indian food, and ordering himself something new. With the ten flaming peppers from the menu. And he lets you watch while he tries it, and grins at you when he barely even flinches.

“How-“

“I told you. Wakanda.” He pauses, and you know this Look now. Drawn brows and no blinks, but no anger either. He’s really, deeply thinking, because Bucky seems to think a lot. “They’d like you.”

This Mist rises. “Cool.”

“You’d like them, too. Like it there. They’ve got a whole lotta books.”

“Could I read them?”

“No.” He shrugs. “But you’d figure it out.”

You would. You always figured it out.

It does something to your skin and gut—something tingly and hot and molten—that Bucky knows that too.

You make him try a big, fancy cookie. And an acai bowl. And ramen noodles, that you buy from the corner store and teach him how to heat in the microwave. You’re on a roll.

The Bucky brings you lunch. 

That he picked up. 

From the deli by his apartment. Like you fucking mean something. Mean enough to stand in a deli for, when he can’t even handle the subway.

It makes your crush worse.

All of this is making your crush so much fucking worse. Bucky’s being nicer and nicer to Grace, and that makes something in you glow because people always look her over.

She mentions her dog to Bucky one morning, and now he asks about it every morning. Then he’ll ask about the Boy, and you’d be suspicious for why he’s not pushing for the Boy’s name anymore, but you’re too busy staring at his muscles flexing as he opens the door to your office. He’s still opening the door to your office, and you’re going to go fucking insane. 

You almost lose all together—your mind and this new game—when you climb into your car next week, and Bucky passes you stickers. Lots of stickers. Of dragons and cats and flowers and a disco ball. There’s a little Captain America shield, and a Death Star, and-

“What’s that?”

Bucky glances at you as he starts the car. “Lightsaber-“

“No, this one.” You hold up a little Sky Bison. “This is from Avatar.”

“I know.”

You raise your brows. “Did you watch Avatar.”

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

He nods, and you think this smile is going to be etched onto your face forever.

“All of it?”

“The first two seasons so far.” He grumbles, like he’s just as angry about this as you are thrilled. “They’re relaxing.”

You hum, settling fully into your seat, and Bucky shoots you a Look.

Furrowed brows. Three blinks.

This one means confused.

“You gonna say it?”

You give him a perfectly innocent smile. “Say what?”

“The thing.”

“What thing?”

“The-“ He scowls, glaring out at the road. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do.” You hum, turning another sticker between your fingers. “But if we’re both thinking it, and we both know it, I don’t have to say it.”

That’s how you, against all reason, win that round. Even though Bucky opened a new door where things—not just food—are allowed, you win.

And you hold the lead. You order the next round, plus you get Bucky a traveling mug. A stainless steel, solid mug.

“Look.” You pretend to throw it, grinning at him the whole time. “You can take someone out from fifty feet.”

“Fifty feet?” 

“Yeah.”

He gives you a vaguely amused look. “That’s pretty far, Butterfly.”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “I’m not good at distances. It’s to hold your coffee. You can even put it in your stupid backpack.”

“Hey.” Bucky gives you a mockingly firm tone. It still creates the fuzzy feeling. Maybe hotter. “I like my backpack. It’s reliable.”

“And so,” you hold up the mug. “Is this.”

He rolls his eyes, but takes the mug.

You get more paper, the next day. 

“You shredded it all,” he mutters as he shoves it into your hands, and you had. And he gets you another lunch from the deli, because he seems to have noticed you like it. 

But you’re still winning.

You keep winning. And this is a fun game to play.

Your nights are still long. Miles still lingers like a poisoned fog whenever Bucky drops you off at night, and you still have to draw the Show together before you walk through the door.

But the days are good.

You’re doing your job, and being useful, and it’s not like wading through a swamp. You smile when you see Bucky in the garage, and he smiles back, and then it’s like a lighthouse through the day. Bucky’s there. He’ll be there. He’s becoming a given, and that’s dangerous, and you don’t care because it makes the Show easier.

You get breaks from it. You can smile and drawl at all the suits without worry, because later you’ll joke with Bucky behind the door. You can drift through all the meetings, and go through all the motions, and lie below Miles in bed with your gaze fixed on the ceiling, and occupy your brain with more important things like Bucky.

Far too much time in your mind, dedicated to Bucky.

There have been more dreams. 

A lot more dreams. 

“Look so fuckin’ gorgeous.” Bucky groans your name above you, and you can’t stop the whine that escapes your throat.

Your mouth is stuffed with his cock. And his flesh hand is tangled in your hair, the touch soothing as he guides you up and down, letting your nose bump his abdomen before pulling you almost fully off, letting you slightly lick the tip-

“Jesus, babydoll, you’re so-“ When your eyes flutter up, Bucky looks as wrecked as he sounds.

You moan around him, starting to grind onto the air as you double your efforts—swallowing and sucking on him, letting yourself choke on his dick as one hand traces up his muscles thigh to play with his balls—and Bucky hisses.

“Fucking hell, just like that, so fucking good, such a good girl-“

You squeak, and Bucky’s chuckle seems to echo around the whole universe.

“I know, Butterfly, soon. I’ll make you cum all over me, soon as I- Shit-“

He pulls out without warning, spraying his cum all over your face, and when he comes down, he’s looking at you with another-

It’s not unreadable. Somewhere in the back of your addled brain, you know that’s Bucky’s love-face. Slightly pouting lips and flaring nostrils and his tongue flicking out, because he’s told you he doesn’t want to ever be anywhere good but you.

You think he’s told you that. You don’t know how, or when. Just that it makes you feel a little fucking irreplaceable and entirely happy, and the Mist is building and slowing down all at once.

You wish you could remember.

But right now all that’s really in focus is Bucky, smearing his cum over your cheek with a thumb, before pressing that same thumb between your lips for you to suck. 

He groans your name as you do, and he says it like a song. A war drum. Something that he’s shouted from the pews of a church.

You smile up at him. 

And it’s all so good.

Your eyes shoot open, and your skin is stuck to the slightly cracked tile of the bathroom floor. Papers scattered around you, the boy asleep in the soft light coming through the window.

The dreams are vivid. Strangely vivid. And the Mist is always right at the base of your skull when you wake up.

But they’re not only sex dreams.

They’re starting to be something close to domestic. A false waking, where you’re in a bed, and your eyes flutter open with long breaths instead of darting open and thrashing like a feral, trapped animal. Or another lunch, but Bucky’s just there to give you food and eat with you, and then he kisses you on the brow and leaves, and there’s a picture of him on your desk. Then you’re sitting on the couch, your attention on your laptop while a movie plays in the background, and Bucky’s slumped against you with his metal arm around your shoulders, and-

“You’re not payin’ attention, sweetheart.”

“I’ve seen this one,” you mumble, your fingers still flying on the keyboard. “We’re watching it for you.”

He hums, and his lips are right on your fucking ear. “If it’s for me, I want you watchin’ with me.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just need to-“

“You always need to.” Bucky pulls your laptop away, setting it down on the coffee table—that’s not your coffee table, it’s wooden and worn and there’s no trash but still a lot of clutter—before tugging you half into his lap. “I’m feeling neglected, Butterfly.”

You roll your eyes, but still curl into his body, dropping your head back on his shoulder to pout. “I gave you a blowjob like two hours ago.”

“But you didn’t let me return the favor-“

“Bucky-“

“C’mon,” his lips trail up your neck, and your nails scrap against his metal arm. “Lemme take care of my girl. She can get back to tryin’ to kill me after.”

“I’d never kill you.” You say weakly, and Bucky chuckles. 

“Not on purpose, no.” Two fingers trace over the lines of your panties, and now neither of you are paying attention. “Sing for me, pretty girl.”

Bucky’s fingers rip off your already ruined underwear, and his thumb presses onto your clit, and-

Apparently, sometimes the domestic dreams turn into sex dream. But they’re still just dreams. Ideas your brain is likely creating to escape the reality of Miles.

But Bucky’s part of your reality and life too, now. And there’s still the lingering question in your head of when will it drop. When will it be ripped away.

But Bucky doesn’t seem like the type to go quietly. 

And he’s not really trying to go at all anymore.

He got you a book he thought you’d like.

Didn’t suggest it. Or tell you about it, so you could find it.

He bought it. 

For you.

You’re staring at it as he holds it out for you. It’s a hardcover. Glossy.

New.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat trying not to let your half-panic at the gesture show on your face. This is too much. Not enough. You need to say no because this is so much, but it’s also perfect, and you’re feeling a little lightheaded. “I have a Kindle.”

Bucky frowns at you. “This isn’t to start a fire, kid. You’re supposed to read it.”

“I- I know.” You spin your pen in your hands, trying to keep your voice. “A Kindle is an e-reader. Like one book that’s also all of them.”

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s fuckin’- The future is weird.”

“It’s actually not that novel an invention anymore. You can, uh- There’s an app I can put on your phone-“

“I only just got one of those smartphones. I’m not doin’ apps anytime soon.”

“But-“

Bucky says your name, and there it is. The commanding voice. “Take the book.”

“I could’ve bought it myself.” You whisper, your eyes locked onto his. 

And you could’ve. You have the money for it. All the money for it. And Bucky might not. You don’t know how much Sam is paying him—shit, you need to check if Sam is paying him enough, and if he’s not you’ll make up the deficit, but that’s not the point—but it’s not going to be more than you, and if he’d just told you to buy the book you could’ve and this whole, dizzying feeling would’ve been avoided-

“Stop thinking.” Bucky grunts, pushing the book further forward, and you swallow.

“I- I wasn’t-“

“Yeah, you were. Take the book, Butterfly.” 

“But-“

“No. Take it.” His eyes narrow. “If you don’t, it goes in the trash.”

You glance back down at the cover, trying to buy yourself time until you can think of a really, full reason to say no. “Brave New World?”

“Yep.”

“What-“

“It’s a sci-fi book.” He mutters, and you can still feel his gaze. “Read it in high school.”

“Oh, so a million-“

“Stop trying to distract me.”

Fuck. “I would never try to distract you, James.” You give a sweet smile, and his nostrils only flare. 

You don’t understand that Look yet. His gaze is as intense as usual, and he’s standing a little taller, but his features are so neutral you’d think he was stone if you didn’t know better. But you do, and there’s something to the Look. There’s something to all of Bucky’s Looks. And you’ve gotten better at working them out, but this one…

You have no fucking clue.

“It a dystopia book.” Bucky’s voice is low, his words careful, and you’re sort of clinging onto every one of them. “Like that Hunger Games thing you wanted me to look at.” He scans over you slowly, doing the fucking tongue thing again, and you��re sitting down, so why do you feel so fucking dizzy-

“You should read the Hunger Games.” You mumble, twirling your hair between your fingers. “You’d like it.” 

“I’ll read it if you read this.”

“Buck-“

“Take the fuckin’ book, Butterfly.”

Stalling and distracting isn’t working. It’s time to switch tactics. “Or what?”

That’s the same Look from before. You still don’t know what it means. “Or else.” 

“Wow. Smooth words, James-“

“Just take the damn book.”

You’re not going to win this. Bucky’s not going to waver, and the Mist is too high up your spine, and his gaze is too intense, and you lose. You take the book with a fake-pout, and Bucky grins, and this game is far too important now. 

Bucky’s not going anywhere. You don’t want him to go anywhere. It hits you when he gives you the book, but it almost knocks you out a few days later, when you do more than just lose.

“Wait.” Bucky grunts, and you frown at him as he digs through his backpack, shooting a quick glance to the door.

“Bucky, the meeting’s starting soon-“

“It’s starting in twenty minutes.” He drawls your name, giving you an amused look. “Just hold on, I gotta- Here.”

He pulls out a Coke bottle. A Cherry Coke bottle. And shoves it into your hands before you can even think to protest.

“Orange meeting.” Bucky mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. Like he’s trying to block you from handing it back. “Thought you could use it.”

You could. This was one of the stupid finance meetings where you have justify every single bit of money the foundation has spent with words that aren’t just believe it or not, this money isn’t for making more money. It to take care of people, and if you have a fucking problem with that, take it up with Tony’s grave. And at least five of the suits always try to hit on you—although that number has gone down since Bucky started standing behind you all the time—and you’re always exhausted after, and he got this for you.

Because he knows. He knows orange meetings on your schedule means horror. And he’s trying to make it better, and it worked.

Because Bucky knows you.

You’re wiped out. You can’t even call this losing, because it feels painfully good, and if this is losing you want to keep losing forever. 

He knows. You. That’s what the game is. Was. Knowing each other.

Just like you know Bucky’s still doing all his stupid therapy exercises, and that since the harbor thing didn’t work, he’s supposed to go to the planetarium. 

“Does she think the ocean just wasn’t, like, big enough?”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head. “Or I just wasn’t tryin’ hard enough.”

“That’s stupid.” You mumble, bouncing on your feet in the elevator, turning the Coke in your hands. “You should go to the aquarium instead.”

“Should I?” Bucky raises his brows, and you give a small nod.

“The ocean itself is just a lot of water. The aquarium will have penguins, and seals, and turtles-“

“And fish?” Bucky’s grin is shit-eating, and his shoulders are relaxed, and it makes him somehow more handsome.

“Choke on my balls, Barnes.”

“Smart mouth.” He hums, his grin not falling for a second. “I’ve never actually been to an aquarium. They weren’t more than tanks, in my day.”

You shrug, picking at the Coke bottle’s label. You will not take the old man bait. “Then you better fix that. Go to the aquarium. You can get in for free, too, if you say you’re with me.”

“With you?”

“We donate a lot.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses, his brow drawing together, but this isn’t just the thinking look. There’s something more. Something deep that’s living in the stupid fucking tongue flick. 

You hold his gaze. You don’t know how to do anything else anymore, and it’s steadily proving to be more than enough to break him.

When Bucky clears his throat, the sound is rough. 

You can’t fall over.

He’ll catch you.

And it will make everything worse.

“I’m doin’ another bio class.” He mutters, still looking at you. “Aquarium might be good for that.”

“Oh.” You give a soft smile, and the Mist feels like it’s glowing. You helped. “Good.”

“Yeah. And, uh,” Bucky lets out a long, slow breath, and you realize you’re leaning forwards. Trying to get closer. You don’t know how to draw back away. “I don’t know how to, uh, name drop. Never have. Doin’ it with Steve was weird, and I’d rather shoot myself than do it with Sam, but-“ He coughs again. You feel a little blurry in your gut. “I can go. And just pay. But if you’re not doin’ things-“

“I’ll go to the aquarium with you.” You say before you can overthink it. “We can go on Sunday?”

Bucky blinks, then gives you a tight nod. “Sunday. Thanks.”

“Of course.” You shrug, looking back down to the coke bottle. The coke bottle he gave you. 

Fuck.

“I’ll pick you up? In my car?”

Bucky shakes his head. “We’ll meet there. I, uh- I wanna take my bike.”

“Okay.”

“And then we can look at all those fish that aren’t real.”

You grin back up at him. “You’re really fucking stuck on the fish thing, aren’t you.”

“It’s insane,” Bucky grumbles. “Fish are real. It’s like saying birds aren’t real.”

“Birds aren’t real. They’re government drones.”

All that gets you is an eye roll. “Whatever you say, Butterfly.”

“You could at least pretend that one got you-“

“But if I don’t pretend,” he grins at you. “It’ll make you actually gettin’ me all the better, right?”

Your flush might be hot enough to burn the building down. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Somehow you manage not to fall over. Or over think. You get through the rest of the meeting, and day, and drive home and dinner with Miles, all without falling over or letting yourself dwell on it at all.

But then you move to the bathroom, and it slams into you.

You’re fucked. Bucky knows you, and you’re fucking fucked. You want to keep knowing him, and being around him, and doing things just a little more for him than anyone else because he doesn’t seem to think it’s too much. That you’re too much. And if he does, it obviously doesn’t bother him. Not enough to try and get away from you. Bucky should be trying to get away from you, but he’s not, and you don’t want him to stop, and the crush is growing. Rooting and spreading over your intestines, until you can feel it a little all the time.

This is different from Bucky just seeing you. From just looking through the Show. Seeing past the show doesn’t tell him what types of books or drinks you like, or make him keep such steady conversation, make you flush.

That’s the knowing you part.

And you know him. You think you know Bucky, at least more than most people—which is a low bar—and enough to understand he does really want you to go to the aquarium with him. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t.

That can be a friend thing. Friends do things together all the time. You go to dinner with Sam all the time, and that’s not more. This doesn’t have to be more.

It might be. 

It can’t.

Too much effort is taken, to focus your attention back on the Hydra codes. For so long, it’s just been numbers. Numbers and names and a lot of mythological words—Babel and Scylla and Hades and Lupa and Brigid—that mean nothing apart, but must mean something together. Unless Hydra’s goal is to just fucking confuse you, there has to be a pattern. 

And you don’t find it. Not tonight.

But you do find something worse. Something more important.

It’s the first name you recognize. 

Zemo.

You know that name. You’ve heard before. From Tony, and on the news, and from Sam, and-

Oh.

Oh fuck.

All it takes is a quick google. You don’t even have to skim the Wikipedia page. 

Baron Helmut Zemo is best known for framing James Barnes for the death of King T’chaka.

He wasn’t a part of Hydra. You don’t think he was a part of Hydra. You remember when the whole Sokovia mess happened, and you know a little more than most thanks to the postcard Sam sent you, explaining that he was sort of an enemy of the state now, but Hydra was only something in the bylines. A means for Zemo’s cause, as you’d understood it. 

Yet that’s his name. In the code.

And you can only think one thing about it. It’s an acceptable thought, it’s related to what’s happening right now.

But it’s still all you can think. And there’s no escaping it.

You need to tell Bucky.

——————

Bucky’s had friends. 

Before the train, he had plenty of friends in passing. People who he got along with well. Easily. Who he’d talk to and joke with, never stressing about what he was saying because Bucky-before-the-train had charm. Swagger. Smooth words and a sparkling grin that his ma said was real good at getting him into trouble, then right back out of it.

He’d always—not always, not now, but he wasn’t allowed to be angry about that—had Steve. But that was his brother. He’d talked to and told Steve about damn near everything. All the books he read and the girls he got into bed and how when the war was over—which it had been, but not for either of them to see it—what he planned to do with the future.

Get a job, maybe something where he got to make things, and bring the world further into the future. Maybe one day he’d have gotten good enough to meet Howard Stark—this was before he could only remember how to break things, and before he killed Howard Stark—and get his name put somewhere that people read it. Find a sweet girl. Settle down and have a family. Have more friends, because Bucky-before-the-train hadn’t looked at people and only seen the shadows on their faces.

Bucky-after-the-train still has friends. But they’re friends whose shadows he learned to like.

Friends means Sam and Sarah, and the big old guy down at the deli who knows his order now.

Her order.

It’s Her order. And the guy at the deli must have picked up on the fact that it’s for a girl, because now Bucky gets a wink whenever he takes it.

And She’s not his girl. And She’s not sweet, but Bucky-after-the-train hasn’t really got a taste for sweet things anymore, and Bucky-before-the-train would’ve been thrown off his damn rhythm into kissing the ground at Her feet, if he got to meet Her.

She doesn’t have any shadows. She has the Moon, and all those perfect cracks that make knowing Her like a drug. Bucky keeps finding new cracks and colors and patterns in Her, and he doesn’t know what to do with any of them, but he’s far too gone to try and ignore them anymore.

She was not a friend in passing. If Bucky’s worked out anything about Her at all, it’s that she doesn’t do things in passing. That’s just not how She operates, and it fits well into his log. She doesn’t stop moving because the only other option—at least to Her—would be sitting still. She talks fast with no thought, or slow with so much thought Bucky can hear Her damn brain moving. When She ate, food was either shoveled into Her mouth or poked at with a fork. When Bucky watched Her work, She was either typing so fast he was convinced She couldn’t actually be writing coherent sentences, or staring at Her screen until Bucky grabbed Her attention.

She was all or nothing. She was either talking and giggling and bouncing and grabbing all of Bucky’s attention by the throat, or not moving at all and making Bucky a little feral with worry.

Because he worried about Her now. That had crept up on him, without warning. How he’d lie on the floor at night, and wonder if Her bed was soft enough for Her. If She had to share it with that asshole, or if he was finally back out of town. If She’d mind sleeping on the floor, or if Bucky would be allowed to curve himself over Her, she’d be enough for him to stick out sleeping in a bed-

He wasn’t allowed to think like that. Not about his friend, who had a boyfriend. Who already had too many people reducing Her to just a body in a bed. And She’d be more than just a body, if Bucky got to have Her, but he couldn’t think about that. Not when he was supposed to be in control.

He’d let the first thoughts slide. They really had snuck up on him, so he just needed to build his defenses higher.

But all of Her had snuck up on him.

And Bucky’s defenses might as well be a fucking pillow wall, when it came to Her. 

Because just like everything else, She didn’t do friendship casually. She was all in. 

On Bucky.

As a friend.

And he’d never had a friend like Her.

She listened to him and talked to him and got him things, always looking at him like he was the only thing in the whole universe. She somehow had picked up on things about him in three months that had taken Sam damn years. She laughed at all his jokes, even when they weren’t that funny—Bucky was still learning how to tell jokes that weren’t stabbing comments meant to pry something open again—and never expected more from Bucky than he could give. She didn’t seem to expect or ask anything from Bucky at all.

It made giving Her things all the better. Made that heat turn into a hurricane of pride and a kind of satisfied smugness that was also a pre-Hydra feeling. More than a pre-Hydra feeling. A new feeling, where he was getting himself into trouble and didn’t really want to get out of it. 

Not when She kept smiling at him. And laughing for him. 

Bucky was addicted to it. 

But damnit, there were far worse fuckin’ vices to have. Far, far worse than the most beautiful creature in history—She had to be a creature, because nothing in Bucky’s brain seemed to be able to work out how She could just be a person—knowing Bucky, and letting him know Her back.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking Her to go to the aquarium. That was part of knowing Her, was figuring out that if Bucky asked and meant it, She’d give it to him.

Bucky shouldn’t be allowed to have that. He didn’t deserve Her coins or books or doe-eyes, paired with the honeyed and feline smile, and Moon turning and shifting in Her eyes. He’d break it. She wasn’t delicate, but She was fragile, so Bucky would crush Her, just like that butterfly in the garden.

And there was a difference, between delicate and fragile. Delicate things at least looked the part, and She had that slight glint in Her eyes that told Bucky She’d bite anything that tried to touch Her unwanted. 

But She was still fragile. 

She looked fragile right now. Her leg bouncing under Her desk, Her lip pulled between Her teeth, another paper being destroyed under Her quick fingers.

“You doin’ alright, Butterfly?”

She blinked up at him, and Her nod wasn’t convincing. None of this was convincing. She looked like a squirrel, trying to find where She could store something for winter. Adorable and frantic and-

Small.

She looked a little small. And She wasn’t shaking, but small was still too much. 

The gut feeling was twisting and clenching, and now that was hot too. Almost burning up into Bucky’s heart, making it pound a little harder than it should be in his chest.

That might just be Her presence. The heat usually came just from Bucky knowing She was near him. 

But something still felt off. She wasn’t talking, or working, or even lying flat on the floor—She did like lying on the floor, and She also seemed to like Bucky, so who was to say She wouldn’t like Bucky and the floor, and that really wasn’t the damn point—and something felt like it was wrong. 

Everything had been fine this morning. Same two guards—Harlow and Cooper—as every weekday morning, except for Monday’s and Friday’s, when one of them would have the day off. They were good men. Harlow had done two tours in Afghanistan—Bucky still wasn’t sure why he’d needed to be there, and She’d tried to explain it, and he’d just ended more confused than he’d started—and Cooper had been a combat medic and boxer. They never looked Her anywhere but in the eyes, and She gave them a slightly warmer smile than most other people. They called Her Ma’am, and never acted like Bucky was a problem.

Bucky trusted them to do their jobs well, and after the second Hydra contact they’d even talked to him about new security measures to take.

The building was secure.

She was secure.

Bucky still couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut.

“You sure?” He pushed just a little further. He needed to check. 

“I-“ She let out a long, slow breath, the thinking pout forming. That wasn’t good. “If I tell you something, you have to promise not to overreact.”

“Should I be ready to overreact?”

“No?”

Bucky gave Her a flat look, trying to ignore how the gut feeling was starting to bubble. “You’re not a good liar, sweetheart.”

She scowled. That was adorable too. “Fuck off, I am a fantastic liar, you’re just- you’re you-“

“Me?”

“Shut up.” She snapped, and at least She wasn’t small anymore. She was prickling, and Bucky knew She couldn’t actually hurt him, but the Moon was turning, and this heavy weight over his chest felt a lot like dread.

“Are you gonna tell me the thing I’m not allowed to freak out about?”

She started running a hand through Her hair. Bucky wanted to grab a fistful of it and tip Her head back, kissing Her until she was full of only good things, giggling and soft against him-

Not the time. Not his place.

“You won’t freak out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She blinked at him, the Moon flashing, and nodded slowly.

Then Bucky heard it.

A tick. Tick. Beep. Tick. Beep.

It didn’t have the weight of an explosive. Those were often only tick, tick, tick. But a clock was tick, beat, tick. 

This was a beep—automated—and a light, softer tick. The mechanism wouldn’t be heavy. Wouldn’t be holding something heavy. 

“Buck-“

“Shut up.” He grunted, trying to keep his attention focused on the sound. 

Her eyes narrowed, the wolf look flaring as Her lips curled slightly. “Excuse me?”

The tick, beep, tick, was getting lighter. Quicker. “I said-“

“I heard you.” She snapped. “I will not shut up, James, you look like you’re about to break something, and-“

Bucky didn’t bother to keep listening. Tick, beep, beep, tick. Two beeps couldn’t be good, and it was getting louder as well closer. He stood up without a word, marching to the door. 

There was a voice he didn’t recognize on the other side. Quick and nervous. Male. Tick. Beep.

“James Barnes, if you don’t sit the fuck back down and tell me why you’re-“

He said Her name, keeping his voice low and firm. “Do you have any appointments right now.”

“No, but-“

“Any appointments in the next half-hour.”

“It’s 3pm on a Friday, Bucky. Nobody wants to meet with their boss at 3pm on a Friday. Now can you please fucking tell me-“

“Shut up.”

“Stop telling me to shut up-“

He snapped Her name again, and this tone was doing wonders in making Her listen. He’d need to remember that. “You told me if I ever wanted you to shut up, you would. Right fucking now, you need to shut up. Understood?”

“I- No, because you’re not explaining.” She crossed Her arms, raising Her chin up, and there was a crack that Bucky could see on the surface. Not fear. Something a little wrathful that was making Her try to seem bigger than she was. “I am not doing fucking shit until you tell me why.”

“God fucking-“ Bucky marched back across the room, yanking her forward by Her sleeve and covering her mouth with a hand.

Her eyes went wide, and he felt a slight brushing feeling on his palm.

It was a good thing he’d used the metal one.

She was trying to bite him.

“You’re a fucking-“ Not was not the time to be in slight awe of Her for having the nerve. “Goddamnit, Butterfly, I’m trying to help you-“

Her eyes narrowed, and Bucky let out a long breath, holding Her gaze.

“Listen.” He hissed. “There is a man outside your office, and I think he was sent from Hydra with a fucking chem bomb.” She froze, and Bucky let out a long breath. “You’re going to stay put, I’m going to call Sam, and we’ll figure this out. Blink twice if you understand.”

She blinked, and Bucky gave a short nod.

“If I move my hand, are you going to behave?”

Bucky didn’t know why he chose those words. But he did know that She was giving him the doe-eyes, and he needed to goddamn focus, but She was also starting to shrink, and he wanted to fold himself around Her.

He could. Metaphorically. Bucky lowed his hand, and he would fold himself around Her by keeping her safe right where she was. 

“Bucky, Grace-“

His hand shot back up, but She dodged it, trying to move around the desk.

Shit.

Then Her words caught up with his head.

She was trying to go out there. She was trying to fucking kill him.

Bucky hissed Her name, trying to move to block Her. “I told you to stay put-“

She shook Her head, weaving around him, and goddamnit- 

Bucky threw himself forward, and he did get to fold himself around Her. He got to pin Her to his chest while She thrashed around, trying shove him away so She could do something brave and kind and fucking stupid.

“Grace is out there, we have to- Fucking let go-“ Her voice was rising, higher and higher as She moved. “James, I fucking- I can’t just leave her, Bucky-“

He had to cover Her mouth again.

She was still trying to bite him.

“You are not leaving her.” Bucky lowered his mouth to Her ear, keeping his words firm. “The bomb is probably on a timer. And Grace is not Hydra’s target. You are. If you open that door, sweetheart, you’re done.”

Her movements grew almost feral, with nails and more biting, and kicks aimed for his tight. If Bucky didn’t have his arm and the serum, She might have done some actual damage.

“You need to fucking- Shit-“ Bucky groaned as Her elbow hit his sternum. “Alright, let’s do this.”

That confused Her enough to pause, and Bucky grabbed the opportunity. He hauled Her down onto the couch, keeping his palm pressed firmly over Her mouth and fully pressing his weight over Her’s.

Now She was just staring at him. 

It wasn’t helping anything.

“Grace is going to be fine, if you just fucking listen. Okay?”

Blink.

Doe-eyed blink.

Not the point.

“Good.” Bucky grunted, keeping himself planted across Her body. He didn’t fully trust Her not to ignore him and sprint for the door the moment he moved. “Here’s how this is gonna go. Tell Grace to say that you’ll let the man in yourself, and that she needs to get off this floor. Take the elevator, not the stairs. Tell her to call 911 and make security shut down the building. Do not tell her why.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Civilians freak out when they hear why. I will call Sam, and you’re gonna sit in the furthest corner of the office. I will stay with you until the building is clear. Once the man realizes the door isn’t opening, he will try to break it down. Do not move. The chem bomb with go off, and we are going to stay here until we get the clear. Got it?”

Blink. Bucky let out a long, heavy breath through his nose, and in almost perfect timing, the computer let out a soft ping sound. Likely Grace, asking if she could let the man in. 

When Bucky let Her go to do her part of the job, She wasn’t feral anymore. She was small, but not shaking. Almost too still, a slightly glossy look in Her eyes.

She wasn’t speaking at all. She typed the message, then drifted over to the corner. 

Bucky shouldn’t be worried about that. 

He really needed to stop worrying about what he should or shouldn’t do with Her. Or at least get a better idea of what that stuff meant. Otherwise he was going to lose his damn mind.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. Her desk was blocking to office door, because he’d moved it there himself. It was a Friday, simply due to the flow of time. He liked how She was listening to him now, even if it was for such a horrible reason. He didn’t like- 

Wrong. 

He fucking hated how he’d been right. After about two minutes, whatever sorry fucker had the bomb started to bang on the doors, shouting for Her to fucking let him in and that She couldn’t escape them. And Bucky wasn’t sure how he’d ever thought She was Hydra. She was horrible at fully covering Her emotions, and right now he could almost taste the fear rolling off of Her. 

The desk started to rattle, and the man must be slamming himself into the door. Bucky’s best guess was that it was some random idiot who owed Hydra, and had been made to pay his debt like this. By getting Her.

That would mean She was really important to Hydra. They didn’t just waste debts like that. It was either a life of labor, or this type of one-time service that guaranteed freedom. And you were never really free. 

But the idea of it was nice. 

Bucky fucking hated how She’d curled into herself, too. How Her head was dropped to Her knees, drawn up to Her chest, and Her breathing was so fucking shallow and fast as She tried to block what had to be coming.

He needed to protect Her from this. All of it. Whatever he could, his mission was to keep Her safe, and he was supposed to be done with missions, but this one didn’t seem so bad. Protecting something that made everything better. He didn’t think when he moved. Bucky grabbed Her because there couldn’t be another thing to do. Wrap himself around Her. Make some use of yourself and do your job, and keep Her safe because if she never gets to laugh again, that might be the worst thing in the world.

He wanted to keep holding Her here for a while. He wanted to pull Her face into his chest. He wanted to, at the very fucking least, make Her breathing slow down, because the rapid sound of Her fear was worse than that clock Sam kept on his office wall.

Tick. Beep. Tick. Beep. Beep. Beep.

There was the loudest rattling sound yet, a long and horrible hiss, and Bucky was getting a lot of wants today. He turned Her head so Her face was pressed against him, and She didn’t fight it, but he still cleared his throat to explain. She couldn’t be allowed to think Bucky would just grab Her like that for any reason but normal, platonic care. 

His rotten, slightly molded heart had alternate motivations, made of how he could suddenly smell Her sweet shampoo, and he felt clean despite the everything about this.

Part of his explanation was for himself. Just so he could pretend he wasn’t getting dangerously close to having a fourth want, that started and ended with Her. He had no right to want at all. And less than a right to want Her.

“I’m trying to block you from breathing it.” He muttered in Her ear, and he could’ve sworn She relaxed. “Case some gets under the door. I can take it. You can’t.”

She nodded against him, still completely silent, and Bucky didn’t know what else to do. They just had to wait this out, and he was fine with silence, but She obviously wasn’t. And She was so fucking still. 

It really was worse than the shaking. The shaking seemed to have a hidden fury under it.

This was just dreadful, awful fear. 

“Steve used to jump on bombs.” Bucky muttered, and he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing. “Back in the war. He had guts and heart, but he was this scrawny little kid that a bird could knock out. A bird did knock him out, once. Pigeon shat of his head, and he fell over. I nearly fell off the pier laughin’, then had to swear on my Ma not to tell anyone.” Bucky frowned at the air. “Shouldn’t’ve have told you, should I.”

She didn’t answer, but Her breathing had slowed, so Bucky kept talking.

“They’re both dead, now. Steve and my Ma. Well, Steve’s alive. Sorta. I ain’t talked to him.” His accent was slipping a lot more than he wanted, but She wasn’t pulling away. Her breathing was even, now. He couldn’t stop. “He woulda liked you. Steve. I probably would’ve needed to grab him to stop him running out there, too. And I’m pretty sure you would’ve jumped on that bomb, if I let you. So…”

Bucky trailed off, unsure where he was going. He didn’t know Her that well. But that didn’t stop the very clear, vivid image in his head of if She did tackle the bomb-man. And She walked like Steve did, too. With a high honor that was mostly made of paper, and a command that was earned and measured, that didn’t fucking work on Bucky. 

No amount of chest puffing and rousing words had ever worked on Bucky. He’d liked to try and buy into them, before the war, but there had never been any point but trying to be part of something. The war. His squadron. Someone’s life.

He was pretty sure Steve had known that didn’t work on him. That he just wanted to do it. 

Make something. 

Bucky had been thinking a lot about making things, lately.

Now was not the time to dwell on that. 

She’d twisted in his arms, and She was looking at him. Right at him.

Christ, She was beautiful. The Moon shining in Her eyes and Her hair framing her face like some sort of painting. More than a knockout. Maybe a fucking coma. 

Bucky’s voice was a little hoarse, when he finally spoke. “I just, uh, I thought it would help if I talked-“

“It is. Helping.” Her voice was so small, and Bucky swallowed. “Please don’t stop.”

Fucking Hell. She was so close, and Her body was so soft against his, and Her lips were a little swollen from being chewed on earlier, but Her features were perfectly open. No more mask at all. Not right now. 

It was somehow more beautiful. And Bucky wanted to hear what Her giggle sounded like without it. What Her smile looked like, and how She moved when she wasn’t trying to make the world part around Her. If She’d stop moving for good reasons, because She was all or nothing, so there had to be stillness that could be born from-

Control.

Bucky nodded at Her, dragging his focus back together by force. He would not lose control. That would maybe be more unforgivable than anything Hydra ever made him do.

“Saw my first bomb at the Stark expo.” He muttered, trying to drag something up from his head. “Went with Steve, and some girls. They were sweet, but I, uh, I don’t remember their names.”

She let out a soft laugh, even as Her face returned his shirt. That was a really good sign. “Because of the brainwashing?”

“Sure.”

“Wow, James.”

“When I was remembering things, I wasn’t focused on remembering random names of long-dead ladies, kid.”

She shrugged against him. “Maybe they thought about you until they died. You ever think of that?”

“No.”

“There are those smooth words that got you dates.” She hummed. “That’s what got them to remember you. The sweet-talking Sargent boy who showed them a bomb.”

“I was a Sargent man.” Bucky grumbled, and She laughed again. This really was working. “And I didn’t show them a bomb. Howard Stark did. I- Really wish I didn’t kill Howard.”

Bucky didn’t know why he’d said that. He wasn’t sure why he was saying anything. But She wasn’t running, and Her breathing was still even.

She’d even twisted to look at him again. And there was nothing predatory or venomous in Her gaze. It was still just open. 

So Bucky kept talking. And he didn’t let himself keep thinking about it at all. 

“Wish I didn’t kill any of them,” he said slowly, holding Her gaze. “But I- He was my friend. Good guy. I, uh- I admired him. Wished I could make things like that. I wouldn’t have, if I could. They had to do a full reset on me, after. Apparently I was distressed.”

It wasn’t a lot. Short words. No short of long speech like She’d given him on Sam’s roof. 

But it was the most he could manage. 

And Bucky added two things to his log about Her. 

First, he wanted to make things. He had before the train, and then it had been dead, and now he wanted to do it again. And he wanted to make something for Her. He could give it to Her like he’d given Her the book. To prove that he really was listening. That he liked Her company, and he liked Her more, and he liked the things She’d said he would, so maybe Bucky could do something like that for Her in return. And making Her something would just be more. And Bucky might want more—most, all—of Her, no matter how horribly that might end.

Second, there was a flip side of Her being calming to listen to. She was calming to talk to. He’d said all that, and She hadn’t sprinted away or looked at him with pity or tried to make him say more. What he’d said was enough. 

A little bit of Bucky felt like he was enough. 

And that was the most better he’d had since he’d been free.

“Bucky?” She mumbled, scanning over him carefully. “Remember when you promised not to overreact earlier?”

He grunted, and She took a deep breath. That couldn’t be good.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Butterfly, wh-“

“I’ve kind of, sort of, absolutely been working on breaking the Hydra code myself?” Her words were rushed, like She was afraid they’d get away from her if she wasn’t careful. “And I- I cracked it. I sort of cracked it. Cracked some of it. Enough of it. Got something from it that’s understandable. And not just a bunch of numbers. So I, uh, yeah. I need help.”

Help. She needed help. Bucky’s help. She hadn’t let Sarah carry Her plate at game night and he’d seen Her take work from Her assistant, but She wanted Bucky’s help. For the second time, it was Bucky who She was asking for help.

He could sit in that later.

Right now had to be about how She’d broken the Hydra code herself.

Bucky said Her name as carefully as possible. “Sam’s had a whole team on that for months with nothing. Not a single word.”

“I know.” She mumbled. “But I- I didn’t want to just do…nothing. And it didn’t look like a code to me, it looked like art.”

Of course it did. 

Bucky really wished that didn’t make so much fucking sense. Everything would be easier if that made no fucking sense. 

“What did you find.”

She blinked at him. “You… believe me?”

That was a stupid question. Now didn’t seem like the time to tell Her that. “Yes. What did you find.”

“You have to promise not to overreact again-“

He grunted Her name, and She swallowed.

“Zemo.”

For a second, there was a high ringing in Bucky’s ears. “What.”

“I- know. I’m sorry, but I need your help figuring it out, and I know about the whole… Thing. And I can’t tell Sam because this isn’t his thing, and I- I thought you might actually listen to me.”

Listen to Her. She wanted Bucky to help Her, and listen to Her.

It wasn’t useful to keep thinking of himself a goner.

But it was accurate. 

And She was still talking. Seeming to get away from Herself. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But I- I don’t know how to do it myself, and I could, if I had to. But it’s a lot, and I’ve never dealt with that before, and I could try but I- I’m not- I don’t know how it would go. And I couldn’t leave. I can’t leave. And I- I want to- and I- What if- I don’t know how, and I’m not- I don’t know why they’re doing this, and I don’t- I don’t know how Bucky- I don’t know how-“

This. This was what Bucky had meant by fragile. This was one of the worst things he’d ever seen. She was shaking in Bucky’s arms and curling slightly further into him, and Zemo was a name he’d never wanted to hear again, but the sound of Her staggered and fearful breaths was worse. So much worse. 

It was like watching an animal in a trap. Trying to claw itself free but just mauling its own leg. 

Bucky wasn’t going to crush or break Her. He wouldn’t.

But he would do anything to make Her feel better.

Make this better, because that was another thing he could do. Something to do, to make things better, and he’d still be angry at Zemo but he’d get over it. For Her.

“You’re gonna be fine.” Bucky muttered, pulling Her right back into his chest, and not thinking about it beyond instinct, and doing something. “You’ll be alright. I’ve got you. We’ll figure it out. I’ll help. You’ll be fine, Butterfly. You’ll be fine.”

That sounded like something that should help. The kind of thing his Ma had said when he’d had nightmares as a kid. She’d even run her hand over Bucky’s back, the way Bucky was rubbing Her’s now. 

And his Ma couldn’t have known how not fine things were going to be. That all of Bucky’s teeth and nails and hair turning into snakes wasn’t even close to the true horror he’d know. 

But Bucky wouldn’t let his words to Her be a lie. He’d promised to keep Her safe, and he could actually fucking do something about it. So She would be safe.

She let out a high, soft breath against him, and relaxed, and She trusted him. To touch Her. Hold Her, even just like this.

Bucky would keep Her safe. 

His name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he didn’t do missions anymore. Didn’t take orders or do anything he didn’t want to.

He wanted to do this. Let Her keep making things better, and keep consuming him too much for him to drown himself, and give Her whatever the hell She wanted, without a price. 

Bucky was going to keep Her safe. 

From Hydra.

And anything else that dared to try and shred Her into something small.

End Note: Bucky is my dream man. Sassy and horny and obsessed with his yapping girl.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[pigeonentity]

maybe i dont need to rewatch spyfall anymore. never been good at sprinting i came last in every race at school no no i read your file you were a champion sprinter mm got me well done whats going on doc best take a look out the window hows your house out there bit wicked witch of the west but you get the gist maybe maybe not oh come on doctor catch up you can do it ohh that thats my name and that is why i chose it oh so satisfying doctor i did say look for the spymaster or should i say spy master hi you cant be oh but i can be i very much am [dont actually know the words for this bit but i think its ryan and graham] im her best enemy call me master call you what master me and her we go way way back i met o i know years ago i know but there was an o at mi6 c was talking about him a man very close to my heart well in my pocket actually tissue compression its a classic ambushed him on his first day at work took his identity and set myself up at mi6 surprisingly good staff canteen i have had a lot of fun i need to warn barton wheres barton what have you done to him barton wrong question check the seat cockpit bomb short fuse i can relate did you really think i would not make that sonic proof doctor come on deadlocked sealed and i made sure no parachutes on board [something from yaz about barton being gone?] called away before take off by me stick with me yaz cos i control everything even these guys one last thing something you should know in the seconds before you die everything you think you know is a lie got you finally

idk i just think i kind of know it fairly well already

(that is probably FULL of mistakes but i managed to do it without checking the transcript so its a win)

[chiwhorei]

I want to be Halsins pussy pet, waiting for him in his tent for him to use when he gets into his ruts. He dosen't mean to be rough but he's so big and needy he can't help it that the intense stretch makes me cry every time. It's completely over whelming but I would do anything for the grove, anything for him.

Stop it right now… I need to post this as is but just know there is something so primal in my soul that has made its way to a doc. Reader isn’t Tav in this, also be warned for an inappropriate master/pupil relationship.

Coming along with the party and staying at camp to flit through books and work on your studies. When Halsin gets back to camp at night, he will quiz you on your current subject matter, wildlife, flora, fungi— whatever he’s deemed important for you to focus on. Daddy’s a wonderful teacher, and so kind. Willing to take you on the adventure of a lifetime, he tells you he needs an assistant-Druid to help with his research, in reality he couldn’t imagine leaving you behind at the Grove.

Daddy sneaking you out to somewhere quiet and scenic when the rest of camp is asleep. Rawing your poor little cunt until the sun comes up. Halsin definitely likes having you warm his cock through the night, sleeping on his broad chest with him nestled into your guts. It also ensures he can get one last fuck in when morning comes before he sets out for the day.

Daddy would share you if someone asked, why keep you all to himself? Halsin loves watching you while you’re getting fucked, seeing his little pet from every angle and position whilst stroking himself. WOOF.

He especially likes seeing your eyes screw up in pleasure and then fall onto him. You watch him with tears in your eyes as his companions (Astarion probably, or Shadowheart) bring you to orgasm. You fall apart so beautifully— whether it be on a cock, a devilish tongue, or a dexterous set of fingers.

[alaritheaurora]

I may or may not be very insane about your trsmp superhero au on Ao3

I need to hear more about everyone from the Kingdom of Fools. Stuff like their powers and the intricacies of them. Their fighting styles, how each person treats combat, as well as if/how it differs when they're fighting alone or with a team.

I know we got to see a bit of them all fighting/working together in the prequel fic but I desperately want to see a full fledged fight scene with all of them. I wanna know how they work together as a team and if they have any sick ass combo moves they do.

God I love superhero aus so much I'm normal i promise

Okay, this got me so excited, so this is really long. I love talking about my sillies. I am also including Zam in this list because she joins the team later on. Owen has been omitted because he isn't as fleshed out.

Some of this is just straight up copy pasted from my master doc, so you get the official power descriptions and the little names I have for them.

Foolish: King | Fountain of Youth - Can control the water around him. This can lift him into the air, attack people (most commonly shaped into a whip), or soften his landing. As well as this he can breathe underwater and heal (mostly himself, although it can help others even if it is much weaker) people

In fights he tends to do his best to stay away from his teammates, his power while not necessarily destructive is definitely hindering to them. Most often he’s up against Bad, and it’s mostly a goal of keeping him contained. However he’s always close enough in case his friends need help, because he can pretty efficiently heal them or just wash them away down a separate alley. He’s very, very controlled with his powers. Foolish has the issue of being a bit too op, and so he has to dial back all the time, or else he risks destroying the entire city's plumbing system. However this does not stop him from being a feral destructive bastard, as seen with Owen and his fights with Bad.

If we’re talking fighting style he’s very reckless and brash. He’s aware he can just heal himself so he tends not to care about how much he gets hit. He’s also very good at running. One of his favourite tactics is to goad someone into fighting him and then just being a total nuisance by swimming away. Or alternatively, if someone is running away from him he’ll just create a wave of water to send them back towards him.

If he’s fighting in a team then he’s almost entirely relying on them to protect him. Most of his friends are geared towards being very good protection, so often enough if he’s fighting with someone then he’ll be on the offense while they’re on the defense. He most often fights with Ros (she can keep up with him the best, and just straight up block hits without putting herself in danger) and Zam (him and Zam are a killer team because Foolish can do so much bullshit with water, and then Zam just makes it worse by freezing it. You thought getting smacked by a whip was bad? Well now there’s shard of ice in it too).

Ros Cumber: Architect | Guardian’s Fist - Can use her hands to mime and summon two massive (roughly the size of a single bed) invisible hands, which she can use to pick things up (disregarding gravity) and shield things.

Ros always acts as support. She can basically fly, so she tends to flit around and help whoever needs helping. One thing to note, whatever she wants her hand to do, she has to9 make the same motion with her real hand. Her power at first glance doesn’t seem that intimidating, because all she can really do is pick stuff up and block blows, but then you think about the fact that it’s a hand and that it can crush things. So, yes, Ros has absolutely just grabbed someone and killed them by crushing all the bones in their body. She’s the third best fighter in the group (Clown is first and Sneeg is second) but she’s not necessarily on the attack. Most of their enemies are pretty friendly with her anyways. So usually she’s there to drag someone who’s hurt out of the way, or to defend her friends. It works out great because she doesn’t have to be close to people either to help.

Usually her fighting style is to keep people away from her. She can't really take too many hits, but she has the pros of an invisible shield to protect her as well as the ability to pick up whoever is coming at her and just throw them away. If she’s forced into close combat she has a spear that Sneeg made her, and she’s very fast and nimble with it. It can also create a shockwave that temporarily paralyzes everyone within a ten foot radius of her, so if she’s in a real pickle that can help her.

Clownpierce: Archmage | Ability: Half a Cat - Can borrow people's physical (as in cannot be a mental effect) powers, this splits the ability between the both of them, essentially making it a weaker diluted version. Clown must touch the person for the effect to start, and can focus more of their power towards himself the more contact he has.

Clown gets very laser focused, so he doesn’t really notice his teammates.He doesn’t tend to mess around or play, when he fights his goal is to win and that’s it. Typically his strategy is to pick someone and stay on them. His power is very dependent on whoever is around him, and if they even have a power he can steal, so he arguably relies on his ability the least out of the group. Usually though, he’ll try to stay close to his friends, so that in case he needs it he can borrow one of their powers. Alternatively, stealing whoever he’s fighting’s power even’s the playing field a lot. 

Clown is a bit of a noodle. He put all his fighting points into speed and stamina. His strategy is to just not get hit. And he succeeds very well with that. He can run and run and nothing will stop him. He also has his scythe (which Sneeg also built :) ), which helps a lot, its main use is to hook onto people and keep them where he wants them. This guy is like a border collie, he’s just out here guiding sheep.

In a team he focuses on covering his teammates weaknesses. He most often fights with Sneeg and Ros, and those are two people he inherently trusts to protect him. So he stops moving around so much and instead will go on the defensive. If he’s fighting with someone it’s because A) he needs the support. B) They need the support, or C) They’ve been backed into a corner, and so his main goal is to win the fight with help, and if that doesn;’t work, be in a position where he can easily escape with his friend.

Sneegsnag: Warden | Ability: Ant Sized Whale - Can shrink and grow to any size, keeping the same proportions relative to his size. His strength and speed also depends on his size. 

This man is SO annoying to fight. Oh, you want to hit him? Too bad, he’s actually microscopic right now. Oh, you want to run away? Sorry, giant man is giant and will step on you. You have to understand that Sneeg can grow and shrink to ANY size. So yes, he will cling onto his enemies, and yes, he will be the size of a skyscraper. And also guess what? Everything is proportional. That includes injuries. So if Sneeg is giant and you stab him? Wow, that splinter sucks, and when he shrinks back down it remains a splinter. He’s very disorienting to fight because he’s just everywhere, one minute he’s giant, the next he’s tiny.

Alone he’s goddamn terrifying, because guess what? He only has one concern, and that’s the person he’s fighting. So you have a man who can easily crush you coming after you, and to add onto that he has so many horrible little gadgets. His trident not only stands but also electrocutes, it’s like a pointy stun batton. He has rocket boots and his cape can be a parachute, this man can essentially fly. He doesn’t really care about getting hit, he’s goddamn tanky, and also stupid fast and sneaky. It doesn’t matter if he misses half his hits when he’s still going with no sign of stopping.

Team-wise, he’s a meat shield. He knows and loves this position, and will gladly shield his friends with his body. He’s always keeping an eye out and is ready to go help his friends. And if things are truly dire he’ll turn giant and just pick them up. There’s no one he specifically fights with the most, he’s kind of in charge of making sure everyone’s okay.

Zam: Prince/ Princess | Ice’s Touch - Can create and control ice. Can just put a small layer of snow over things, or create massive spikes to skate on (this ice does not melt). Is immune to the cold and can often make the temperature drop around her.

Zam is fairly new to the group and so doesn’t have an exact placement, but he’s one of the heavy hitters and tends to rely on teamwork. Usually her power is used to move quick, get to a higher altitude, and stab people with ice. She’s slippery, and can also very easily just create a wall of ice to protect himself.

Usually he gets paired up with Foolish and Sneeg, this is mostly because he's Sneeg’s apprentice, and she and Foolish just really fit well together. Zam’s main purpose with people who aren’t Foolish is his speed, because he can pretty much just skate everywhere. So she tends to give her teammates boosts that way, and will help Ros carry people to safety. 

Tango Frags: Squire | Telephone Game - Can inherently know what people are feeling, as well as manipulate their emotions to some extent. This allows him to anger or calm people, as well as tells him their general intention and whether they are lying. 

Tango doesn’t usually fight. The most use his power is is to make someone sad. Admittedly, he is not home often and isn’t trained in fighting and if he is there then he’s falling behind his teammates and letting them protect him. Instead he’s on the computer and works as their eyes in the sky. He tells them of any upcoming danger and news. Or, if the Fools need to interrogate someone, then he’s their guy. 

[dadsbongos]

Hi!!! Hope you’re doing well - I just want to take a moment to gush before I ask something, because I’ve really enjoyed your blog since finding it:

1: your writing is SO good I’ve reread your dunmesh fics several times now & just eat them up every reread. I’m stoked you also have funger content & can’t wait to eat those up

2: your blog’s aesthetic is just 🤌🤌 chefs kiss

3: your chilchuck’s wife fic - I’m convinced you are the chilchuck expert you characterized him so well (& the bit in the 3some fic when he choked the reader ? gulp)

OKAY on the with the actual question: I was wondering if you have any chil thoughts for the chilfuckers? Maybe some sfw / nsfw?

thank youuu :] i'm so glad to provide for the dungeon community with both meshi and funger <3 and also extra glad to make the chilchuck people proud, he's my fav lil man

i have so many chilthoughts bc i am a verified chilfucker i need that middle aged man

nsfw chilthoughts 

MEAN mean man

Likes to make his partners huff and whine, especially if they start haughty or mouthy

Facefucking, especially, for the mouthy ones. Wants to shut you up and make you drool

Lately the thought of Chilchuck fist-fucking a bigger race has been making me sweat… like yeah lil man, get up in that thang… I need to write it. Maybe some dwarven wench who keeps mocking Chil, or an ogre that feels its appropriate to pick n lift him up while working

Schrodinger’s breeder kink - sometimes its all he’s thinking about and sometimes the thought is entirely uninteresting

Touched on it a BIT in my body swap fic but i think Chil has a really sensitive neck and likes being held there (maybe not choked, but grabbed and stroked for sure)

Has a secret goon for younger partners but doesn’t like admitting to it, the taboo of it makes him all hot especially since he knows most other races can’t tell. Like a VERY poorly kept secret that could ruin his distinguished reputation

i also have chilchuck fic ideas that i haven’t fleshed out, but thought it’d be a shame if they sat in my ‘puter unseen:

Idea 1: Reader is a young elf, only about 72, and against all odds began dating Chilchuck. On his 30th birthday, it's brought to attention that you’ll be in your 90s when he dies. Leading to a spiral wherein you’re just trying to live in blissful ignorance to your races’ lifespan difference, and Chilchuck assumes you’re mature enough to handle his death, move on, and remember him fondly… lol… anyway. When Chilchuck dies you study how to maintain your own mana without a dungeon and practice minor healing spells until you can do a full revival, which fails on Chil, so you have to turn to dark magic. Basically rewinding his life until he’s the same age as when you two met and he’s upset you brought him back because YOU could get in major trouble and that’s when you confess you didn’t tell anyone when he died bc you knew you’d bring him back -- and you’re a nutcase that keeps doing this every time he dies despite knowing he wants to die peacefully. Omg loving someone so much you need them at all costs even ruining their perception of you… 

Idea 2: Chilchuck helping a 20-ish(+?) y/o half-foot negotiate a contract for themself and he thinks they’re soooooo cute so they get together, and he’s kinda nervous to bring them around cuz you’re crazy young compared to him. Not even a child to speak of GASP. The party doesn’t notice at ALL cuz they have no idea about anything about half-foot aging and customs -- but his daughters look at him sideways lmao

and this is literally not even a full fic idea but i have a note from my chilchuck master doc for you lol

im so normal about him