#prompt twenty-three: up and coming | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daxisyzz · 4 months ago

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Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x reader #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #who did this to you #protective husband #husband!bucky #avengers fanfiction #avengers

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corrodedcoffinfest · 1 year ago

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Prompt #23 - Up and Coming

They're finally gaining a little traction. Or maybe they're up...and coming. *wink wink, nudge nudge*

Get those submissions in by 11:59 PM EDT tonight!

Be sure to tag @corrodedcoffinfest and feel free to use the hashtag #corrodedcoffinfest.

This will blog will comment with a 🦇 when your fic has been checked for word count and queued for reblogging.

#corrodedcoffinfest #ccf: prompt twenty-three - up and coming #corroded coffin #fanworks event #eddie munson #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #freak stranger things #corroded coffin fic #corroded coffin boys #stranger things event

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fanficgirl429 · 2 months ago

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Super Solider Stamina

Pairing: fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

Prompt: Y/N reveals too much information about her and Bucky's sex life to Yelena and Ava and Bucky get's revenge

Warnings: Mentions of sex, 18+ only, minors do not engage

-----

Y/N was lounging upside-down on the Avengers Tower couch, legs hanging over the backrest, hair brushing against the floor, and a knowing smirk plastered across her face. In front of her, Yelena sat cross-legged with a tub of ice cream in her lap, while Ava flipped through a magazine she clearly wasn’t reading.

"You two are so tense," Y/N declared, pointing a spoon at them. “You both need to go out and get laid. Seriously.”

Yelena didn’t look up. “And we’re starting here, why?”

“Because this is an intervention,” Y/N said, straightening dramatically. “You’re both walking nerve bundles. I swear I can hear Ava’s spine grinding. And Yelena, you flinched when the toaster popped this morning.”

“It was loud,” Yelena snapped.

“Exactly my point. What you need isn’t therapy, or more combat training. What you need is a hot, completely forgettable one-night stand with someone who knows what they’re doing and isn’t afraid to ruin your life for one night.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “And this is coming from the woman who’s dating America’s Broodiest Man.”

“Exactly!” Y/N beamed. “Bucky was broody. Now? He’s relaxed. Smiles more. Sleeps better. He even jokes.”

Yelena looked suspicious. “What did you do to him?”

Y/N leaned in with a wicked grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Oh no,” Ava said immediately. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N went on, not afraid to share any details about her sex life, “there’s something exhilarating about being pinned down by a supersoldier.”

Yelena gagged. “Please stop.”

"I’m dead serious. One night with him, and I finally understood what super soldier stamina really means. He doesn’t stop. Not until your legs are shaking, your voice is wrecked, and your body forgets what rest feels like. Three orgasms? Minimum. Coherent thought? Not happening for at least twenty-four hours. He’s relentless, in the best, most devastating way possible."

Ava blinked. “Three?”

Y/N nodded. ""And that’s before he even takes the shirt off. Once it’s gone and you see all that hard muscle and barely restrained control, it’s over. He pins you with that look—hungry, possessive—and suddenly your back’s against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, and he’s fucking you like he has something to prove. His stamina is unreal—relentless thrusts that leave you shaking, his mouth everywhere, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of you until you’re crying his name and can’t remember your own."

Yelena dropped her spoon. “That’s too much visual. Too much detail. I'm still a child in some countries.”

Y/N was on a roll now, unbothered. “One time? He…used the vibranium arm as leverage, braced me against the glass, and said—”

The elevator doors slid open with a gentle ding.

The man of the hour, Bucky Barnes stepped in, toweling off his hair, dressed in joggers and a dark henley, walking toward the kitchen but stopping when he heard the word “leverage.”

He paused.

Three sets of eyes locked onto him.

“...What did I just walk into?” he asked cautiously.

Y/N lit up. “Hey, babe! We were just talking about you.”

Yelena threw the pillow at her. “She’s telling us war crimes.”

Ava was smirking at Bucky, revealing she knew way too much about him. “Y/N said that you have amazing stamina and that you’re vibranium arm--”

Bucky turned bright red. “I—what? Wait. Y/N!”

Y/N shrugged innocently. “What? I’m helping! They’re stressed. They need to relax. I’m offering inspiration.”

“I did not consent to being used as Exhibit A in your sex-ed TED Talk!” Bucky barked, now clearly panicking.

“Too late,” Yelena muttered. “You’re a whole case study now.”

“I’m leaving,” Bucky muttered, already walking backward toward the elevator. “You’re all insane.”

“Love you!” Y/N called after him.

Bucky paused, pointing at her. “You’re getting payback.”

“I hope so,” she smirked.

The elevator doors shut behind him.

Ava slowly turned to Y/N. “So... back to this leverage thing…”

Yelena held up her hand. “No. We’re going to a bar. We’re finding someone hot. And I’m doing whatever they say—as long as it doesn’t involve windows, or vibranium.”

Y/N pumped her fist. “That’s the spirit.”

---

The team was mid-briefing in the tower’s war room, the kind with the 3D holograms, the giant table, and an overwhelming amount of caffeine. Y/N sat between Yelena and Ava, twirling a pen like she wasn't already bored out of her mind.

Walker was talking and clicking through intel slides. Bob was silently judging everyone.

And Bucky?

Bucky was biding his time.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded casually, watching Y/N with a small, unreadable smirk on his face. She hadn’t noticed yet. But Yelena did.

Something was coming.

Walker cleared his throat. “So our next op involves infiltration through a three-story compound—minimal cover, tight corridors. We’re thinking two-person teams. Standard breach and clear—”

Bucky casually raised a hand. “Can I make a team suggestion?”

Walker looked up. “What’re you thinking?”

Bucky smiled. “I should probably pair up with Y/N. She’s good at close-quarters work.”

Y/N arched a brow. “I’m flattered, babe.”

Bucky kept going. “And she’s excellent under pressure. Real flexible. Knows how to adapt to… tight spaces.”

Yelena immediately started choking on her water.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Oh,” Bucky innocently said. “Just giving the team some context for why I think we work well together. Like that time in Berlin—what was it you said? ‘You handle the top, I’ll take the bottom’?”

Ava’s mouth dropped open.

Walker blinked slowly. “I’m…gonna pretend that was tactical.”

Bucky smiled. “Oh, it was very… hands-on.”

Y/N’s face was flaming. “James Buchanan Barnes, I will kill you.”

“Oh no,” he said, leaning back. “You’re the one who decided to give my resume out like free samples at Costco. This is me… networking.”

Bob tilted his head, intrigued. “This is more entertaining than the actual mission.”

Ava tried not to laugh and failed. “You two need couple’s therapy or a reality show. Maybe both.”

Yelena was wheezing. “I told her payback was coming.”

Bucky turned to Y/N with a shit-eating grin. “You really should warn them about how loud you are during recon missions. Could compromise the whole operation.”

Y/N kicked him under the table so hard that Ava’s water bottle rattled.

“Oops,” she said sweetly. “Tactical reflex.”

Walker stared down at his notes. “I’m begging you. Keep the flirting PG until after we clear the building.”

“I can’t make promises,” Y/N muttered, glaring at her boyfriend, who looked way too pleased with himself.

“Good,” Bucky said, cracking his knuckles. “I like when you’re angry. Makes the mission more… physical.”

Yelena stood up. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this. I need bleach. Or a priest.”

Ava followed, eyes wide. “We were not ready for this level of revenge.”

Y/N slumped back in her chair, groaning. “I liked you better when you were emotionally repressed.”

Bucky leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You’re gonna like me even better tonight.”

Her pen snapped in half.

Walker, already regretting his life choices, said, “Next time, I’m assigning you to separate continents.”

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searchingforserendipity25 · 6 months ago

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conclave is a very good film made up of cardinal thomas lawrence having three horrible horrible days.

however the one thing it lacks is the consideration of how much worse they could have been if it lasted longer.

day four of conclave and the draw between tedesco and lawrence does not budge.

five days of conclave and at least one of the cardinals whose name got covered up in the trembley report backs lawrence against the wall and tries to threaten him with a kitchen knife before falling to weeping on his shoulder. day six of conclave and cardinal adeyemi and cardinal trembley nearly come to blows in the loggia. day seven of conclave and people start sneaking wine bottles into the sistine chapel.

day eight and they're passing them around covertly during the interminable voting process. day nine and three separate white collar crimes come to light because the guilty parties are sweating in their cassocks thinking lawrence has the dirt on them and they can't take the pressure anymore, they just can't.

day ten and vincent benítez is doing quiet prayer catechism hour in the garden after lunch.

day eleven and sabbadin is snorting someone's vicodin in the bathroom.

day twelve and the cardinals for warsaw and budapest are having a terrible breakup everyone is trying to pretend not to notice. day thirteen and lawrence stays in his room the whole day pretending he has a stomach ache and keeps having his nap dreams interrupted by dreams of turtles.

day fourteen and aldo bellini has brought his copy of giovanni's room to reread, half-heatedly hidden behind a bible cover.

day fifteen and vincent benítez has lead by example a number of cardinals into helping out in the kitchen at least once a week to frankly terrible culinary results and growing camaraderie.

sixteen days of conclave and lawrence has to sit down ray o'malley and actively beg him not to tell him anything else, please, no more info, no more digging into old scandals, no nothing.tedesco's tax audits may be suspiciously clean but lawrence is a man of god not a forensic attorney and he will not dig deeper.

day seventeen and lawence tracks o'malley down and asks him to look into tedesco's brother's recent real estate acquisitions.

day eighteen and the new whisper campaign to discredit lawrence keeps trying to bring up his most controversial progressive views but he keeps answering impatiently back with well-thought of biblical references as he did in the homily and accidentally causes a reprise of his canon law school lecture debates. which temporarily brings everyone together and opens the stage for a fierce ideological debate.

wherein lawrence gets accused, not entirely inaccurately, by trembley and adeyemi, united once more in offense, of being the last figurehead for the complacent liberal establishment/a judgemental prig and/or treating the college of cardinals like a group of jumped-up seminarians.

aldo bellini implies very loudly that tedesco is ugly, a fascist and too stupid to ever be invited to lecture at the sourbonne even once, and cardinal vincent benítez speaks up with great dignity and strength against american imperialism.

day nineteen and someone actively tries to murder the patriarch of venice. day twenty and it is revealed via sister agnes ex machina and cardinal benítez's disconcerting familiarity with very real and more successful murder attempts that tedesco was trying to frame bellini for it.

the proof is circumstantial and so are any accusations lawrence or anyone could make against him of corruption, but this does prompt him to go on a long speech about how the leftist agenda has thoroughly ruined not only the church but society at least and made any possible unity among men a sham.

day twenty-one and someone actually dies, unrelated to the tedesco fake-plot.

day twenty-two and they elect vincent benítez. lawrence hides in the room of tears having an anxiety attack of relief.

vincent benítez holds his hand tenderly through it and immediately accepts his resignation as dean but not before telling him his secret and having his hands held back tightly, and being told very earnestly that, short of actual unreasonable harm to other people and an extraordinary amount of bribery, he could be made by god's will in any possible variation and still have lawrence's trust. and most importantly, lawrence's papacy.

day one of innocentius xiv's papacy and lawrence finds him in the gardens feeding the turtles instead of taking the next train to a nice monastery in liège and offers himself as secretary of state. and this is why netflix should hire me.

#conclave 2024 #conclave spoilers #thomas lawrence #vincent benitez #aldo bellini #cardinal tedesco #sister agnes

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marvelstoriesepic · 3 months ago

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Look at Me Like That Again

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Waitress!Reader

Summary: Bucky desperately needs your attention while you’re on shift in his bar.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: so much longing; Bucky is a man in love; mild alcohol use; bar setting; Bucky being a dramatic kicked puppy

Author’s Note: Oh I enjoyed writing this so much. Thank you for the idea, my lovely!! I hope you like what I made of your cute little prompt ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

It’s the fifteenth time you've passed him.

Fifteen.

And Bucky Barnes is counting.

Because you don’t look at him when you pass.

And it’s been over an hour since you walked in wearing that stupid little apron that hugs your waist and the shirt he hates because it’s too tight and too low and everyone looks at you too long when you wear it. Everyone except him, of course.

Bucky doesn’t look.

He watches.

There’s a difference, you see.

You breeze through the bar as though you’ve got the whole damn place in your pocket, and maybe you do. These guys love you. They light up when you laugh, when you lean in to hear them over the music, when you call them hon in that voice soft enough to sew people back together.

You’re the only brightness in this place and you don’t even know it.

Your hair is already starting to come loose. You are balancing three empty glasses in one hand and a notepad in the other, reciting someone’s order from memory while still smiling, still glowing.

Bucky is leaned up against the bar like a damn decoration. He’s been standing here, useless, for at least twenty minutes. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes strained on your every step. You haven’t spared him so much as a glance since the jukebox changed songs, now crooning some worn-out rock ballad from two decades ago. Since the light shifted and the golden hour crawled in through the windows as if it was chasing you.

God, you look good in gold.

He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He’s cleaned the same spot three times. Cleaned the same glass four times before he realized he wasn’t even holding it anymore. He doesn’t even drink soda but the can of Coke next to him has been sweating beside his hand for half an hour. Warm now. Forgotten.

Just like him apparently.

You walk by. Don’t see him. Or maybe you do - but you don’t stop. Don’t smile just for him.

He can’t have that.

Not when you just smiled for that asshole in booth seven who licked his lips when you placed his beer.

He doesn’t know what his expression might look to others but he doesn’t care. He is sincerely displeased.

Sixteenth time. You float past, apron flaring, pen poised, eyes stitched to your tray or the screen or the sticky table by the window, but it’s never him.

He doesn’t like that. At all. He needs your attention, and he needs it now.

So when you swerve past again, too busy balancing an order for the back booth where one of his patrons is dramatically retelling some story to the others like he isn’t loud enough for the whole bar to hear, Bucky does what any reasonable man would do.

He pokes you. Right in the side.

You jolt mid-step, the drinks on your tray tilting before you balance them out. “Bucky.”

But he doesn’t hear the warning edge in your tone. Because your eyes meet his and suddenly everything inside him goes very, very quiet.

“I've been standin’ here,” he says, calm as ever, trying to sound like someone who isn’t folding from the inside out. “Watching you walk past me like I’m invisible. That’s cruel, sweetheart. Cold-blooded.”

You roll your eyes, though there is amusement tugging at your mouth. “You’re not invisible.”

“Oh, good,” he drawls, leaning forward, eyes shining beneath dark lashes. “Then I don’t have to haunt the place. Thought maybe I died and no one told me.”

You sigh. “You’re a child.”

“You’re the one ignoring me in my own damn bar.”

“I’m working, Barnes,” you emphasize.

He shrugs, a slow, unapologetic shift of his shoulders. “And I’m just standin’ here. Bein’ patient. Watching you ignore me in new and creative ways.”

You step back, turn, face him fully this time. He meets your gaze like he’s been waiting for it all night. Maybe all week. Maybe always.

You stare at him as though he’s something between a hurricane warning and a kicked puppy at your feet.

“You poked me,” you deadpan.

“Did,” he says, grinning. Not even a little sorry. “Would’ve waved, but my hand’s all tired from waiting.”

You huff. But it’s not annoyance. It’s the laugh you’re trying not to give him. The soft kind. The one that lives behind your teeth when he says dumb things with that mouth that should know better.

His chest warms. Truly warms. As though someone struck a match behind his ribs and the light spills into his bloodstream.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you, Bucky. But I do have work to do, alright? So you’ll have to excuse me.” You don’t look that apologetic either when you turn around again and trek down the bar to the booth where people are waiting for you.

But he’s waiting for you too. Tragically so. He doesn’t take his eyes off you when you place the drinks, when the guys thank you, when you smile that smile back, when you turn and walk away, when you are about to pass him again.

Poke.

You sigh as if you expected it.

He leans in slightly, as if he could soak in your heat and keep it. But your smell already makes him dizzy. “I’m not gonna stop poking you until you give me some attention, doll.”

You stare at him as if you want to throw a napkin at his face. Or kiss him. He prefers the latter. Although the former surely would be a privilege since it’s you throwing it.

“I do give you attention, Barnes. I’m literally talking to you right now,” you counter, slightly exasperated, but there is that fond smile forming, you just don’t let it out fully.

But it still does things to him. Hits his heart first, then spreads - to his cheeks, his fingertips, down his spine. That smile is a gift, a spark. It makes him foolish. Hopeful. It makes him dream in full color.

Bucky taps the counter, shaking his head. “You know you’ve walked by eighteen times now?”

“Eighteen?”

“Eighteen. I counted. Steve’s my witness.”

You glance behind the bar. Steve’s got two glasses in his hands and is pretending not to watch. Is pretending not to smirk.

There’s a pause. You’re still close enough to touch. The fabric of your shirt brushes his arm when you move. You smell like citrus and cinnamon gum and whatever soap you use that’s probably way too fancy for a dive like this.

But you don’t belong in places that are easy.

“You’ve been runnin’ around like you’re holding the ceiling up,” he says quietly, not even meaning to. “Just wanted to remind you I’m still here.”

And for a breath - a half-second crack in the wall you’re keeping up - you look at him. Really at him. He might even believe you see the thing he’s too afraid to name, but you don’t run from it.

“I know, Buck,” you say, smiling sweetly. Like a secret sunrise just for him.

And his body shuts down. Doesn’t even let him take in some air. Who needs that anyway when he’s got you?

Your eyes catch and hold. The noise of the bar slips sideways. Everything tilts.

Then someone calls out your name - loud, without the care he uses when saying your name, just another order. You turn with a smile already forming on your lips, moving back into your orbit, back into theirs.

But before you go, you look at him over your shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to ruin him for the rest of the night.

He watches you walk seven steps to the bar's edge.

He grins. Leans back. Taps his boot against the counter.

That’s alright, baby.

He’ll be here waiting.

Poking.

Always.

#2k drabble challenge request #2k drabble challenge #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #buckybarnes #bucky x reader fluff #bucky x reader fanfiction #bucky barnes drabbles #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky fanfic

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aprilisthecruelestmonth · 6 months ago

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April is the Cruelest Month Whump Event 2025!

Here we are again! The second year of AitCM!

It's a good month to whump our favorite characters!

In AitCM, to complete, you only have to write 15 days, and the other fifteen days you read & rec a fic that fits one the prompts for the day. (Feel free to create and promote art pieces as well!)

This not only makes it easier to fit into a busy schedule, but it helps promote your favorite writers!

You are more than welcome, of course, to write all thirty days or rec all thirty days—or both—but that is not necessary to complete the challenge.

Join us in filling the world with spectacular whump stories!

Tag us in your stories, recs, and art!

The prompt list for your convenience:

Day One:

Cornered-|-Whipped-|-Blood on hands-|- “Please… let me go”

Day Two:

Brave face-|-Branding-|-Self-sacrifice-|- “Pick on someone your own size”

Day Three:

Paranoia-|-Framed-|-Can’t Speak-|- “I don’t want to hear it”

Day Four:

Falling from a high place-|-Hunted-|-Fever-|- “I’m scared”

Day Five:

Slavery-|-Mind Control-|-Forced to beg-|- “It’s too late to ask for forgiveness”

Day Six:

Overprotective-|-Hidden Injury-|-Amputation-|- “I can’t do this”

Day Seven:

Panic Attack-|-Poisoned-|-Exhaustion-|- “No, no hospitals”

Day Eight:

Blackmail-|-Cursed-|-Made to watch-|- “Why did you do it?”

Day Nine:

Amnesia-|-Explosion-|-Failed Escape-|- “I don’t feel a pulse”

Day Ten:

Touch starved-|-Gunshots-|-Presumed Dead-|- “It’s your fault”

Day Eleven:

Nausea-|-Concussion-|-Secret Reveal-|- “Why did you come back?”

Day Twelve:

Dehydration-|-Tied up-|-Torture-|- “I wish you were dead”

Day Thirteen:

Explosion-|-Fainting-|-Fighting through the pain-|- “What did you say?”

Day Fourteen:

Medical Injury-|-Drugged-|-Pre-mortem Autopsy-|- “It’s not too late”

Day Fifteen:

Screams-|-Drowning-|-Fallen through the ice-|- “I’m so, so sorry”

Day Sixteen:

Sleep Deprivation-|-Choked-|-Hostage Situation-|- “Give them room to breathe”

Day Seventeen:

Phobias-|-Burned-|-Public Execution -|- “Just grin and bear it”

Day Eighteen:

Abandonment Issues-|-Used as Bait-|-Unconventional Weapon-|- “We can’t leave them”

Day Nineteen:

Stranded-|-Animal Bites-|-Self-surgery-|- “Not everyone makes it out”

Day Twenty:

Earthquake-|-Collapsed-|-Suffocation-|- “Everything hurts”

Day Twenty-One:

Stockholm Syndrome-|-Broken Bone-|-Withdrawl-|- “Don’t leave me here”

Day Twenty-Two:

Migraine-|-seizure-|-Running on Adrenaline -|- “Don’t speak”

Day Twenty-Three:

Confrontation-|-Stumbling-|-Scar Reveal-|- “Don’t let them in”

Day Twenty-Four:

Vengeance-|-Humiliated-|-A Game of Roulette-|- “Why can’t I move?”

Day Twenty-Five:

Stalker-|-Blindfolded-|-Friendly Fire-|- “You said you loved me”

Day Twenty-Six:

Infection-|-Beaten-|-Failed Escape -|- “It’s too late. They’re inside”

Day Twenty-Seven:

Weeping-|-Kidnapped-|-Running out of air-|- “It’s not my blood”

Day Twenty-Eight:

Over Work-|-Accident-|-Head Injury -|- “Where does it hurt?”

Day Twenty-Nine:

Windstorm-|-Broken Trust-|-No place to go-|- “I don’t want to talk about it”

Day Thirty:

Being Carried-|-Hyperventilating-|-Waking up disoriented-|- “I just need a hug”

Alt prompts:

1- Insomnia

2- Fall Guy

3- Whumper turned Caretaker

4- Twisted Knife

5- Pick who dies

6- Hot Coals

7- Ice Burns

8- Pulling Teeth

9- Waterboarding

10- Electrocution

Choose one or more of the prompts daily (or use an alt prompt) and get to work!

The minimum requirement is 100 words. It's not terribly strict. If 100 words seems too daunting, try to get as close as you can. There is no maximum word count, though.

Post your stories to our Ao3 collection:

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/April_is_the_Cruelest_Month_2025_Event

Do your best and get to whumping!

Special thanks to Lynn(justanotherinterneruser) for helping put this together. <3

#writing prompt #whump writing #whump prompt #writing #whump #whump tropes #whump community #whumpblr #Aprilisthecruelestmonth #aitcm2025

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hyruling · 1 month ago

Note

omggggggg 58 + 60 for the intimacy prompts mwah mwah mwah 🥰🥰🥰

60. sitting in their lap

—

“Dude. I know you heard me call seat check.”

Chim shrugs, tucked into Buck’s spot between Eddie and Maddie on the couch, smugly eating the popcorn that Buck and Eddie had been sharing before he got up to pee. “I heard no such thing.”

“You’re blocking the TV,” Ravi complains, but Buck ignores him.

“Come on, you all heard me. I was only gone for like, three minutes.”

“Wife privilege trumps seat check rules,” Chim argues, tossing popcorn in his mouth with a shit eating grin. He wraps his free arm around Maddie, who’s focused on the movie and studiously ignoring them both.

“That’s not a thing—”

“It is when it’s our first night out of the house since the baby was born,” Chim argues. “Or I could use the captain card if you prefer.”

“Abuse of power,” Ravi mutters, and Buck points to him excitedly.

“Yes, exactly, thank you Ravi!”

“I think you should use it though,” Ravi continues to Chim, and Buck gapes while Chim does a stupid fist pump. “We’re missing the climax of the movie dude. Just sit on the floor.”

“Easy for you to say from your high horse in the comfy armchair. The floor is hard on my leg,” Buck says. It’s only half true, but he’ll use whatever excuse he can to win one over on his brother in law.

“You sit on the floor all the time,” Hen interjects from her spot on the loveseat, curled up cozily with Karen, also ignoring them.

“Irrelevant,” Buck says with a dismissive gesture. “The point is, I called seat check, and what kind of society are we if we can’t even respect the sanctity of—”

And Eddie, who until now had been silently observing with an amused grin, rolls his eyes and sighs, “Dios, come here.”

He wraps a big hand around Buck’s wrist and tugs until he has nowhere to go but Eddie’s lap. Buck falls limply down, trying not to crush him at the last second by throwing an arm across the back of the couch. Eddie situates him across his legs, his back against the armrest next to Eddie, and if he weren’t struck so dumb by the whole thing he would put his feet in Chim’s face just to be annoying.

“Happy now?” Eddie mutters in his ear.

“Uh,” Buck says intelligently.

Eddie’s hand settles on his knee, the other resting behind Buck’s back along the armrest. Everyone’s eyes are on them when Buck looks up, but Eddie’s are on the screen. His cheeks are a little pink, but otherwise he appears normal.

“Wow,” Chim says after a minute. “An instant Buck-Off button.”

“Shhh,” Eddie hushes him before Buck has a chance. “Some of us are watching the movie.”

Chim shakes his head with a short laugh and finally turns his attention back to the screen, and the rest of the room follows suit.

Buck is, ostensibly, also watching the movie, but he has no idea what’s happening. Gun to his head he couldn’t name a single actor in it, despite having watched the last hour and a half before Eddie rewired his synapses. All he can focus on is Eddie, the feel of his chest rising and falling against his arm, his thumb rubbing unconscious little circles against Buck’s elbow, the heavy weight of his hand on his knee.

“You okay?” Eddie whispers after who knows how long, quiet in Buck’s ear.

Buck turns. Eddie’s eyes are dark in the dim room, his face much closer than Buck anticipated. He nods and tries to get a grip, though Eddie must be able to feel the way his heart is beating with the arm tucked around his back.

“Yeah, I’m great,” he answers softly.

“Sure? I can sit on the floor, if you’d rather not—”

Buck is shaking his head before he can finish the sentence. “No, no, this is — yeah, this is perfect.”

Perfect? He cringes internally, but Eddie isn’t fazed in the slightest. In fact he smiles, soft and pleased and all for Buck, and his heart rate kicks up another notch.

They finish the movie twenty minutes later. Buck’s had to pee for a good fifteen of that, but he refused to get up — he doesn’t have the kind of luck that will afford him a second chance at this. He doesn’t even get up when everyone else stands to stretch and refill their drinks, perfectly content to stay where he is for as long as Eddie will allow it.

Similarly, Eddie doesn’t push him off the second it becomes acceptable to do so. In fact he encourages Buck to stretch his legs out on the couch with a silent pat on his thigh.

“Am I crushing you?” Buck asks when they’re the only ones still in the room.

Eddie shakes his head and gives his knee a squeeze. “Nah. You’re kind of like a weighted blanket.”

Buck flushes and looks away. Feels ridiculous, like he’s fifteen again and being flirted with by Cassie McDaniel in homeroom — except they’re in their thirties, and Eddie isn’t flirting. He’s just being Eddie. The New Eddie, as Buck has coined it in his head; the one that came back from El Paso with a twinkle in his eye that Buck can’t quite parse. He’s the same old Eddie but lighter, somehow — more free with his touches and casual affection in a way that Buck very much enjoys, despite the way it’s slowly driving him insane.

Like now, for instance.

“Your ass is kinda bony though.”

Buck scoffs, affronted, and Eddie laughs. His hand tightens on Buck’s knee when he tries to shift his weight off Eddie’s thighs. “Didn’t say you needed to move.”

“Well I’d hate for my bony ass to dig into your perfect thighs.”

“Perfect, huh?” Eddie teases, and there’s that fucking twinkle again.

“Mediocre. Above average. I know you skip leg day at least once a week.”

“How many times can we have this argument?”

“It’s not an argument, it’s a healthy discussion.”

“Core strength is more important than having huge biceps, and as a firefighter, you should understand that—”

“Well those huge biceps have saved a lot of people, didn’t hear them complaining.”

“I’m definitely not complaining either, but my point is—”

“Are you two gonna cuddle on my couch all night?”

They look up to see Hen standing over them, hands on her hips and brow raised suspiciously.

“Maybe,” Eddie says before Buck can come up with anything. “You got something to say about it?”

“Only that you have your own house to be weird in,” she says with an eye roll. “And that Buck promised to help clean after the fiasco with the fondue last month.”

“Shit, I did,” Buck says, gingerly getting up so he doesn’t hurt Eddie with his bony ass. Eddie squeezes his hip as he goes though and nearly sends him sprawling. He just blinks innocently up at Buck when he whirls on him, self-satisfied little smile on his face that Buck wants to—

Nope. Not going there. He trails off after Hen and decidedly does not think about it.

He doesn’t think about it when Eddie comes in to help clean, hip checking him at the sink. Or when they say their goodbyes to everyone at the door, and Eddie presses little smacking kisses to Karen and Hen and Maddie’s cheeks that he pretends he’s not wildly jealous of. Or when Eddie leads him to the truck with a hand on his lower back, and keeps it there until Buck rounds the hood to the drivers seat. He doesn’t think about it on the drive home, Eddie quiet in that way he gets sometimes after one too many drinks, and he definitely doesn’t stare at Eddie’s ‘perfect’ thighs when he changes into his sleep shorts and sinks onto the couch next to Buck.

“That was fun,” Eddie says, relaxing until his head rests on the back of the couch.

“Yeah. Super fun.”

It’s quiet again, only sound coming from the TV playing on low. Buck keeps his eyes glued to it, though he’s not taking in a single thing Mrs. Brady is saying.

“You’re thinking pretty loud over there bud,” Eddie says during a commercial break.

Buck chances a look at him, and it’s a mistake. He looks so soft, relaxed against the cushions, wearing a baggy tank and shorts that ride up well above what Buck would consider an appropriate length. Buck looks quickly away.

“Hey. I didn’t make you uncomfortable earlier, did I?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Buck answers, and forces himself to make eye contact. Eddie looks a little unsure, and Buck quickly shakes his head. “No, I told you it was fine, I promise, I just. I’m tired, I guess. Karen’s sangria always sneaks up on me.”

Eddie nods. “Yeah I know. Wanna share the bed tonight?”

Buck flushes, and this time it’s definitely not dark enough for Eddie not to notice. It shouldn’t be a big deal — they’ve shared the bed a few times since Eddie and Chris came home, usually after a particularly grueling shift where their exhaustion ran too deep to tolerate the couch, and it’s been fine.

Only the last time it happened, he woke up to Eddie curled around his back, hand curled possessively in the front pocket of his hoodie. And in his half-conscious state Buck had thought, this is how I want to wake up everyday. He’s avoided sharing ever since.

“Nah, couch—couch is fine,” Buck stutters.

“Buck. Come on, talk to me, what’s got you so freaked?”

“I’m not freaked,” Buck lies, and turns back to the TV. “I’m not. Just. Brain is too loud tonight, I guess.”

He sees Eddie nod in his peripheral. “Well, I wasn’t kidding earlier you know.”

“About what?”

“You feeling like a weighted blanket,” Eddie clarifies.

Buck’s head snaps to the left. Eddie looks serious as a heart attack — which, incidentally, Buck may be currently having.

“So…”

“So,” Eddie echoes.

He inches closer until their thighs are touching. Buck watches in a weird sort of trance as Eddie twists and swings a leg over, hovering above Buck’s thighs. “This okay?”

Buck unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, “Yeah—yes. Yeah.”

Eddie smiles and sits fully, and then they’re just staring at each other. Buck keeps his hands firmly to himself, while Eddie’s rest comfortably on Buck’s shoulders.

“See what I mean?”

Buck blinks, remembers the weird metaphor they’re operating under. “Um, sort of. You’re only—I-I mean there’s only weight on my legs.”

“Good point.”

Slowly, as if he’s anticipating Buck to call their game of chicken and push him off, Eddie leans forward and wraps his arms around Buck’s shoulders, pressing their chests together. Buck feels his chin dig sharp into his shoulder before he adjusts and lays his cheek against his collarbone.

“How’s that?” Eddie asks, slightly muffled.

Buck inhales, feels Eddie move with him on the exhale, and it’s — well, Eddie wasn’t lying. Eddie lets his full weight press against Buck and it's comforting, to say the least. Electrifying, because it’s Eddie, and yet as the minutes pass he can feel his heart rate slow, his breathing ease. He feels their chests rise and fall together, Eddie’s warm weight settling him in a way nothing has in a long time — maybe ever. His mind goes pleasantly blank, even when one of Eddie’s hands starts to comb through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“It’s nice,” Buck answers belatedly, and Eddie chuckles at the sleepy timbre of his voice. “I see what you mean.”

“Right?” Eddie says, scratching gently at his scalp, and it feels so good he melts even deeper into the couch cushions. “You can touch me too, you know.”

“Oh,” Buck mutters, and picks his hands up from where they’d been resting awkwardly next to Eddie’s thighs. He wraps them tentatively around Eddie’s back; Eddie makes a contented humming sound in response.

They stay that way for a long time, until the late night rerun ends and another episode begins. Buck’s hands drift after awhile, smoothing up and down Eddie’s back slowly, thumbs rubbing circles against his scapula and vertebrae.

“Hey Eddie.”

He’s half asleep, and Eddie is so big and warm in his arms, and it makes him reckless. Eddie’s ear is so close to Buck’s mouth he can whisper what he hasn’t dared speak out loud.

“Yeah Buck?” Eddie says just as softly.

“I need to tell you something. No – don’t, don’t get up.” He wraps a hand around the back of Eddie’s neck to keep him still.

Eddie huffs but stays put. “You’re not about to tell me you’re moving, are you?”

There’s such an air of dread and petulance in his tone that Buck laughs.

“No. Didn’t, uh, know you had such strong feelings about that.”

“Well. I do.”

“It’s not that,” Buck says, and Eddie exhales against his neck. “But you might, uh—you might want me to when I—”

“No I won’t,” Eddie interrupts, leaving no room for argument. “Tell me.”

Buck swallows, hard enough that Eddie must hear it. But he waits patiently, one of his thumbs tracing figure eights on the back of Buck’s neck, and for some reason that is what finally breaks through his thinly guarded veneer.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The figure eight stutters to a stop, but Eddie doesn’t move an inch. If anything, he covers Buck with his weight even more, somehow, and Buck feels his nose brush his clavicle.

“And you think I want you to move out because of that?”

“I—well, maybe, I don’t want to make you feel—I don’t know. Actually, can we pretend I didn’t say anything?”

“No,” Eddie says. And then nothing else.

“I—Eddie you gotta—you gotta say something. Tell me to fuck off, or that it’ll never happen but you value our friendship anyway, o-or that nothing will change between us—”

“Hmm, no. None of those sound like me.”

“You literally said that last one. Basically verbatim, less than a year ago.”

“Yeah, but I was lying then. I don’t want to lie to you again.”

“Eddie, come on, what does that me—”

But in one swift move Eddie sits up, catches Buck’s face between his hands, and kisses him.

It’s a short kiss, a dry brush of slightly chapped lips, but it manages to alter his entire worldview in the five or so seconds it last before Eddie pulls away. Buck gets a brief glimpse of his pink cheeks before he tucks his head back against Buck’s shoulder.

“There you go sweetheart,” Eddie mumbles, voice drawling the way it does when he’s tired. “My knees have about another five minutes of this before I need to get up, let's not waste them.”

“Okay,” Buck says in a ragged voice that doesn’t quite sound like his. A voice belonging to a mouth that has kissed Eddie Diaz, and therefore irrevocably changed.

True to his word, Eddie continues to crush him into the couch for another five minutes, until his racing heart slows again and their eyes are half-lidded and drowsy when Eddie sits up.

“That was nice,” he says with a smile.

“Y-yeah, it was,” Buck agrees, squeezing Eddie’s thighs. “Same time tomorrow?”

Eddie huffs out a little laugh, and though Buck was half joking, Eddie nods and presses his forehead against Buck’s shoulder. Buck drops a kiss to the crown of his head before he can quite stop himself, and Eddie makes that same happy humming sound Buck wants to chase for the rest of his life.

“Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

—

#my fic #buddie fic #911 abc #drabbles #this is 2k though oh my god. lol #and it was gonna be longer but then i changed my mind bc i hit major writers block so. here she is ❣️#if it’s bad do not inbox me i already know etc. i can’t look at this anymore #anyway thank you kat and anon!! 💋 anon your ask killed me btw #btw chim was sitting on maddie’s lap before this all started. just so we’re clear #spaceshipkat

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dilfstarr · 2 months ago

Text

Toji x black fem reader

a/n: toji and kid megumi fics are dear to my heart. i had like three different prompts and i put them into one. ive been getting so much love on my work and its making me all mushy inside. thank yall so much— might drop a tear :,)

꩜ warnings: implied age gap(toji turned forty/reader is in late twenties), megumi is four, reader is megumi’s bio mother, toji at a cookout?!, fluff, lovey dovey shiii, smut smut smut!, accidentally taking a viagra, masturbation, side missionary?, backshots from hell, rough!toji, mean!toji, dom!toji/sub!reader, spit play, face slapping, hair pulling, thumb in bootay, implied marathons, Toji is all around disgusting.

“How’s Megumi?”

“Good. Quiet.”

“Ol’ lady still treating him like a newborn?”

“Yup.” He replied, popping the p at the end of the word.

There was a comforting silence between them as they both gazed down at the city beneath them. Abruptly, Shiu snapped his fingers before digging in his suit pocket.

“Oh before I forget, happy birthday Zenin.”

A pill bottle, topped with a red bow, rattled like maracas in his grasp before he passed it off.

“The fuck is this?”

SUPER LONG LASTING read back at him as he twirled the blue bottle between his fingers.

“You’re gettin’ old. It’s about that time where you have those… problems.” Shiu chuckled before taking a drag of his smoke.

“Really?” He questioned looking over at his friend, cracking a smirk, “Your wife didn’t have any complaints this mornin’.”

He was so tickled by his own joke, he could barely finish his sentence without laughing. His friend, on the other hand, didn’t think the joke was funny at all—grumbling something incoherent, flicking the smoke at him.

Toji knew he didn’t need no damn enhancement pills, you damn sure knew it—hell, from the shared vacation you took with Shiu and his wife last year, they knew. Shiu mistakenly booked a room with an adjoined suit instead of two separate rooms. The door separating them from y’all was located in their bedroom—coincidentally, that’s where yours was located as well. He couldn’t look you in the eyes for months.

It wasn’t every day he got a gift from his friend, let alone a gag gift, so he kept it. He stuffed the bottle in the side pocket of his gym bag, ultimately forgetting about it.

✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿

“Make sure you grab sunscreen, I don’t want my son walkin’ around lookin’ like a tomato.”

“Got it.”

“Oh! Make sure to pack extra clothes in case he gets dirty or somethin’.”

“Got it.”

“Should we bring his tablet?” You questioned, holding up his green iPad.

“Nah, other kids will be there. He’ll be good.”

“I know, but-”

The call of your name was flat and stern. “He’s going to be with his family baby, I promise he’ll be good. Now take seat before you start stressin’ me out.”

You sigh—walking defeatedly to the bed, next to where Toji was overpacking Megumi’s Tony Tony Chopper book bag. Plopping down on the bed, you throw the tablet on the pillows.

“Nuh uh. Get that shit off the pillowcase. We don’t know where that tablet been.”

“My bad.” You pick it back up the device and place it on your nightstand.

Your face contorts as your lost in thought. Your husband instantly knows something is going on.

“You okay baby? Need some dick before we go?”

“As much as I want to say yes, it would make us late nd’ I don’t want to hear it.” He chuckled, zipping up the book bag, placing it on the ground. The bed dips when he sits next to you, causing your body to sway gently. He pat his jean covered thigh twice before he spoke.

“Come to daddy, baby.”

You couldn’t hide your grin even if you tried. His lap was always inviting—your second place to sit. As soon as you got comfortable on his lap, his muscular arms wrapped around your torso from behind as he pecked along your exposed shoulder.

“Talk to me wife.”

You sighed deeply before replying, “I think I’m just nervous about Megumi meet my whole family. They can be a handful at times and I don’t want to…overwhelm him you know?”

He hummed at your words, taking a minute to respond—picking his words carefully.

“Megumi is growing up. He’s going to be exposed to all different kinds of people. Our job is to teach him to accept and not shield. Not saying we shouldn’t overlook him completely but let him…. Explore. Does that make sense?”

“…” He shifts your body to the side so he has access to your face.

“I’m basically telling you that Megumi will be fine” smooch “there is nothin’ to worry about” smooch “and we should get goin’ before we be late.” smooch

He lifts you to your feet by your waist. You stretch, reaching up for the ceiling. Turning around you see Toji holding his hand out, silently asking you to help him up. You chuckle, grabbing his one hand with your two.

“C’mon old man.”

He groaned when he stood up straight, “Yea, this old man will fuck you up.”

“Mmm I know it.” You purr. Your hands slide up him arms slowly—seductively, before finding comfort around his neck.

“You tryin’ to start some’?”

“Maybe.”

The kiss was long overdue. He pulled you closer to his hard body so he could get a better grip on that ass. Ever since you had your son, he couldn’t get enough of you—everything was so full. As he palmed your bottom, his kisses became hungrier and sloppier. He nibbled on your bottom lip, sucked on your tongue—anything he could do to express his love.

Three quiet knocks interrupted your make out session. Toji reluctantly slid his hands off of your ass—bringing them up to wipe your gloss off of him face. You did the same—fixing your dress in the process.

“Is that my megumi?”

Your tone was high pitched causing your husband to shake his head in disbelief. He hated when you talked to Megumi like he was still a baby—he will forever be a baby in your eyes.

The door creaked open slowly—his tiny figure standing in the door frame. He wore a pout similar to his father’s as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“About time he woke up, boy sleep like he got a job. You start getting him ready while I load up the car.

He gave you a quick kiss on your cheek before grabbing Megumi’s book bag. Walking past Megumi, he ruffled his hair earning an annoyed groan from him.

“Stop that dad!”

You giggle—walking towards his tiny figure. He instinctively raised his arms so you’ll pick him up. Usually, you wouldn’t hold him because Toji thinks he’s way too big to be carried around like a baby, but he’s not here, so what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. A strained groan left your lips as you pick him up, sitting him on your hip.

“You know how upset daddy would be if he seen me carrying you around?”

He nodded at your question before wrapping his arms around your neck. “C’mon let’s go get ready so you can eat.”

✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿

“Mommy it’s so cold!” He flinched at the cold liquid sprinkling on his skin.

“I know, but it’s to keep you from getting sunburned. Remember that time daddy was red like ketchup?”

Megumi giggles while holding his T-pose. “Yes! And he was screaming like a girl.”

He adds, making himself laugh harder. You laughed along with him, causing Toji walk around the car to investigate. He found you crouched down, spraying sunscreen on his son’s arms.

“What got y’all laughin’ so hard?”

Meg’s big gray eyes look up at his father—pointing in his direction, “You!”

“Me? What I do?”

“I reminded him about the time you got sunburned and how you were red like ketchup.” You rubbed the spray into his arms as you explained.

“And screamed like a girl!” Megumi added.

“And screamed like a girl.” You repeated.

“Whatever. You almost done?”

You switch from his arms to his legs, bending down lower to rub in the spay in. “Yea just his legs then I’m done.”

“Good, cause I’m hungry. I could eat a little boy named Megumi.” He joked, rubbing at his tummy. At the sound of his name, his face balled up in confusion. “Mommy hurry!”

Walking into the backyard felt like walking into a circus act. Two grills were being used at the same time, one of them housed your father— a green towel sat on the shoulder of his white polo, occasionally wiping his forehead as he dressed the chicken with his famous Bbq Honey Glaze. On the other grill was your uncle. He had one of the in-laws watching him grill hotdogs and hamburgers while he sipped his canned Twisted Tea. A green dragon bouncy house stood tall—rocking with each bounce. You could see kids doing all types of flips through the mesh net.

Candy Rain by Soul for Real blared through the multiple speakers—urging people to dance in formation. If the kids weren’t in the bouncy house, then they ran around freely with water guns soaking each other causing some of the adults to scold them for running. The tables lined up with finger foods were being shaded by many colorful umbrellas, shading the food from the summer blaze. You saw the familiar faces of your cousins sitting at the UNO table shouting about the rules and how the game is being rigged.

Megumi held your hand tighter as you began to walk towards the crowd. His book bag, with the photo of his favorite anime character plastered on the back, was being held up by the handle by Toji as he walked because it was too heavy for him to carry on his on—he insisted on wearing it. You were walking towards the house before the booming sound of your father’s voice hollered your name.

“You look beautiful as always baby girl.” His hug was warm—but it was blazing hot outside so the hug was very short. “Thanks pa.”

The loud clap beside your head from your father dapping up Toji caused little Megumi to look up confused at the sudden loud noise. Crouching down, it was now time for your dad greet your son.

“Wassup lil man.”

He held his hand out, palm up, asking for a high five. Megumi hesitated—looking up at his dad. Toji gave a nod and your son swung his hand down hard, slapping your father’s earning a “all right!” from him. He shook his tiny hand before standing up straight—giving a loud, overdramatized dad groan.

“Where is momma?”

“She in the house with all the women talking’ down on us fellas. You know, the usual.”

You giggle at his words, “Okay I’ll see you later, I’m gonna get Megs out this sun.”

“Ok baby girl. Aye Toj’, whenever you done in there come see me. I got sum for you to look at.”

“Yes sir.”

The walk to house was constantly interrupted by the nonstop greetings of everyone you passed. You made it your mission to at least say hello to everyone. Toji got pulled away by your uncle on the grill—unfortunately Toji, and the now many in-laws, were held hostage, listening to his jail stories. With his father no longer holding the weight of his book bag, Megumi complained about his back hurting and not wanting to walk anymore. With it being as hot as it was, you were not picking him up—you instead took his bag. He trailed closely behind you before you pulled him in front of you.

“My baby!!”

“Hi momma!”

The kitchen full of women watch as she damn near jumped over the counter to greet her first born. The hug was filled with love and way longer than the one with your father since you felt air conditioning blowing against your skin. She pulled away just to stare into your face and smiled.

“Where is my grand baby?”

“I don’t know, I could’ve sworn he walked in with me.” You grin, playing into her joke.

Megumi looked down at himself to make sure he didn’t suddenly turn invisible. He tapped your leg to get your attention while you and your mom“searched” for him on the ceiling.

“I’m down here grandma.”

His voice was just above a whisper as he spoke. He became as tall as you from your mother picking him up.

“You’re gettin’ big boy. Bout to be as big as your daddy!”

“Tell me about it. I want him to stay little forever.”

The kitchen gawked over Megumi as he was paraded around. He was the youngest on your side of the family and got spoiled by almost everyone. His pockets were stuffed with bills countless bills from their wallets, telling you not to steal it. From all the attention he received he instantly became overwhelmed, reaching his arms out for you.

“Here mama take him. Let me finish the banana puddin’ before your daddy come up in hear complainin’.”

You pulled out a dinner chair to sit—plopping Megumi on your lap. Your aunts watched in awe as you walked past them.

“Okay miss thing! I see you fillin’ out that dress.”

“Right that thang is just thangin’!”

The room erupted into laughter as your aunts took turns complimenting you.

“Now y’all leave her alone fore’ her man come and get ya.” Your mom warned, placing cookies on the glass baking tray.

“And who her man?”

As if summoned, the screen door was pulled open—Toji walking in. The bright sun shined from behind him like he was an angel. His sweaty stomach was being shown to the crowd from him using the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead. Tattoos of all shapes, colors, and sizes, glistening in sweat like a glazed donut.

“Uh, Toji?”

“Yea baby?”

His voice was rough and low—almost the tone he used to talk you through it.

He brought his shirt down expecting to look at you, but was instead gazing at kitchen full of shocked older women lusting over his exposed abs. The kitchen fell quiet aside from the quiet “ew” from your son.

“Now y’all get a grip and stop starin’ at the po’ boy!” Your mother walked around the kitchen island to greet your husband. “How you doin’ baby?”

“Better now that I’m seein’ you” His smile was genuine as he pulled her in for a hug.

Following in your mother’s footsteps your aunts formed a line to also be pulled into a hug. Soon, the kitchen became a Meet-And-Greet for your husband. You hilariously watched from the table as he pleaded with his eyes for help. One of Megumi’s cousins convinced his to play tag outside leaving you by yourself at the table.

Once Toji was done with his endless conversations with the women of the family, he made his way to you with a peace offering—a strawberry wine cooler.

“You doing alright baby? Been upset since Megs left.”

His chair was pulled up next to you so now you were rubbing shoulders. You took a big swig of the refreshing alcohol before you spoke.

“I think I want another baby.”

“You barely drunk that one. You tryin’ to get tipsy or somethin’?”

“Wha- no. Like a baby, baby.” To further emphasize what you meant, your palm rubbed circles on your stomach.

“..”

Megumi was no longer a baby and you haven’t quite registered that—no you didn’t want to register it.

“What’s goin’ to happen when that baby grows up? You gonna want another?”

You nod—a chuckle rumbling in his throat.

“Babies grow, nothin’ stays young forever, you do realize that right?”

“I know. Just one more baby then I’ll be good.”

He looks at you like you’re telling him a joke.

“I don’t think you’re takin’ this serious. A baby—no a child, is a lot of responsibility and it sounds like you just want for one stage of it’s life.”

Before you could reply the shouting of your father interrupts.

“Yo Toj’ you busy?”

He turns back to you, “We’ll talk later, yea?”

You nod, giving him the ok to walk away. His stride was something serious, like he carried something heavy—pulling up his pants slightly as he walked towards to door.

“Bye ladies!”

The kitchen synchronized like a coir as they all said goodbye. You were now left alone with your thoughts and a wine cooler. That was until your son came in seconds later doing his bathroom dance.

“Mama I have to use the bathroom.” Megumi whispered in your ear as if he was telling you top secret information. Matching his energy, you pulled him closer—cupping your hand around his ear.

“Let’s go.”

✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿

With the sun finally sunken, it was cool enough to be out. Overlapped conversations filled the yard from everyone sitting outside. With everyone fed and not burning up from the harsh rays of the sun, the atmosphere was much more inviting and calm. Megumi was surrounded by his many cousins in the bouncy house, having the time of his life. Couple’s crowed the makeshift dance floor, swaying to the steady tempo of Piece of My Love by Guy—Including you and your husband.

He was behind you with his head resting on your shoulder, occasionally kissing it. His hands were wrapped tightly around your stomach, pulling you closer in his embrace. One of your hands rested on his while the other fiddled with the dark hair on his neck.

“You can have a piece of my love, it’s waitin’ for you.” He sung lowly in your ear causing you to giggle from the tickling sensation.

“And why do you know this song Toji?”

He laughed before replying, “You think this is my first cookout?”

“Boy! It better be!”

You both giggle, rocking to the beat slowly. Turning around completely to face him—you lay your head on his chest. He rest his chin on your head as you listen to the steady beat of his heart. Toji fought the urge to massage your ass—your parents were less than fifty feet away.

It was now the perfect time to bring up your previous conversation.

“M’sorry for how i acted earlier. I was bein’ selfish.”

He hummed at your apology. “Do you get where I was comin’ from or you jus’ tryin’ to dead it? Cause this is serious.”

“I do get where you were comin’ from. I just wanted another child just for the first stage of its life and that’s not right. I never saw it from your perspective because I was so clouded in mine. I’m sorry.”

“Look at me.”

Your brown eyes fixed on his grey ones. Even in minimum light, his eyes shined bright. God he was so sexy.

“I’m willin to have as many kids with as humanly possible, I just needed you to understand that they won’t stay kids forever. Let them grow up baby.”

You nodded—understanding. “Ok.”

“Y’know how much I love you?”

“Hmm, I think I need to be reminded.”

“Oh I’ll remind you. I’ll remind you all night, gimme a kiss.”

You tried to keep the kiss as clean as possible before your husband bullied his tongue between your lips. His hands shifted down from your hips to your butt—rubbing it like he’s a fortune teller.

“Hey keep it PG!”

“M’sorry momma.”

You sheepishly hid your face in Toji’s chest as he found it hilarious. The song concluded and the couples gave the dance floor back for everyone else.

Hours passed, next thing you knew it was 11:08pm. The kids were asleep as the cookout turned into an adult party. Shots of vodka in jello form were passed around like a joint. Toji was whooping ass in blackjack—racking close to five hundred dollars. His mouth was reckless, when he was winning during card games—he encouraged you to put down the big bills and called you a pussy if you didn’t. His blut was held lazily between his lips before slapping a card down and collecting money.

This pimp shit ain’t nothin’ new to me

I knew he was for the community

Bigger in Texas by Megan Thee Stallion blast the speakers, causing in echo in the night sky. Your parents were definitely getting a notice first thing tomorrow.

“Show ‘em how you got pregnant cousin!”

You lifted your sun dress to your knees so it was looser by your ass. You squat, hands leaned on your knees as you popped your lower back—twerking. Your cousins encouraged you even more when the steady chant of “aye! aye! aye!” became louder.

“Show ‘em your Megan knees!”

On command you balance on the ball of your feet, thrusting back and forth—going as far as grabbing your ankles.

✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿

Toji drove back home in complete silence as you and Megumi were knocked the fuck out. Both you and your son were slumped over in the seat—mouth open, drooling. You had a time last night! You eventually woke up when he was five minutes away, but not without a metro booming headache.

Megumi stayed sleeping the whole walk to his bedroom as Toji carried him. Undressing him to put on his night clothes, you noticed the countless amounts of stickers on his body coincidentally in the same spots his father’s were. You smiled to yourself before pushing his hair back and kissing his forehead.

“Goodnight my sweet boy.”

Your headache was made worse by the steam of you and Toji’s shared shower. Every step you took was met with dots of black—you needed to sleep asap.

Toji didn’t have the gift of sleeping whenever, like you, so he took melatonin to ease him to sleep. Not finding any in his medicine cabinet he checked through his bags to see if he misplaced the bottle of drugs. He went on a world wide search before hearing the rattle of pills from his gym bag. Since he was so irritated, he didn’t even take the pill bottle all the way out—just digging his fingers in, taking two.

You were stirred awake by muffled moaning and the quick rapid movement of the bed.

“Fuuckk.” Toji’s groan was deep and desperate.

The bed shaking paused as he searched for another video. Finding one, he played it, resuming his jerking. He wore no headphones, just blasting porn from his phone into the shared bedroom.

“T-toji! Shiiit!”

Your heart flutter at the realization that he’s watching your homemade videos. His breathing was choppy and uneven. You felt the force of his head hitting the pillow as he stopped jerking again.

“Toji?”

Your voice was groggy a deep as you spoke. The light from the video flashed along his sweaty face. He pulled the blanket up to his stomach and paused the video.

“M’sorry baby. I can’t get it to go down. It’s been up for twenty minutes.”

“Is that normal toj’?”

“Fuck no it’s not normal.” The hand that held his phone ran through his hair.

You sat up, turning on the lamp on your side of the bed. Turning back to face him, your eyes damn near popped out of your head. His dick was like a caged monster under the blanket—just jumping and throbbing.

“Did you take anything at the cookout?”

“No. I took two melatonins like an hour ago tho.”

“Where is it?”

“Gym back, in the closet.”

Digging through the closet, you find his gym bag and hear the rattling of the pills. Reaching in you felt a ribbon? Pulling out the lid was a red ribbon used as decoration. You dig further before pulling out the whole bottle of Rhino Pills. You had so many questions.

“Toji why is there viagra in your bag?”

“Fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“The bottle of Rhino pills with the red bow. Toji if you’re having… problems you could’ve told me.”

The realization hits him like a fright train. He groans loudly, covering his face.

“Shiu gave ‘em to me on my birthday as a joke. I just took two thinkin’ they were my sleepin’ pills.

You were dumbfounded—you weren’t even completely out of your slumber, waking up to your husband taking not one but two sex enhancement pills.

“—So what now?”

“You lay down and let me take care of it.”

It started off with both of you on your sides before Toji deemed that it just wasn’t good enough. Still holding your leg up, he got on top, propped it over his shoulder, and went to work.

“Y’so fuckin’ wet baby goddamn!”

“Mmm j-just for you daddy.”

He was so lost the pleasure that he was about to nut already. His eyes closed—focusing on the sound of the ceiling fan to distract himself. It was working until the shlick shlick shlick sound of your pussy creamy drowned it out. You squeezed around him rhythmically easing him into his orgasm.

“S-shit! S’fuckin close baby.”

His thrusting got deeper, more harder—causing the headband to wack against the wall behind. Thinking fast, he gripped it and pulled it forward—cracking it. Your high pitched moaning was synchronized with each stroke, getting louder with each one.

“M’gonna nut all in this pretty pussy. My pretty fuckin pussy.” His jaw was cliched as he spoke to you. You loved when he got like this—unstoppable.

“Open that pretty mouth.”

You obliged—tongue sticking out so far touch it touched your chin. He watched his webbed spit drop on your tongue, glide to the back of your throat—watching how you swallowed it with your mouth still wide open.

“Yeess. You’re such a dirty fuckin’ bitch.”

Your giggle was squeal like as he degraded you—obviously as fuck out as he was. Your cheek stung at the repeated slaps he gave you—getting more turned on with each one.

“I wan’ you to f-fuck me harder daddy. Please!”

He said nothing as he pulled out. You were forcefully twisted in your tummy. He placed a pillow under your stomach before thrusting back in. All the air pushed out of you when he pushed in. He went right back to his ruthless pace.

“Hhunggoooddd yessuhhh!”

Both of his hands pushed your shoulders against the bed—pinning you down. Your moans becoming muffled as, intended.

“Y-you gonna wake up my fuckin son.”

Your moan turned into deep growling as you clawed the bed. He was so deep it felt like he was the beat of your heart.

Yanking you up the the hairline of your frontal, he spoke directly into your ear.

“This what you wanted? To be fucked like a cheap slut?”

Your brown eyes crossed as they tried to focus on toji from up above.

“I-mmmm fuhmm!”

Your response wasn’t good enough.

“I know how to get you takin’.”

He dropped your head on the bed with no remorse. Taking booth cheeks and spreading them apart—warm spit drip on your tight rim before dropping down to your pussy—adding more lubricant for his dick. The pad of his thumb circle your hole before he eased his way in. You tensed up—squeezing around his dick.

“Tooojii! Nuggh!”

“Theeere she is.”

Lifting you back again by the hairline your frontal, he asked the question again—this time with both of your holes plugged.

“S’what i w-wanted daddy! I sweaaar!”

“You better not ever give my pussy away. Understand?”

“I-I underst-stand.”

“Good.”

He gave a breathy chuckle as he reminisced. “Member how I told you I was gonna remind you all night?”

ʚɞ ʚɞ

#x black reader #toji fushiguro #toji x black reader #toji x reader #anime x black!reader #jjk x black reader #toji smut

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ceilidho · 10 months ago

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fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 1 masterlist

In the end, gazing out of the ship's portholes into the dark vastness of space proves to be less comforting than the architects must have originally anticipated. You can attest to this more than most.

Every morning, you get up an hour earlier than the rest of your crew and make your way to the galley to make your morning cup of coffee. A pack of instant crystals into your favorite mug and hot recycled water from the kettle. Sometimes you stay to have breakfast, but often you take your coffee with you to the main viewing deck for your morning sojourn.

There, you sit curled up in the navigator’s chair and stare out of the flight deck window until your breathing levels out. Early morning meditations. With the sun only visible through the rear porthole, the Milky Way stretches out before you, immeasurably vast. Ancient cosmic entities, some already long dead.

Stars fill your field of vision like an intricate latticework of varying brightness. The watery glass warps at the edges, bending the far off light. All things with their propensity for brightness and decay.

A deep, steady hum fills the room. It’s cathartic to be alone. Sometimes, when you look out into the depths of space, you imagine yourself as a cartographer of old, labeling everything beyond this point: “here there be dragons.”

Farah is the first person to join you, the ship’s maintenance technician already washed and dressed, floral cumberbund cinched around her midriff and her headwrap pinned in place. She greets you with a firm nod upon her entry, never one to mince words. In the months since your ship set off on its course for Jupiter, you’ve exchanged all of ten words, most of your conversation one-sided.

She glides in like she’s been up for hours, likely running through her routine maintenance checklist. Monitoring propulsion, life support, and all critical systems. You wouldn’t doubt if she had been, descending into the bowels of the ship and cataloging every minute difference from the day before. Nothing if not thorough.

Graves sweeps in not twenty minutes later, his uniform pressed and ironed. When he glances your way, you shrink under his gaze, self-conscious about something unidentifiable. He is every bit the commander you met briefly back on Earth, never a hair out of place. If he were less intimidating, he’d be insufferable.

“Morning,” you murmur, the mug still close to your lips making your voice reverberate. He doesn’t respond. You wonder if he even heard you greet him. It likely wouldn't matter.

Medic has a different connotation this far from Earth. Hierarchy out in space is typically determined by way of one’s importance to the ship, and the scope of your role does not, unfortunately, include maintaining the ship. What that means, unofficially, is that you speak when spoken to, and not for any other reason.

In the months to come, there may be moments or days when your usefulness is acknowledged, usually much to your colleagues’ chagrin. Though it’s not likely that any of the crew will encounter foreign pathogens while on a hermetically sealed ship in the middle of space, they’re all still susceptible to falls and cuts and worse. Nikolai, the chief engineer on board, had sprained his wrist during the first week of the mission, lending you immediate purpose and validation.

You make way for the second officer when he finally deigns to make an appearance, sliding quietly out of his seat and stepping to the back of the cockpit, back pressed to the wall closest to the door.

“Morning, everyone,” he greets, peppier than the three of you despite his rumpled appearance. His thick mustache twitches with the force of his smile. “Ready to seize another day?”

“Jesus Christ, Keller, let’s tone it down ‘til about ten o’clock, alright?” Graves sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.

“Our clocks are off, commander,” Alex jokes, coming over to give him a little shake by the shoulder. It would be insubordination from anyone else. “I’m about ready to eat lunch.”

“Let’s just get through formation and then you can go fill up the bottomless pit you call a stomach.”

The morning briefing never takes up too much time. It’s as much of an excuse to have coffee together as it is to go through the day’s schedule. Graves spends most of the time reviewing the flight course, charting where the ship will be by day’s end.

“Almost through the belt,” Alex remarks, staring down at the monitor in front of him. It’s an incomprehensible jumble when you try to peer over his shoulder, but he must be able to make sense of it.

The crew had been on high alert since entering the torus-shaped region between Mars and Jupiter a month back. For the most part, they needn’t have been so on edge—the average distance of the asteroids in the circumstellar disc between the two planets tended to be quite substantial—but a collision the previous day had reinstated their earlier anxiety.

“Can we switch from manual yet, Farah?” Graves asks from his seat at the helm of the ship.

She shakes her head, lips tightening with frustration. “I still have to figure out what’s going on with cruise control—it’s not responding correctly.”

“Was that from that little ding the other day?” you ask, blurting out the question without thinking.

Farah’s expression is flat when she glances over at you. “That ‘little ding’ nearly took out our communications system altogether.”

You wince at that, staring down at your feet instead. Better to just shut your mouth than make a fool of yourself. Had you not blurted out the question, you might have even surmised the nature of the situation given the comm specialist’s notable absence from the cockpit.

When Nikolai eventually ambles in with a thermos of coffee and deep troughs under his eyes, Farah looks up and frowns. “Where’s Hadir?”

The man shrugs, nonplussed. “Cargo?” he grunts, rolling the toothpick between his teeth around the words.

She sighs. “I’ll go find him.”

No one says anything when she leaves, the double doors sliding open and shut automatically at her approach, and she doesn’t bother saying goodbye.

“Dismissed, I guess,” Graves sighs, collapsing into his chair and spinning around to face the stars proliferating in front of him.

The informality digs at you sometimes because you know you can’t indulge in it. The times you’ve attempted to, you’ve been rebuffed. Sometimes unintentionally, but often to remind you of your place.

This isn’t a crew you’ve ever worked with before. From conversations you’ve overheard, you’ve gleaned that they’ve all worked together in different capacities before, years of familiarity breeding an easy trust and companionship between them. Two of them might even be lovers—though Farah maintains a neutral facade at all times, the same can’t be said for Alex, the man always hovering nearby, eyes going soft at the sight of her.

You’re the only odd man out. The newcomer. And though you sit with them in the mess for meals and partake in conversation and pass jokes like small stones from hand to hand, you know deep down, in the dark well of your heart, that you are not one of them. You are a passenger that they picked up along the way. A straggler.

This wasn’t supposed to be the case. When you signed on to the mission months ago, the circumstances were wholly different. A newer ship, a different crew, some of which you’d worked with before. Then ownership changed hands and budgets were cut. Slashed to ribbons even. You had a chance to tour the ship before the launch date, and even down on Earth with all the glitz and glam available to trick the eye, you hadn’t been convinced of the vessel’s ability to withstand the extreme conditions of space.

But by then, you were locked into a contract so iron-clad that the consequences of breaking it seemed worse than simply seeing the mission through.

Most days, you feel like you’re waiting for something to give. You pass through halls that echo with low creaks and a deep, rhythmic thrum. Sometimes the walls of the ship groan so loud that you wait with baited breath for the hull to implode around you, to feel the metal crush the delicate eggshell of your body beneath its weight.

It’s not any better to just stay in your room, your quarters too cramped to nurture anything other than claustrophobia. A recent, unfortunate side effect of spending months on such a small ship. You’ve become accustomed to crews numbering in the tens and hundreds, ships so colossal in size that even months spent aboard weren’t enough to explore all of its nooks and crannies. Cargo holds with excavators and backhoes for excavations on Mars and humvees for getting around the rough terrain.

This ship barely holds six people and the payload you’ve been hauling to Europa. Pipes hiss in the corridors. Once a week, the radiator splutters or the intercom overhead crackles, kicking your heart into hyperdrive.

You leave formation more out of sorts than ever. Vaguely aimless. With nothing to do, you grab breakfast in the galley and eat at the counter, too uncomfortable to venture over to the mess. Your days consist mainly of hovering around the ship or sitting quietly in the medbay, waiting for something to happen. A morbid preoccupation.

The stairs clunk under your feet as you make your way down towards the medbay. You’ve long grown used to the sharp sound of your boots against the metal floor.

Rationally, you know they don’t dislike you. You might even venture to say that you get along with the majority of them, particularly the chief engineer and Farah’s brother. The big man likes that it only takes a single drink to get you plastered, often howls with laughter when you stumble out of the mess after drinking with the crew, always the first to turn in for the night. Farah herself is only frosty because she works twice as hard as anyone else, burning the midnight oil on the regular.

You swallow half-truths like stones to help settle your stomach.

It doesn’t replace real companionship though; it approximates, but doesn’t quite replicate it. You feel its absence most acutely in the sidelong glances you sometimes get of real affection: Alex grazing his pinkie across Farah’s when he thinks no one is looking; Farah’s eyes softening at the sight of her brother; Graves and Nikolai reminiscing about something a decade past, hardly even aware of your presence in the room.

It’s something you’ve endured before, but never for such an extended period of time. Prolonged isolation prickles at the mind, feathering the edges. It purples space; passes through the vents. The crew rarely goes on spacewalks (hardly any need for it), but sometimes you swear the ship’s oxygen has a faint sulfuric undertone, like rotten eggs. It permeates the air wherever you go.

Someone knocks at the window just as you walk by.

You pause mid-sip, the mug raised to your lips and just pressing into your bottom lip, not yet tilted.

“Hello,” you hear through the thick-paned glass, the voice muffled through the layers of glass and plastic partitions. “Could you let me in, please?”

Though your reflex is to look up, you don’t for some reason. The muscles in your neck stay locked instead. Shoulders stiff, weighed down by an unnatural force.

The thing outside the ship knocks again. “Love? Can you hear me?”

Your head turns towards the porthole, the hand holding your mug drifting away from your mouth. It tips in your hand and a drop leaks down the side. Your lips tingle, almost numb.

There’s a man outside the porthole, clear as day. He hovers outside the window, a hand raised in a friendly wave and full lips splitting to reveal perfect, white teeth when he smiles. He’s dressed in a spacesuit, no different than any of the crew on a spacewalk. Through the helmet, you can make out dark eyes and dimples. A close cropped beard.

It’s not a face you’ve ever seen before though. You think you might’ve remembered someone so handsome working on the ship with you.

Something needles inside of you though. A sickening feeling, like something you’ve forgotten but you desperately need to remember.

“Hi there,” the man says, voice as charming as you’ve ever heard, so velvety rich that you feel the blood heat your cheeks. “Glad you were passing by. Mind letting me in?”

#ceil writing #cod x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz/reader #gaz x you #this is my first attempt at scifi so im going to really concentrate on building the atmosphere over the next several parts #and i might edit this overall before it goes on ao3 so just know that

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seumyo · 3 months ago

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DADDY DUTIES 101: Learning how to buy fresh groceries.

Todoroki had never realized how complicated poultry could be.

“Thigh or breast?” the vendor asked with a friendly smile, hands already hovering over the chilled display case of neatly arranged cuts.

He blinked down at the various trays of meat with the kind of mild confusion that suggested he had, in fact, never made this decision before. And he hadn’t—not once in his life. Fuyumi had always handled groceries when they were young, and after moving out, Todoroki either picked up takeout, made simple meals, or followed a list you had written, item by item, down to brand and packaging.

Now, however, you stood beside him, baby Shuu strapped to your front in a soft gray carrier, looking up at him expectantly.

“Thigh,” you prompted gently, your hand brushing his as you leaned a little closer. “You like dark meat more, remember?”

Todoroki nodded slowly, still staring at the options. “Right. Thighs.”

It, in fact, wasn’t as simple as being asked how much he was planning to buy.

The vendor chuckled kindly and began packaging the chosen cuts.

Beside him, you turned your attention to the baby, who had started kicking his little legs with excitement, his head poking out from the carrier to survey the colorful stalls of the open market. His soft hat was a little crooked, one sock slightly twisted, and yet he looked like the happiest creature alive, making unintelligible sounds and reaching for things that caught his eye—mostly bright bell peppers and leafy greens he couldn’t possibly reach.

“This one’s a busybody,” you murmured fondly, adjusting Shuu’s hat and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Todoroki looked at them both, quiet warmth blooming in his chest. The chaos of the market faded into the background. They were just… a family. His family. Something soft and ordinary, yet so deeply precious it made his breath catch.

“Do you want to pick the vegetables?” You asked, nudging him gently as you tucked the bag of chicken into their reusable shopping tote. “You’ll have to learn eventually. We can’t survive off your curry attempts forever.”

“I’ve been improving,” he said, mildly offended, but followed you toward the produce stand anyway.

“I don’t burn the rice anymore.”

“That was one time,” you teased, looping your fingers through his as they walked. “But the rice did come out… crunchy.”

Todoroki gave you a long, unimpressed look that only made you giggle more.

The vegetable stand was overflowing with color—deep green spinach, vibrant carrots, glistening cucumbers, and tomatoes so red they practically glowed. You picked up a tomato, turned it in your hand, and held it out to him.

“See the skin? No wrinkles, smooth, shiny, and firm but not hard. Try it.”

Todoroki took the next tomato and mimicked your movements, turning it over carefully. It felt strange to be learning this now, at twenty-three, in the middle of a peaceful market with a baby strapped to his wife’s chest. But there was something wonderful about it too. No villains. No patrols. No pressure to save the world. Just… tomatoes.

“This one’s good,” he said, holding it out.

You inspected it with a mock-serious expression and then nodded, placing it in their bag. “You passed. One point for Daddy.”

Shuu let out a delighted squeal at the sound of their voices, wriggling excitedly against your chest. Todoroki leaned down, brushing his nose against Shuu’s cheek until the baby squeaked and grabbed at his face with pudgy fingers.

“His grip is getting stronger,” he mused, letting Shuu yank gently at his hair.

“Probably from pulling your hair every morning,” you said, amused. “I keep telling you to tie it back when you sleep.”

“I like it when he plays with it,” Todoroki said, deadpan, even as his bangs were thoroughly tousled. “It’s his revenge for tummy time.”

He could get a haircut, but then he wouldn’t have those precious moments with his baby again. And you know what they say, that they’re only little once.

You laughed at that, bright and loud, and Todoroki wished he could bottle the sound.

You moved through the market leisurely, picking up items as you went—radishes, some eggs from a local farmer, and tofu from an older woman who complimented Shuu’s dimples. A pair of elderly shopkeepers stopped you two to coo at your baby, pinching his cheeks and offering a small toy, which Shuu instantly tried to eat.

“He’s a little celebrity,” you whispered as you walked on. “Everyone loves him.”

Todoroki adjusted the tote bag on his shoulder, watching his son with a small smile. “He’s easy to love.”

You eventually paused by a small cart selling hand-carved kitchen tools—spoons, spatulas, and even chopsticks. Todoroki was drawn to them, fingers brushing over the polished wood.

“You’ve been interested in this lately,” you said, watching him. “Pottery. Chopstick carving. You know you’re allowed to have hobbies, right? Things that aren’t life-threatening?”

“I’m getting used to that,” he admitted, picking up a pair of sleek rosewood chopsticks. “Not fighting every day.”

He turned the chopsticks over in his hand, feeling their balance.

“I thought it would be harder,” he added after a moment. “Slowing down.”

You watched him quietly, then leaned into his side. “You earned this peace, Todoroki.”

He let out a soft breath. “I think I’m starting to believe that.”

They bought a pair of beginner chopstick kits and made their way home as the sun started to dip lower. Shuu had fallen asleep somewhere between the spice stall and the fishmonger, his little head lolling peacefully against your chest. Todoroki walked slower, letting the soft weight of domesticity settle around him like a familiar coat.

Later that night, after dinner and a shared bath for Shuu (who managed to splash water all over the floor and into Todoroki’s face), Todoroki tucked his son into bed. He stood there for a long moment, just watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his tiny fingers curled slightly even in sleep.

You appeared beside him, pressing against his side, your hand finding his.

“You okay?” You whispered.

Todoroki nodded. “Yeah. Just… grateful.”

Your head rested on his shoulder. “We’ll make sure he grows up knowing he’s loved.”

“I know,” he said. “I already love him enough to last a lifetime.”

And that, more than any legacy or battle he’d ever fought, made him feel like he had truly won.

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thisapplepielife · 1 year ago

Text

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Herding Cats

Day #23 - Up and Coming | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Talk of Previous Sex, Brief Teasing about Daddy Kink, Minor Appearance by Billy | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie, Platonic Stobin, Minor Others | Tags: Road Manager Steve Harrington, Having to Herd These Assholes, Like Cats, Famous Corroded Coffin, The Morning After a Show

1 Night, 4 Rooms The morning after. Is also standalone, but everything is is below.

Eddie | Goodie | Gareth | Jeff | Steve (Bonus morning after!)

Steve walks down the hotel hallway, knocking on each door of their block, giving them each a shave and a haircut, two bits so they know it's him, but that he doesn't need them to actually come to the door, just get up and at 'em if they aren't already.

There's a hotel security guard watching him work, which he's pretty sure they didn't request. For better or worse, they've got their own security now.

And speak of the devil, and the devil appears, walking towards him from the elevator is Billy, and Steve pulls the daily schedule from his binder, and hands it off as they pass each other. Not stopping, not saying a word. It's easier this way. They can work together, but decidedly apart.

In the private dining room, Steve does a loose headcount. Crew is all over, filling tables, and Eddie's sitting with Gareth and Di, his plate already piled high. Jeff's at the buffet now, but Goodie's nowhere to be seen.

Steve catches Billy's eye, taps his watch, holds up the number three, and rotates his hands in a well? motion.

Billy gives him the three back, then points upwards. Then switches his extended finger to his middle one, flipping Steve off. Fucker.

The baseball-style hand signals work well, but there are downsides, unfortunately. Steve's given them each a number: Eddie's one, Jeff's two, Goodie's three and Gareth's four.

And three's missing.

If Steve doesn't see him in ten minutes, he'll go do an in-person wake up call.

Still no Goodie.

Goddamnit.

Steve lets himself into room 1013, and Jesus Christ. It looks like a tornado hit it. The condom wrappers alone.

At least he was safe.

On the bed, Goodie is facedown, bare-assed. Scratches all up and down his back.

"Goods!" Steve yells, banging on the dresser with his fist.

Goodie jumps, startled awake.

"Morning, Casanova. Breakfast, ballroom seven," Steve says.

He's still not moving.

"Charles!" Steve yells, and Goodie growls in response. Steve'll pay for that later, but at least Goodie's responding.

"And put something on your back, it looks awful," Steve says, only staying long enough to make sure Goodie is moving.

It's like herding fucking cats. Feral, maybe a touch rabid, cats.

Back at breakfast, Eddie's clearly looking for him.

"Steve," Eddie says, and pats the empty chair next to him, "Come. Sit. Eat."

Steve looks at his watch. Yeah, he better do that if he's gonna before they go.

Standing at the buffet, Robin comes up and hip checks him, "Hey, dingus. You look tired," she says, and he feels tired. It's gonna be a long fucking summer, no matter how this all shakes out. "Let me pick up some of the slack. Put me to work."

He leans down and kisses her head. He just may have to, for his own sanity.

Goodie eventually blunders in, looking a little worse for wear.

"Hey, Daddy. Long, hard night?" Gareth says, and everyone that had been within earshot last night laughs, while everyone else is just confused. Steve hadn't actually heard any of this himself, he was long asleep by then, but Gareth made sure to relay all the dirty details to anyone that would listen.

Apparently whatever hellcat Goodie brought home last night had a daddy kink that they all loudly got to experience. They didn't even have to pay extra for the show.

Steve's shocked Eddie didn't call the hotel to complain about the noise. Goodie did that to them once, and he knows Eddie would love to repay the favor, just for fun.

Goodie reaches down and squeezes Gareth's neck from behind, but he's laughing. Steve's already seen the scratches on his back, and now he can see the marks all up and down his neck, so he must have really caught himself a wild one.

Good for him.

"They can call me anything they want, as long as they fuck like that," Goodie says, reaching over Gareth's head, pulling all the bacon off Gareth's plate. There are complaints, of course there are when it comes to Gareth and Goodie, but Jeff is walking by and just takes bacon from his plate and drops it on Gareth's.

Keeping the peace.

It's not like there isn't an unlimited supply. They paid for it, they can eat all they want before the bus leaves in, Steve checks his watch, forty-six minutes.

It's a day off, and they don't have far to go, but they still have a schedule to keep, and playing catch up is a pain in the ass. It's so much easier to stick to it, even if he has to strong-arm them to get them anywhere on time.

Steve stands by the steps of the bus, marking everyone off as they get on. The crew bus already situated, and long gone. But Goodie's been on and off their bus twice, as everyone else was settling in for an on-time departure. Steve looks up at Saul, the bus driver, "We're waiting on Goodie to get on again. And then we're ready."

Saul gives him the thumbs up.

Goodie comes walking back across the parking lot, six-pack of beer under his arm. Hair of the dog, Steve supposes.

"That it? We're good?" Steve asks, and Goodie nods behind his sunglasses, shuffling up the steps and crashing onto the open spot on the couch next to Jeff.

"Wild night, huh?" Jeff asks Goodie.

"I'm fucking sore. Everywhere," Goodie moans, and Steve chuckles as he does the final headcount.

He thinks they're all here, but he doesn't want to get fifty miles down the road and realize Gareth isn't anywhere to be found.

Not again.

Eddie's in his bunk, reading.

Billy's foot is dangling out of his, blocking the aisle.

Steve steps over it, and knocks on the back bedroom, getting responses from both Gareth and Diana. That's everyone. All here.

"Saul, it's all yours," Steve says, sliding into the jump seat, as the bus finally pulls away.

Next stop, Jacksonville.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

#corrodedcoffinfest #prompt twenty-three: up and coming #steve harrington #goodie (unnamed freak) stranger things #gareth stranger things #eddie munson #jeff stranger things #freak stranger things #billy hargrove #corroded coffin fic #ccf day twenty-three: up and coming #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest #thisapplepielife: short fic

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writingfics-passingtime · 3 months ago

Text

Crying Wolf

This fic can be read as a standalone, or as a part 2 to Fearless

synopsis: You notice Bucky pulling away from everyone. Steve says the best way to help is be yourself - to not treat him any differently. But now, thanks to Loki, teasing Bucky might come with some consequences.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (flirtatious), Loki x reader (platonic)

cw: swearing, ruthless tickling of the reader, mentions of trauma, inappropriate jokes

word count: ~5700

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but contains a suggestive storyline between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: I've had quite a few of you in my inbox and replies kindly asking for a sequel to Fearless, and it's been on the prompt list for a very long while. This is both a sequel and a standalone; you don't need to read Fearless to read this, but the story might make more sense if you do. I wrote Fearless several years ago, so please forgive me if this feels like a big departure from the initial tone. I hope you enjoy it all the same.

special thank you to sunflower anon for the plot idea 🌻

Bucky hasn't come to group training in three weeks.

He's quieter than usual, which is really saying something. You’ve seen it before, in the eyes of others who’ve been through the wringer; that distant stare, the haunted look that never quite leaves. You know it well enough to recognise it on him.

But the thing with Bucky is that he doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be seen as a victim or a burden.

So, you're standing there, fists clenched around the worn-out edge of your training gloves, eyes locked on Steve, the only one who might have any insight. You're working through your own sparring drills, but your thoughts keep flickering back to Bucky. His absence from this moment. You can’t get him out of your head.

Steve is sweat-slicked and a little breathless, but still as composed as ever. You throw a quick jab. He easily dodges.

"Hey," you say, standing down, shoulders dropping. "What’s going on with Bucky? Why isn't he here?"

He drops his guard. "He’s been through a lot," Steve says, like that wasn’t the understatement of the century.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, but Steve keeps going, voice quieter, more measured. "He’s... isolating."

"Yeah, I’ve noticed." You pick at the tape around your hands and then pull your firsts back to fighting stance. Steve is ready for you. You throw a hard punch at him this time, the impact sharp against his arm, but your mind is elsewhere. "Is there anything I can do?"

Steve steps back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and looks at you like he's searching for something. You don’t know what, but you can feel the weight of it, the way his gaze lingers. "Just… be yourself. Just show up, treat him like you normally would." He tilts his head to the side, a wry smile pulling into his cheek. "Push his buttons. Y'know, like you usually do."

You let out a humourless laugh, wiping some sweat off your forehead. "I didn't want to push him. Antagonising a super soldier doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it."

He cracks a grin, one of those rare smiles you’ve seen from him, and his eyes soften. "That’s the point. He’s tired of being that guy. The super soldier. He needs to feel normal again. Don't pull back - you won't push him away. He’ll come around."

You stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s being serious. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s talking about. But you’re still skeptical.

"If you say so," you mutter, tying your gloves tight.

Steve chuckles, patting you on the shoulder. "Good. Now run drill twenty-two."

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen expecting the usual chaos of breakfast prep and clinking plates. But it's quiet today. Too quiet. You see Steve and Bucky sitting at the table. Steve’s holding a mug of coffee, but Bucky… Bucky’s got a book in his hands. It’s a small thing, but the fact that he’s holding it, actually reading, is a rare moment of peace.

You pause, leaning against the doorframe, studying them for a second. It’s not often you get to see the two of them like this. Calm, together, in a room bathed in morning light.

Bucky’s got that unreadable expression. He’s focused on his book, but you can tell it’s more out of habit than actual engagement. His eyes keep flickering to the edges of the pages. His mind is elsewhere.

And then, an idea comes to you.

You walk in like you own the place - a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how to mess with someone. You grab the coffee pot, pouring yourself a cup, but you don’t take your eyes off Bucky.

"Hey, Bucky," you call out, cocking an eyebrow, "you want some more coffee with your smut?"

Bucky’s brow furrows, and he looks up from his book, confused. "Smut?" he asks, the word foreign on his tongue. Steve glances up, and they both just look at you, genuinely clueless.

You take a casual sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. "You know, smut," you say with a smirk. "Spice."

He blinks. "Spice?" He looks back at his book, flipping the page like he’s searching for something.

You chuckle. "Yeah, sex scenes. In books. The dirty stuff."

Bucky’s face flushes a deep red, his eyes darting back to the pages, and his lips start to part as if he’s about to protest.

"No need to lie," you say, giving him a mock look of doubt. "I’ve read it. No judgment."

Bucky’s face looks like he might combust. "There’s nothing like that in here," he says quickly, eyes shifting between you and Steve like he’s about to combust, but Steve’s choking on his coffee, trying not to laugh.

You bite the inside of lip, trying to hide your grin. "Are you sure? Because I swear I saw you flick to the page where it gets real spicy."

He looks between you and Steve, horror creeping into his features. "You’re… you’re joking," he says, half in disbelief.

You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Buck. It's popular. Hell, you’re probably the only one who’s hiding it."

Steve’s snorting into his coffee, clearly enjoying this, and Bucky’s still looking between the two of you like he’s caught in some bizarre fever dream.

You take another sip of your coffee, pretending to be nonchalant, even though you’re holding back a laugh. "Not gonna lie, I’ve read far worse than what's in that book you're holding."

His face flushes deeper, and his gaze snaps between you and Steve, who’s barely holding in a snicker behind his coffee mug. There’s a moment where Bucky just doesn’t know what to say, his lips parting like he’s about to spill something out, but the words don’t come.

And then, like a switch, the realisation hits him.

You watch as the corner of his mouth twitches in that small, tight smile you’ve seen before, the one that doesn’t come around often. But this time, there’s something more in it. A shift. You’ve broken through just a little, and now the teasing, the banter - it feels different. The air between you is charged, in a way you can’t quite put into words. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen any kind of genuine expression on Bucky’s face.

"You’re messing with me," he says, voice dropping to something lower, darker. The challenge in his tone makes your heart race just a little faster.

You lean back against the counter, your coffee cup held loosely in one hand, your expression deliberately neutral. "I’d never mess with you, Bucky," you say, a sly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I’m smarter than that. Just trying to start a book club."

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those penetrating steel-blue eyes, and you feel something twist in your chest. He points a finger at you, glaring with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Tell Steve you’re joking."

There’s a tension in the air now, something that wasn’t there before. Something unspoken. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long while, you’re really looking at him.

Steve’s chuckle breaks the moment, and you glance at him, a little relieved for the distraction. But Bucky doesn’t look away. His gaze doesn’t soften, but it’s sharper now - focused, intent. There’s an edge to his stare that makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t decide whether it’s because of the game you’re playing or something else entirely.

"You’re ridiculous," he mutters, his voice warmer than before, though still carrying that familiar edge.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and you can’t tell if it’s the sudden softness of his voice or the way his proximity makes everything seem a little bit… closer than it should be. But you stand your ground, meeting his eyes head-on.

But then, Steve clears his throat loudly, and just like that, the moment snaps back into place. The tension fades, but it doesn’t disappear. Not entirely.

Bucky looks at Steve, then back to you, and finally sighs in defeat. You smile to yourself, trying to hold in the satisfaction as Bucky gives you a glare with an undeniably playful edge. "I’ll let you off the hook. For now."

But as Bucky grabs his book again, his fingers brushing over the pages, you can feel it - the warmth that's simmering. It’s fragile, but it’s real. And for the first time in days, Bucky looks like he’s in the moment, not lost in the past.

He's here.

You’re mid-sentence, arguing that the protagonist’s internal conflict didn’t pay off, when the quiet creak of the library door pulls both your and Loki’s attention.

Bucky steps inside, the dim lamp light cutting across his face. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes gleam with something unreadable. He’s got the book in hand - the book - and you already know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth.

He lifts the novel slightly, dark gaze flicking from Loki to you. "No smoot."

Your mouth twitches. "You mean smut, Buck."

Loki, of course, is the first to speak. He closes his own book with deliberate flair, settling into the leather wingback like a king on a throne. “What's this?”

Bucky's eyes don't leave you. "Not a single sex scene in here. Not even a kiss."

You exhale slowly, fighting to keep your expression neutral. "Must’ve been reading the wrong edition," you murmur, reaching for your tea.

Loki gives you a look that could be called gleeful if it weren’t laced with such dry malice. "Please, darling," he drawls. "If you’re going to gaslight the poor man, at least try to make it subtle."

Bucky watches you, head tilted slightly, his brow raised in amusement. "So you were joking," he says slowly. "Trying to get a rise outta me."

You lift your brows. "Trying?"

You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you kind of are. Because Bucky isn’t just amused - he’s focused. The kind of focus he gets when he’s squaring up with someone. His weight shifted just forward enough, like he’s waiting for something.

Loki, however, is thriving on the mischief. He conjures another book from thin air, holding it aloft between his fingertips, the cover glinting with gold leaf and something entirely indecent on the front.

"If you're is truly disappointed by the lack of literary debauchery," Loki says to Bucky, tone smooth and unbothered, "you might prefer this. Popular on Midgard, I hear. Something about dukes and corsets."

You cough into your tea, trying to keep it together. "Shit. Not sure I'd take Loki's suggestion for this stuff, Buck."

Loki's glare swings to you. "And why not?"

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it’s short-lived. His attention’s on you, too, gaze narrowing. "You should be careful who you're messing with."

Before you can respond, Loki cuts in, his voice sly and dangerous with the air of someone about to set the room on fire.

"If you’re struggling with her mouth, Barnes..."

You snap your head toward him. "Don’t."

Loki’s smile turns slow and wicked. "Oh? He doesn't know?"

"Know what?" Bucky asks, now looking to Loki.

"Loki," you growl, the warning sharp now.

But he ignores it entirely, already too far gone. He gestures lazily toward you, his tone almost sing-song. "She’s incredibly ticklish, Barnes. Mouthy little thing until you find the right spot. Then it’s all helpless laughter and desperate apologies."

Your heart lurches. "Loki-"

But the trickster’s already leaned back, positively smug. "Writhing, squealing," he continues, voice full of mock nostalgia. "It's delightful, really. Highly effective. I suggest you try it."

Bucky’s attention snaps to you. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous.

And then he moves.

Not fast - not overt. But his steps are steady, and your breath hitches the second he crosses into your space. You sink deeper into your armchair, instinct or gravity, you can't say which.

Bucky follows, slow and calculated, until he’s bracing one hand against the back of your chair, the other resting casually on the armrest, caging you in with practiced ease.

His head dips just slightly as he leans over you.

Your spine locks up. Your pulse is a drum.

You force yourself to tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. But it’s not easy - not with the way he’s looking at you, not entirely amused anymore. This is something else - playful, yes, but edged with something sharp. Something primal.

You don’t dare move.

His voice is low when it hits you. "You ticklish, sweetheart?"

Your skin lights up like static.

You don’t flinch. You can’t. He’s too close. Close enough to see the tendons in his neck, the glint of his dog tags, and the faint smirk pulling at his stubbled mouth.

You swallow, hard. "Bucky, I-"

"One more word about smut," he murmurs, "and I’ll make you regret it."

Your lips twitch.

Because this - this - is good. Bucky, letting loose. Teasing. You could almost cry from the relief of seeing him like this. Not haunted. Not withdrawn. Just a guy giving you hell.

"Understood?" he adds, voice low and rough.

You nod, trying to keep your grin in check. "Cross my heart."

He studies you a second longer. And then, without another word, he straightens and walks away - calm, controlled, leaving the scent of coffee and leather and adrenaline in his wake.

You exhale once he’s gone, sagging into the chair like your bones gave out.

And then, of course, Loki.

The bastard crosses one leg over the other, examining you with a look that says he’s just found his favourite soap opera and you’re the main character.

"Well," he says, smiling like a serpent. "That was electric."

"Don’t," you say quickly, pointing at him.

He raises a brow. "I’m merely observing. Stark’s infrared sensors probably picked up the heat signature."

"You’re such a dick," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly across your chest as you glare at him. You can't keep the edge from your voice. "Seriously, telling Bucky to tickle me? What the hell?"

Loki’s eyes flick up from the book in his hands, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back an insufferable grin. He doesn’t even flinch under your stare, too amused by your annoyance. Of course he is.

"Oh no," he says with exaggerated sympathy, looking up just enough to give you that devilish grin of his. "The handsome super soldier might pin you down and place his hands all over you. How ever will you survive?"

You glare harder and pick up your tea. "Whatever. You're still wrong about Hotchins in the third act."

Loki takes the cue and picks up your argument from where it left off as you try, and fail, to suppress the flutter of heat low in your belly.

It's the very next morning that you walk into the living room with the sort of easy confidence that comes from a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and no immediate need to duck for cover... and you walk straight into a trap.

Steve and Banner are seated across opposite couches, coffee mugs in hand, data pads in the other, discussing something in quiet tones. Loki lounges like a bored cat - how he manages to drape himself across furniture like it was carved for him, you’ll never know. And Bucky...

Bucky’s seated on the end of another couch, boots planted on the ground, body relaxed but alert in that way of his. His eyes are lowered, reading. The book’s balanced in one hand, and the moment you see the cover, your steps slow.

Because you’ve read that one.

And that one is definitely not PG.

A laugh huffs out of you before you can stop it. "Oh my god. That book?"

Bucky doesn’t look up. But he goes very, very still.

You continue across the room, grin widening, genuinely excited. "How far are you? Wait - don’t answer that. Let me guess. Chapter fourteen?"

Steve chuckles into his mug, glancing over. "We know you were just messing with him the first time."

"I was, the other day," you say, hands up. "That book was clean. But this one..." You giggle, but you're actually kind of excited to discuss it with him- uh, the plot, that is.

But Bucky closes it slowly and tosses it down onto the table like it just insulted him.

He stands.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle. Just the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips slightly to the side. But your stomach drops all the same.

Because you remember. His voice in your ear.

"One more word about smut, and I’ll make you regret it."

You laugh - nervously, this time. Hands up. "Hey now, hold on. This isn’t a repeat offence. I'm genuinely curious."

"Sure," Banner chuckles from the couch, not looking up from his data pad. "Totally sounds like curiosity. Not at all like a joke at his expense."

"Okay, wow, betrayal from all sides," you mutter, taking a small step back as Bucky starts toward you. "I’m just saying, I didn’t expect you to be reading that book of all books, I-"

He says nothing. Just takes another step.

Measured. Intentional.

You keep backing up. "Seriously, Bucky, I’m innocent this time. Genuinely. I wasn’t teasing you, I swear. I was-"

"Don’t run. Don't make me chase you," he says, voice low. "Just come here and take it."

Your heart spikes so hard it echoes in your ears. "Okay, see - that right there? That’s terrifying."

He takes another step. You bolt.

You turn, trying to whip around the couch-

-and slam full-speed into Loki’s chest.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a hard puff, and before you can untangle yourself, his fingers coil around your wrists. He ensnares you with far too much grace, and far too little resistance.

Then you glance over Loki’s shoulder. See the version of him still seated casually, still sipping tea.

Until it shimmers, and vanishes.

"Oh you son of a-" you gasp, already squirming. "You set me up - this was a trap!"

Loki chuckles, low and serpentine, in a voice only you can hear. "Who, me? Would I truly give Barnes a book I knew would provoke some commentary from you?"

Your stomach drops, you look up at him, breathless and flushed. "No..."

You tug at your arms, but Loki just tuts and holds you in place.

"C’mon," you try, turning to Bucky. "Truce. I didn’t mean anything this time. Just honest commentary."

Bucky smirks as he reaches you, the look in his eye somewhere between wicked and indulgent. "You always talk this much when you’re nervous?"

"I’m not nervous," you lie. "I’m smart. There’s a difference."

The two of them exchange a look, one that sends heat down your spine and makes your hands twitch in Loki’s grip.

"Let’s get her seated," Loki says lightly, dragging you toward an empty couch. "I’d hate for her knees to give out from anticipation."

"Oh fuck," you groan.

They ease you down - not rough, but not exactly gentle either. Before you can sit properly, Bucky swings a leg over your hips and settles, his weight pinning you in place.

"Steve? Bruce!?" You wriggle against your captors to no avail, shooting a desperate look to the bystanders. But they merely toast their mugs, a sign you're on your own. Your heart stutters as you turn back to Bucky and Loki.

You buck a little, instinctive panic fluttering in your stomach. "Guys- wait. Hang on-"

"Reasoning window closed," Bucky says calmly, adjusting his position. "You were warned."

Loki chuckles and pins your wrists above your head. "I believe Barnes has earned this one."

Bucky looks down at you, one eyebrow raised, the picture of mock deliberation. ��Well? Where should I start, Loki?”

"Bucky, please-"

Loki smiles. "I’d hate to deny you the delight of discovery."

And then-

Bucky presses his fingers to your stomach.

You jerk violently and screech, the sound raw and high-pitched before devolving into a helpless laugh that rips from your chest like it’s been waiting days to break free.

"Fuck! No- Bucky!"

"Wow. You are so ticklish," he says, incredulous, like he’s just uncovered a national secret. He presses again, harder, and you twist, laughing uncontrollably as he digs into your sides.

Your muscles spasm. Your feet kick the cushions. Loki’s grip on your wrists is annoyingly effective.

"Wait, WAIT! I’m sorry!" you gasp, voice cracking from laughter. "I-I take it back! I take everything back!"

"Too late," Bucky says, smirking now, barely breathless himself from the effort.

Your laughter pitches higher as he shifts lower, targeting your hips, and your brain starts short-circuiting from the overload.

And through it all, even as your cheeks burn and your lungs scream, the warm, sharp heat of it stays with you-

He's laughing with you. Not at you.

He’s open. Present.

Alive.

So you brace to take your medicine.

Bucky's fingers scuttle lightly along your sides, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt where skin meets air and nerves light up like a damn Christmas tree.

You lose it.

Your laugh is immediate - loud, cracked, breathless - and your entire body lurches like it’s trying to escape its own skin. You twist, squirm, kick, all of it completely fucking useless under the weight of a super soldier and the iron grip of a literal god.

"No- fuuuck, Bucky! I swear- I’m gonna-"

"Going to what?" he challenges, voice calm, maddeningly measured as he drags his fingers up your ribs, slow and deliberate. "Be more careful with your commentary next time?"

You shriek through another peal of laughter, your legs flailing against the couch cushions. "I was genuinely curious!"

Steve snorts from the other side of the room. "Sure you were."

Banner still doesn't even look up from his tablet. "This is what happens when you antagonise assassins with trauma and downtime."

You try to scream something back but all that comes out is a garbled, breathless sob-laugh as Bucky zeroes in on that brutal little spot just beneath your ribs, one hand holding you down by the hip while the other dances back and forth across it in merciless zigzags.

It’s not fair - he’s too strong, too steady, too fucking good at this.

"Buck, I swear-" you gasp between giggles, "-you’re gonna kill me!"

“You’ll live,” Bucky says dryly. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, that rare ghost of a grin that’s less threat and more reward. Like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

You glare up at Loki, who's still got your wrists pinned above your head, effortlessly casual.

"You traitorous bastard," you wheeze. "Let me go and fight me like a god."

Loki raises a brow. "And risk being thrashed by a ticklish mortal writhing like a fish on a dock? I think not."

Bucky hits a weak spot and you squeal, lashing out at Loki - “You glittery frostbitten motherfucker!”

"Language," Steve calls from behind his coffee cup.

Loki smiles cold and bright. "I wasn't planning to get my hands dirty, but seeing as you insist on dragging me into this..."

He moves your wrists to one hand and slides the other down your arm. You suck air through the giggles, eyes going wide, and shake your head.

"W-w-wait! No! I'm sorry! I didn't- SHIHIT!"

His fingers glide with awful precision into the hollow of your underarm, just a featherlight stroke to start.

You scream.

Your body convulses violently, torn between twisting away from Bucky’s maddening fingers at your lower ribs and Loki’s devastating scrapes along your underarms.

"No - oh my god - fuck, Loki, don’t-!"

"Oh, we’re well past don’t," Loki says smoothly, fingers trailing in tight little circles, never fully lifting, just skating and brushing and tormenting.

It’s like they coordinated this. The way Bucky’s hand shifts lower again, teasing at the crease of your hipbone with just the pads of his fingers - sweeping side to side, unpredictable and effective. The way Loki keeps his strokes light, fluttering, like he's writing a damn poem on your skin in ancient runes.

Your stomach jerks every time Bucky’s touch flirts with your waistband, and the pressure of him straddling your hips pins you in place no matter how hard you buck.

You try to thrown him off, but he just shifts his knees, anchoring you harder. The muscle under his jaw twitches with restrained laughter. He’s trying to look serious. He’s failing.

You gasp, flailing weakly. "I’m gonna die-"

"Can’t die from tickling," Banner says absently. "Elevated heart rate, maybe. Definitely some stress on the diaphragm. Oh, and laughter-induced fatigue is a thing, too."

"I hate science!"

"Noted," Steve says, grinning now. "We’ll put it in your file."

"She might pass out, though," Banner observes mildly, finally looking up.

"She’ll be fine," Steve says, sipping his coffee. "She needs the cardio."

You’re laughing so hard your voice is almost gone, hiccuping now, tears sliding sideways down your cheeks. "I- I swear- I’ll kill you both-"

"Already tried," Loki murmurs, deadpan, still tracing maddening circles under your arm. "Failed spectacularly, if I recall."

"Yeah," Bucky adds with a tilt of his head, "You’re not in much of a position to be making threats."

His fingers walk back up your ribs again, slowly, rhythmically, like he’s feeling each one - tracing the outlines like he's mapping you.

It’s unbearable.

It’s warm and raw and intimate in a way you didn’t expect, in a way that’s short-circuiting your brain and turning your limbs to jelly. It’s playful - but layered under that is a weight you can feel: that he's choosing this. Choosing you. Not mocking. Not hurting. Just being, here, with you, present and real and alive.

And that’s when Bucky leans in, face close to yours, his voice low and rough with amusement. "You bring up smut again," he says, "and next time I’m starting at your feet."

You wheeze. You actually wheeze.

Then he shifts his position just slightly. The movement is barely noticeable - just a subtle shift of weight, a lean forward - but it frees his right hand, which now dips lower.

You feel it coming before it lands. The anticipation alone has you screeching.

"No! No no no- not there-!"

But he does. His hand slips past your waistband, just far enough to press into the soft spot at your lower belly, fingers drumming lightly before grabbing at the hypersensitive nerves beneath.

You go feral.

Your scream dissolves into breathless, chaotic laughter, your entire body spasming under the onslaught. You thrash, but you’re caged by both of them - Bucky pressing you down, Loki above holding your arms in place like a steel-boned statue. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You’re just nerves and heat and helpless, writhing laughter.

Steve watches it all unfold, biting back a grin. "You know, this is probably against several peace treaties."

"Oh, absolutely," Banner replies. "But it’s compelling television."

You’d kill them too, if you could.

"Alright-okay-I’m dying," you gasp, choking on laughter, trying to twist away as Bucky’s fingers keep tormenting that same damn spot. "Mercy! Please, fuck - I mean it, I can’t-!"

"You sure?" Bucky cocks a brow. "Sounds like there’s still plenty left in you."

Your eyes close as you try to suck in enough air to speak. You kick the couch cushions blindly, and Loki’s fingers resume teasing your ribs, climbing up toward your armpit again, and your breath fractures.

"OH MY GOD- OKAY! I’M SORRY - FUCK - UNCLE, TRUCE, WHATEVER YOU WANT! I'M SERIOUS!"

Bucky finally stops. Slowly. His fingers ease off, dragging lightly across your stomach once more before retreating, and you melt into the cushions, panting, your body shivering from residual laughter.

Loki releases your wrists and stands, dusting his hands like he’s just completed a satisfying day’s work. “I’d say we’ve done a public service.”

You gasp like you’ve surfaced from underwater, cheeks on fire. You blink up at the ceiling and rasp, "I’m gonna have nightmares about fingers."

"Splendid," Loki says pleasantly.

"I hate you both," you croak.

Steve chuckles. "She’s lying."

Banner taps his tablet. "Endorphins through the roof. She’ll forgive you in five."

"Three," Steve corrects.

You let out a muffled groan, pressing your hands over your face. "I hate this entire team."

You don’t even realise when Bucky shifts - just feel the weight lift off your hips, the heat of him pulling away, the absence of torment like stepping out of a rainstorm.

Then his hand slips under your elbow and he’s tugging you upright, gentle but firm. Your limbs are jelly. Your lungs barely work. Your chest heaving with the aftershocks of too much laughter and too many nerves frayed to the edge.

You try to sit straight, but your body betrays you and you fall - helplessly, gracelessly - against his side where he sits.

Bucky lets out a low, amused huff as you slump against him like a puppet with its strings cut.

You mumble into the shoulder of his t-shirt. "I think I saw the light. Pretty sure it told me to go back to bed."

Steve snorts. "Not a chance."

You peel your face from Bucky’s shoulder just far enough to shoot a bleary glare toward the couch across from you.

Steve’s grinning around a mouthful of coffee. "It’s training time. Get your caffeine, get your gear, let’s go."

You groan and swiped a hand down your face. "I’ve already done my cardio."

Loki smirks faintly, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "You’re welcome."

Bucky chuckles low, then pushes off the couch, offering you a hand. "C’mon. I’m game for some sparring."

You blink up at him. It takes a second to register what he’s said.

He hasn’t trained with the team in weeks. Not since things got dark again, and he started retreating into the corners of the compound like a ghost in the walls.

But now... he’s standing here, hand out, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in too long. A flicker of light back in his eyes. Not all the way there. But present. Here.

You slide your hand into his, let him pull you to your feet, your legs still wobbly as hell.

As he turns toward the kitchen, you look past him - catching Steve’s eye across the room.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Steve gives a small nod.

You let out a slow breath and follow Bucky, faintly buzzed, breathless, nerves still crackling from the aftermath.

But warm.

An involuntary smile etches into your lips, eyes stinging as you blink back tears of relief.

It was worth every second.

#marvel reader insert #no y/n #loki x reader #ticklish!reader #bucky x reader #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes tickle #loki tickle #marvel tickle fics #marvel tickle fic #bucky x loki x reader #tag team #bucky fic #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky fanfic

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deathofacupid · 5 months ago

Text

── .✦ CONVERGENCE THEORY ﾉ chapter one.

featuring. guitarist!geto x nerd!jo x bimbo!reader. warnings. cursing, sex jokes. summary. a brainiac who quotes theorems, a rock god who smashes guitars, and a social butterfly who can't remember anyone's name. the three of you couldn't be further different if you tried. but, what is it they say? ...opposites attract? word count. 1.4k+ words. a/n. was literally half-asleep writing this. enjoy, uh, whatever this may be. might go in for edits, after i've gotten more than two hours of sleep? divider credits to @/bronzewasp and @/enchanthings-a. -> click here for the series m.list!

"you just need to think about it. i mean, you're almost there."

that was a lie. shamelessly, your tutor, satoru gojo, lied to you. it's not like you're listening, anyways. well, okay, you tried. for a whole two minutes, then you tapped out.

besides, you're nailing that third layer of gloss, lips pursed like you're trying to suck a golf ball through a straw. the compact mirror reflects peak shine, a momentary oasis of perfection in the academic wasteland.

"y/n?" satoru persists, tapping the twenty-five that was circled in the corner. for a millisecond, you experience a flicker of what might be called academic concern.

it manifests as a slight tightening around the eyes, quickly suppressed. but then, you realize it's just a number.

you glance at it. red ink. a lot of it. it looks like a crime scene for a pen. but it’s just a number. a number signifying a thing you clearly didn’t prioritize.

you shrug internally. it’s not that you're opposed to doing well, it's just that the effort-to-reward ratio seems wildly unbalanced, especially when you're this close to achieving peak lip gloss.

you take one look at him, sighing. wondering to yourself, how did i get here? to which you would remember the four failed tests in a row. every single time, your professor, the human equivalent of beige wallpaper, dropped your test face down. like it was a biohazard.

if you were more self-aware, maybe you'd have realized it's close to one.

snapping your compact mirror shut, you huff at him. eyes boring into him, as if satoru personally committed a war crime against you. setting it on the table, you groan, "what?"

he gives you an awkward smile, signature of his. another signature of his? that sweater vest. he's got three or four in rotation, and you'd make fun of him.

you would, but it's uncanny how well they look on him. you're not sure what it is, but paired with those glasses that are too big for him, he pulls it off.

not that he even bothers.

satoru ducks his head, prompting to fiddle with his pencil instead. you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

so far, as much as you've counted, the max he can hold eye contact with you is four seconds. ooh, he was close to beating his record this time.

a whopping three. since you were feeling generous, you even throw in another couple milliseconds. you consider yourself a pretty good individual, anyways.

he clears his throat, eyes fixed on the mess of a test. "this one. number seven. let's try it again?" it comes out more like a question, and you giggle. it's not condescending, you swear, he's just funny.

maybe, satoru doesn't think the same. not from the way his cheeks are red. almost the same shade as the ink, you notice.

you pop the bubble you've blown with your gum, "but i don't, like, get it."

"that's okay. 's what i'm here for. look, you didn't even do anything crazy here. just," he pauses, squinting at your work. it's in warm, curly handwriting. it's pretty, but most of it seems to be random numbers.

"oh, I see," he mumbled, pushing his glasses up. they slid back down. you considered suggesting glasses that fit, then decided it was probably part of the... presentation.

"see, you just forgot to carry the two. early on here. that's why the rest of this doesn't make sense."

you blinked. "there's a two?"

"well, yeah. see, they give it to you."

"where?" you squinted, shifting slightly, as if the paper being upside-down would better aid you.

he pointed. "...there?"

"oh," you shrugged. "i didn't see that."

his eyes nearly bulged. "then what were you going off of?"

another shrug. "i don't remember."

he stared. "you just... guessed?"

"maybe?" you tilted your head. "is that a problem? Is there a 'no guessing' rule i missed?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "this is a calculus problem."

"and?"

"and you can't just guess."

"why not? Is the answer going to explode if i guess wrong? does it trigger a self-destruct sequence in the paper?" you tapped the sheet with a long, very pink, acrylic nail. "because I'm willing to risk it. i'm feeling lucky. like, i just found a twenty dollar bill in my laundry lucky."

he looked at the equation, then back at you, then back at the equation. "you know, sometimes i wonder if you're pulling my leg."

"is that a legitimate mathematical operation?" you asked, pointing to the paper. "can we add 'pulling legs' to the list of acceptable problem solving techniques?"

with you, he can't tell if you're joking or not. he sincerely hopes you are, and that isn't a true thought in your head, but he wouldn't be surprised if it were.

he's about to open your mouth, but when he looks up to meet your gaze, he sees that it's not on him anymore. it's all the way across the library, to the glass doors.

or, rather, what passes behind them. unmistakable, even with the two seconds he gets.

suguru geto. suguru with his long, black hair, electric guitar on his back. unmistakeable.

alas, to you, he wasn't just suguru. he was ex-boyfriend suguru. satoru wasn't one for gossip, but you and him had been all the talk before, during, and after.

you're seething, at least a little bit. because, there, hand-in-hand, with him, is some girl. the audacity.

"he's mocking me," you mutter.

"uh, i don't know. i don't think he knows you're in here."

"of course, he does. there's no way he's actually over me. right?" the last word tumbles out a moment after the others, filled with pure, unadulterated shock.

you turn to face him, leaning in. "right?" to which, satoru scoots back, pressed against the chair. he thinks he would like to go back to math now.

"that- that piece of shit. whatever," you huff, though you may seem anything but unbothered. "he's the one missing out."

"...yeah. um, anyways-"

"but, seriously," you start. oh, god, he thinks. "he's doing it to piss me off, right? he thinks, like, everything's about him, right? as if i'd go after that poor girl. she's already probably going through a lot with him. besides," you scoff, "i'm way above that."

he offers you a weak smile. "right. now, about the two-"

"i just can't believe he'd move on so quick."

satoru sighs. he's a man who knows when he's lost. "yeah. how dare he."

"that's what i'm saying!" you threw your hands up in exclamation, a gesture that could launch a thousand ships, or at least a strongly worded complaint from the librarian.

she shot you a dirty look, the kind that could curdle milk and wilt houseplants. you shot one right back.

"okay," he said quickly, his voice a desperate plea for academic sanity. "can we go back to the two? we only have ten minutes left, and frankly, my will to live is dwindling with each passing second."

"he's such an ass," you muttered, then paused, a flicker of grudging admiration in your eyes. "an ass that's good in bed. what a shame."

the tips of his ears pinked. you suppressed a grin. what a virgin. you were sure of it, at least. he had potential, should he ever give up on the whole nerd thing.

maybe swap the sweater vests for something a little less… "grandpa goes to a book club" and a little more… "leather jacket and a motorcycle he definitely doesn't own."

you glanced at the digimon pins on his backpack. nevermind, that may be too far for him. he was probably still debating which starter digimon was the most strategically viable.

you, on the other hand, were not even bothering with a backpack. it was a leather hobo bag, large enough to smuggle a small, moderately anxious chihuahua, and frankly, a graded test in there would just be clutter.

you had more important things occupying the space, like a half-eaten bag of those weird ginger candies that tasted like spicy sadness, a spare tube of lip gloss in case you needed to blind your enemies with pure shine, and a crumpled receipt for a questionable amount of boba.

sighing, rather dramatically, like a tragic heroine in a black and white film, you looked back at the doors. dumb suguru. messing up your day.

sure, it wasn't going all that well, given that you'd been doing math for two hours, a feat that should qualify you for some kind of endurance award, but he didn't have to make it worse. he was like a mosquito at a picnic, just buzzing around and ruining everything.

"two?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the delicate balance of your emotional turmoil.

"two," you agreed, deflated, blowing a bubble that popped with a sad little plip.

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glissadia · 4 months ago

Text

Upon Further Examination

A professor does her best to figure out why her student's ritual circle isn't working, and discovers that the issue may be a bit bigger than she thought. 6k words.

"Three. Two. One. Ignite. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Indicators. Four. Three. Two. One."

"Failed," Selin states in time with my counting, doing a halfway-decent job of masking her frustration and disappointment. I nod approvingly, as I’ve done each attempt, because it’s still important to acknowledge the adherence to procedure.

"Quench," I respond, picking my earlier cadence back up. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Release. One. Two. Disengage."

Selin steps back from the now-inert ritual circle and I step forward to check her work. Today I’m acting as her examiner, rather than my usual role as her mentor, so I’m supposed to keep my observations to myself. However, I think we’ve gotten past the point where I need to stick to the standard process.

"Perfect," I speak aloud, and Selin jumps slightly. "Your inscriptions are more than within tolerance for preciseness, you’re following your derived procedures to the letter, your timing would put the carillon tower to shame, and I can’t identify a single fault with your channeling."

"Wait, so I got the ritual right this time?" Selin asks, her voice equally confused and hopeful. "Then why didn’t it work?"

I shake my head.

"You got it right every time," I tell her. "Even the first two attempts, which I intentionally sabotaged without your notice, according to academy procedure. You corrected and compensated without prompting."

I don’t have to look at Selin to anticipate the indignant response that revelation will elicit, so I simply hold up my hand to silence her.

"It’s not the moon, it’s not ambient interference, and it’s sure as hell not my materials. It’s not your procedures, your written report has no problems on paper and I tested it last night in this very room, so it’s not the location either."

Sure enough, when I tested Selin’s ritual myself in preparation for today, the brilliant purple spark had appeared in midair and fragmented into responsive motes, just as she had designed it to do. By her own accounts it had worked just as well while she was developing it, so we should be seeing at least some sort of magical response from the ritual besides the barest, halfhearted ionizing glow coming from the air above the circle, and yet here we were, twenty-two attempts later. I would normally have to penalize her for taking this many attempts, but that part of the rubric was written under the assumption that failure would be due to something on the student’s part. This, however…

"So what is wrong with it, Professor?" Selin asks as she slumps down into one of the armchairs arranged against the wall of my workshop. "I know you’re not supposed to tell me until after the exam, but…"

"Nothing," I say as I sit down next to her, with a bit more grace. "Absolutely nothing at all, besides the fact that it is simply not working. Selin, I genuinely have no idea what to tell you. I’m half-tempted to just award you full marks and some extra credit on top of it and call it a day."

"Well don’t do that," she whines. "How am I supposed to call it a success if it doesn’t work when it’s supposed to?"

"You do realize most students wouldn’t hesitate to accept that offer, right?"

"Well there’s a reason you’re mentoring me and not them," Selin says, and I concede the point with a chuckle. The girl has a work ethic and level of tenacity I haven’t seen in years. What makes her stand out even more is the fact that when she was my student in introductory classes, I had initially assumed she would wash out of the program. It took her almost twice as long as most of the other students to get her fundamental spell weaving up to par, and her magic still has a tendency to try and run away from her in a way that’s amusingly familiar. But what she lacks in control, Selin more than makes up for with her sheer breadth of comprehension of theory. With time and effort, she’s grown to become the most promising student in her year, and I was quite excited to see what she came up with for her end-of-semester project. It was ambitious, sure, but pulling it off should be fully within her capabilities, and yet success has eluded her thus far today. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she refused to leave my quarters until the ritual succeeded, be it hours or until the end of the day or even longer. I myself would be remiss to end before she got it working, but at this point I genuinely have no idea what to do.

"Why don’t you take a break?" I suggest. "Just half an hour. You can ask Ember to make tea. I’ll stay here and work out the problem, then you can come back with a fresh mind and it’ll work this time."

I can tell Selin does not share my optimism, nor does she want to give up even temporarily, but exhaustion wins out and she nods, standing up and removing her apron and protective goggles before exiting the workshop. I remain, close my eyes, and focus my mind the problem at hand.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m only more frustrated. I tested this yesterday and it worked. There should be no effective difference between the two setups. What the hell is going on?

The softest, quietest tink of porcelain interrupts my thoughts, and I open my eyes to see Ember setting down a cup and saucer on the end table next to my chair. My maid’s lips quirk in dissatisfaction when she realizes that she wasn’t quite silent enough to go unnoticed, but quickly return to her usual warm smile.

"You’ll get me one of these days," I assure her, and she stifles an amused snort. "How’s Selin?"

"Antsy, but she’s staying in one place, at least," Ember responds. "I think the failure is getting to her."

"And to I as well," I sigh. "She’s executing the ritual even more precisely than I did, and nothing."

I pick up the cup from the saucer, then pause as I notice the contents and raise one eyebrow at Ember.

"What is hot cocoa if not tea made of chocolate steeped in milk?" she says, with an ever-so-slightly mischievous lilt to her voice. "I thought you both could use the comfort."

I roll my eyes, though there’s no real annoyance behind it. A small sip confirms that it’s been heated well beyond the boiling point, the enchantment on the cup preventing it from evaporating or scalding, and I breathe a sigh of contentment. She knows me too well.

"Would you like me to give it a look, my lady?" Ember asks. "Fresh eyes could spot something new, perhaps?"

"You’re welcome to, if you’d like," I tell her. I don’t honestly expect her to find anything, though not for any lack of faith on my part in my maid’s skill. I just can’t imagine there’s anything to find.

Ember walks around the outside of the ritual circle a few times, staring at it intently as I sip my cocoa. I try to keep thinking, picking apart the problem in different ways, but the answer continues to elude me. When Ember speaks up again, the distraction is very welcome.

"She’s using your mana siphon design. Integrated correctly, but still not standard. Is that a problem?"

"No, it should work just like the standard design for her. A bit more efficiently, even, which I assume is why she’s using it," I say. Ember knows this, of course, but it’s still good to talk things out. Maybe something will spark an epiphany.

"Hmm." She’s quiet for another moment. "And you recreated this last night exactly, including the siphon, correct?"

"It’s the design I have to grade, so naturally," I confirm. "It worked flawlessly, first try."

"Even with the compensation runes?"

I frown.

"I suppressed them temporarily, like I always do with that design. My magic only needs compensation when I’m reproducing the standard siphon design, you know this," I say, not entirely sure where she’s going with this. The runes hidden in the walls of my workshop and the classrooms I teach in are critical for ensuring rituals designed without my own little custom component actually function properly and don't just immediately fizzle out. My own magic doesn't play nicely with rituals, so any mana siphon attempting to use it to power one finds itself promptly overwhelmed unless it's built to handle that kind of mana (like my design is) or the volatility in my magic is compensated for, like the runes do.

"And they’re on now, because that’s their normal state," Ember hums. "Out of curiosity, what would happen if you tried this ritual with the compensation runes active?"

"Modifying the design to use a standard mana siphon? I can’t see any reason why I wouldn’t be able—"

"No," Ember cuts me off. "As implemented."

"It wouldn’t work, obviously. The siphon’s design is too specific for properly collecting my magic processed to behave like normal magic, it has to be either or. Standard siphons are more forgiving, but less efficient."

"So the siphon would get overloaded and fail relatively quickly?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"I can see where you’re going with this, but it’s wrong," I say, leaning forward in my chair and placing the now-empty cup back down on the saucer. "To the runes, normal mana might as well not exist. They wouldn’t do anything to Selin’s, she’s the one igniting the ritual, and the ritual isn’t tandem nor does it collect ambient mana. My magic isn’t affecting things at all, I’ve made sure of it."

"What if her magic needs to be compensated for?"

"I—"

The notion is ludicrous. So ludicrous that I start to respond without thinking, but then cut myself off. If I was the one doing the ritual, then yes, I’d need to suppress the runes in order for it to work, just like I did last night. I never designed my improved mana siphon to work with them, because there was absolutely no need to and it would have just complicated the inscription. If I still tried anyway, though… the siphon would eke out the barest amount of mana, then promptly give up. The distribution lines would do their best to convey the mana to the rest of the circle, which would… which wouldn’t even get through the first step of the intended output. No spark. It would try, though, and if I had to guess, that weak, mana-starved attempt would probably look just like a faint purple glow in the air, and nothing else.

It doesn’t make sense. It makes too much sense. It explains everything nicely and raises so many more questions. I desperately want to hang onto any possible evidence it’s not true, because it couldn’t be. I would know. And there’s no way. No way at all. But…

"But she’s human," I say, voice a little weaker and more unsure than I’d like. Ember simply raises an eyebrow again.

"You thought you were."

I sigh. I don’t want to acknowledge even the remotest possibility of Ember being right, but at my core I’m too much of a scientist to not at least attempt to test the possibility.

"It’s been long enough; she’ll be itching to try again," I say, defeated. "You go get her, I’ll turn off the compensation runes."

"Of course, my lady," my maid says, in that way she’s perfected that conveys very little of the deference the title would imply. She exits the workshop, and I get back to my feet, turning around and placing my hand on the wall. A twist of will sees the rune contained within made dormant for a time, and I walk to and repeat the process with the other five walls, finishing just as Selin rushes in with Ember behind her.

"What’d you figure out?" Selin asks excitedly, already throwing her apron back on and pulling her hair back. "Are we good to go?"

"There’s… a chance we are," I hedge. "I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ve tried something and there’s a very remote possibility it should work now, no other modifications necessary."

"Alright!" Selin cheers, tying the apron strings behind her back. "You don’t sound very hopeful, though."

"The lady has a tendency to temper her expectations to an unreasonable degree," Ember says, insolent little creature that she is. "I have faith in your abilities, Selin."

"Aw, thanks!" Selin says, grabbing the materials she needs for another attempt. "Anything I should do differently or just like I designed?"

"Just like you designed," I confirm. "And if this doesn’t work then please don’t feel discouraged."

"No promises!" she declares, working with remarkable efficiency. "Okay, prepped and reset for another go."

I give her work a cursory glance, but I have no doubt it’ll be perfect, just like all the other attempts. Alright. No time like the present.

"On my call," I say, and Selin nods. "Three. Two. One. Ignite."

Selin pours her magic into the circle once again, and the air above the ritual circle blooms, brilliant purple light coalescing into one single, shining point. I allow myself a fraction of a second to process, which is not nearly enough, but I have a job to do.

"Seven. Six. Five. Four," I call, and the spark fragments, much smaller points of light rapidly spreading out to fill the cylindrical space above the ritual circle. There must be thousands of them, and the density Selin has achieved is noticeably greater than what I managed last night with the exact same conditions. "Three. Two. One. Indicators. Four. Three. Two. One."

"Succeeded," Selin declares, voice full of pride. The results are plain to see, stabilizing well before the seven second mark and taking much less than four to interpret.

"Hold," I continue in cadence. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Stable."

Selin hesitantly sticks her hand into the field of purple, and the motes in a small radius around it drift towards her. She clenches her hand into a fist, and they rapidly move to coat her hand, before all suddenly jumping back into position when she opens her hand again. She beams at me.

"Well done," I say as I release a bit of the tension in my body, though not all of it, and catch Ember’s eye. She’s grinning at me very smugly, which I suppose is well-deserved. This… complicates things.

"Told you it works," Selin says, self-satisfaction oozing out of every pore. She pulls her hand back and the pinpricks of purple light stay where they are, having done their job in this demonstration.

"If you’ll recall, I never doubted that it should," I respond. Okay, time to start teasing this mystery apart. "Selin, your mana siphon. Why did you use my design over the standard one? It must have been harder to integrate."

"Huh? Oh, the siphon. Because the standard one sucks and yours is better?" Selin says as she pushes her goggles up to her forehead. Somehow I don’t think she means it solely as a compliment.

"It’s harder to inscribe than the standard version, though," I prompt her. "And reproducibility was one of the factors you were instructed to keep in mind when designing your project."

"Well yeah, of course I thought about that," she defends. "And I started with the usual one, like I’m supposed to, but I’m bad at inscribing it and I could never get it right so I just rebuilt the ritual around yours and I actually started getting results."

I freeze. She does not mean what I think she means. She can’t.

"What do you mean you’re bad at inscribing it?" I ask. "Your inscriptions are some of the most precise I’ve ever seen."

"Aww, thanks," Selin blushes. "And I mean I’m bad at it! I can only get it to work half the time, usually when you’re helping me. Anything that’s designed by you always works for me. It’s consistent!"

It’s consistent because I always deactivate the compensation runes in my classrooms and workshop when we’re working with rituals I’ve designed, because of the fact that they interfere with each other. And any time she’s tried a ritual with my mana siphon outside of those places, there aren’t runes to worry about. But no, that would mean…

"Selin, have you ever successfully completed a ritual using the standard siphon outside of this room or a classroom?"

"Uh, well… not really?" she admits sheepishly. Oh goddess. "I’ve just kinda taken to modifying the rituals when I’m at home, 'cause there isn’t an instructor there to tell me off for doing it wrong."

"You’re modifying rituals to include my mana siphon?" I ask, flabbergasted. "You can’t just put it in place of the old one; the integrations are completely different!"

"Uh, yeah?" Selin says, sounding confused. "It’s not that difficult to rework the distribution lines around it."

Yes it is. Yes it fucking is. I don’t say that to her, though, instead turning to the room’s other occupant, whose grin is almost too wide for her face at this point.

"Fine. Fine! You win, Ember," I declare, throwing my hands up in the air. "You were right, I was wrong. She can’t do rituals without compensating."

"I’m so glad your humility hasn’t left you, my lady," Ember beams. Selin, meanwhile, just looks confused.

"Sorry, 'compensating?'" she asks. "I’m not doing anything differently, as far as I know. What did you figure out? Why did it work this time?"

I sigh.

"You didn’t do anything different. It was a problem with my workshop, which I apologize for. But, we’re not quite done yet. This is not part of your exam, but I’d appreciate it if you humored me anyway. Light spell, as by-the-book as you can."

Selin’s confused expression only deepens, but she obliges me, holding up a hand and making a simple ball of light appear above it. It roils and shifts, maintaining a loosely spherical shape as it ebbs and flows. Selin’s magic has frequently expressed itself this way, and while I’ve drawn parallels to my own experiences, I never made the conclusion that it’s seeming like I should have.

"Hold it there, don’t lose focus," I instruct her as I walk back towards the wall. With a touch, I draw back out the mana keeping the rune within suppressed, fixing my eyes on the Selin’s light spell as I do so. It flickers, though not by much. I walk to two more walls and do the same thing, then return to my student. With half the runes in effect, the ball of light has calmed itself a bit, still far from static but significantly more under control. Selin looks to be concentrating hard on keeping it stable, her lips pursed, but I don’t offer her any insight, instead walking to the remaining three walls and reactivating the runes contained within. Walking back up, I can see that the little ball of light has become a perfect, static sphere, as textbook as I’ve ever seen. Selin looks up at me questioningly, but I preempt her with a question of my own.

"Are you sure you’re human?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" she asks incredulously.

"Like I asked earlier, please humor me," I say patiently.

"I… yes?" she says, and I can tell she truly believes it. "There’s some elven blood on my dad’s side if you go back like eight generations, but that’s extremely diluted, I know how this works."

And indeed, it should not have this kind of effect oh her magic. But, what I’m asking about isn’t something brought about by genetics.

"Release and disengage the ritual at your leisure, then you two start cleaning up," I order. "I need to grab something. Ember, don’t bias her while I’m gone."

"Bias me?"

"My lady?"

"I’m doing a test," I state, and Ember’s eyes go wide.

"Hey wh—"

The rest of Selin’s confused exclamation is cut off as I abruptly turn on my heel and yank myself through space, the workshop around me immediately transitioning into a new, much larger space. Cavernous walls of rough-hewn rock, globes of magical light suspended from the very high ceiling, and approximately forty fireballs spontaneously generated and fired towards me by the wards the second I take a step forward. My stride doesn’t falter as they hit and harmlessly wash over me, my robes being enchanted to protect themselves and anything contained within the many pockets from flame. That doesn’t include the wearer, but, well. The day I can’t handle a bit of fire is the day I die.

I was lucky enough to find this cave a couple of centuries back, and promptly sealed it up and warded it to high heaven to prevent anyone else from doing so after me. If anyone else besides me or my staff tried to get in here, they’d be faced with a lot worse than just fireballs. They’re more of a precaution, anyway. Plus, the heat is nice. These mountains don’t have any geothermal activity, so the entire cave system has to be heated magically, which takes a lot of energy.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the cave’s main event, since while this chamber is absolutely massive, so is the pile of treasure it contains. For years, I never really understood the appeal of having a hoard, but the very first time I held a gemstone the size of an apple in my hands, I was hooked. That was a long, long, time ago, though, and now my trove has grown to a size even the most ascetic of my kin would salivate over. Not that they’ll ever get to see it, of course, nor will any humans. Very few people know my true identity, and I like it that way. I doubt my life of tenured pedagogy would be quite so peaceful if the rest of the staff knew there was anything more to me than an experienced noblewoman with a penchant for magical research and a slightly strange magical response to rituals. Anonymity holds power, in this world, which is one of the many reasons why part of me greatly dislikes the idea of potentially revealing myself. But, I’m forced to admit, if I’m correct, the alternative would be worse for Selin, and I like the poor girl far too much for that.

I spend around half an hour searching through the piles, examining each splotch of color poking out from in between pieces of gold from this century and many past. My search criteria is very specific, and it’s not like I can just pull some random ruby out and be done with it. I’m loathe to part with even a single piece from my collection, as any self-respecting dragon would be, but I know that if this test succeeds then there will be no way I’m getting this back. Finally, though, I spot it. A brilliant purple, Selin’s favorite color. Round, roughly cut (though that just adds charm, in my opinion), and large enough that it’s awkward to carry in only one hand. Corundum. It’s perfect. …Now I just have to find something to carry it in.

When I return to my workshop, a large felt bag clasped in my hands, my eyes barely have time to focus before I’m assaulted with a shrill exclamation.

"You can teleport!?" Selin yells, and I wince before schooling my expression.

"Were you waiting the entire time just to ask that?" I say tersely.

"Well yeah, you just disappeared so what else was I supposed to do after cleaning up?" Selin responds, and I am pleased to see the workshop is looking spotless. "Ember won’t even talk to me and I am still very confused as to what is going on."

"I apologize for leaving you in the dark, so to speak, but this is very important," I sigh. "Yes, I can teleport, it’s rather advanced magic and relatively inaccessible to most people, but I will teach you, should you desire. In any case, I think things will very soon become clear. Come."

I turn and walk towards the door, navigating down the hall and to the sitting room. As expected, Ember is waiting there, tea already prepared. Cinnamon this time, I can smell, not chocolate. I sit down on one of the chairs, bag in my lap, and motion for the other girls to do the same. Selin picks the chair opposite me, looking at me intently, while Ember picks the couch to the side of us. She always gets squirmy when she’s excited, and that’s quite evident now, despite her attempts to sit still.

"So, first things first," I begin. "Nothing you are about to see or hear is to be discussed outside of my quarters, and never with anyone besides me or my staff. Do you understand?"

"'Staff,' plural?" Selin says, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Ember. "Are there more?"

"Cinder and Tinder tend to the estate while I’m teaching; you’ll be introduced to them eventually," I elaborate, and before she can think too much on the names I continue. "Besides Ember and I, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone else. I repeat, do you understand?"

"Yes," Selin nods, and I can tell she means it. Everything that’s happening is much too intriguing for her to just walk away.

"Good," I say, then reach into the bag and tug it off of the gemstone contained within, watching Selin’s expression carefully. "Secondly, congratulations on passing your practical exam. As I said earlier, I will be awarding you full marks, plus extra credit."

As I reveal the giant purple corundum, I see the spark in Selin’s eyes, and my theory is confirmed. A bittersweet feeling washes over me at that. As much as I was enjoying the relatively solo life (well, as solo as a girl can be with three kobolds), it’s nice to know that I’ll be mentoring my favorite student for a good while longer yet. I stand up, holding the gem in both hands, and walk over to Selin, holding it out to her.

"A gift," I tell her. "And hopefully a fitting start to your collection."

Her eyes grow even wider than they already were, and she reaches up, almost reverently, taking the gemstone from my grasp. I feel a pang in my heart as it leaves my hands, but I push it down. This is necessary. I’m not going to let her wander, lost, like I did.

"I… I don’t know what to say," Selin starts as I walk back to my chair and sit down. "This is… this is too much. What even… what?"

"Purple corundum," I state matter-of-factly. "The same thing that rubies and sapphires are made of, just with a different name and color. Near flawless, as best I can tell. I’ll help you weigh and grade it later. You’ll want to know."

"Professor, this is… how much is this even worth?" Selin nearly whines, most of her sense of decorum leaving her. Which is understandable.

"Oh, I have no idea," I tell her, semi-honestly, then lean forward in my seat. "If it’s too much, then simply give it back. I’ll find you something more appropriate."

She looks at the gemstone for a long while, longer than she thinks, I’m sure. Then, very slowly, she brings it down to her chest, holding and hugging it despite the weight. I nod approvingly. There really was no chance of anything else.

"Then, thirdly, your ritual," I say, and I think I manage to recapture most of her attention. "Like I said, the problem was with my workshop, not you or your execution. I would like to once again apologize for causing that unnecessary stress."

"That’s… alright," Selin nods. "What was the problem, if you don’t mind me asking?"

"The answer is rather complicated, but I’ll do my best to explain," I start. "While my preferences lie in other fields, I do consider myself somewhat of an expert in ritual magic, and I’d hope my teaching position supports that assertion. This is in spite of a rather curious quirk of my magic, which interacts with most modern ritual designs in a way that precludes them from working. Unless, of course, the ritual circle utilizes the mana siphon I designed some two hundred years ago to address this very issue. You, Selin, have this same quirk."

"Okay, wait, slow down," she says. "I’ve seen you use the standard mana siphon before. I’ve used it before. And my ritual used yours, but it wasn’t working. Also, sorry, did you say two hundred years?"

"Young lady, you should know better than to ask about a woman’s age," I admonish her, and savor the wounded expression on her face for the couple of seconds I can manage to prevent my mouth from cracking into a smile. "But yes, I am significantly older than I look. And in regards to your other questions, there is more than one way to mitigate the effects of this quirk, which I had to do before I designed my own ritual components. Built into the walls of my workshop and classrooms are runes that, when activated, compensate for the volatility of my magic, forcing it to behave as normal to standard mana siphons."

Understanding begins to dawn on Selin’s face.

"So when you had me do the light spell and it got less and less chaotic…"

"The runes were processing and calming your magic as I activated them, yes."

"That… makes a surprising amount of sense," she says. "The standard siphon only working for me in the classrooms and your workshop, not at home. Wait, but what was the problem with my ritual, then? I was using your design, that takes care of the issue, you said."

"It does, yes," I nod. "The problem was that I, not knowing about your situation, left the runes activated for your exam. The siphon does not process my magic after it has been affected by the runes, due to the specificity of the design, and neither was it processing yours. When I deactivated the runes, as I do whenever I deal with rituals of my own design, that allowed your natural magic to fuel the ritual as normal, and thus leading to the success. The compensation runes have no effect whatsoever on magic without this quirk, so I did not expect them to have any effect on your performance."

"Huh," Selin responds, thoughtfully. "I assume you’re willing to show me the runes so I can use them myself?"

"I do plan on doing so," I nod affirmatively. "They’re not exactly simple, but I have no doubt you’ll be able to reproduce them with relatively little effort."

"Well, okay then!" she beams. "That’s good to know. Use your siphon when I can, use the runes for the standard version, don’t mix and match. That all seems pretty clear. I don’t really get why this is such a secret, though."

I sigh. Here’s where we get to the more significant part of this conversation.

"Selin, you are the twelfth person I have met in my life besides me with this condition. This is over many centuries, and I know there are a number more I have not met but experience the same thing, since it follows a very clear pattern. I hope you believe me when I tell you how rare this is, and that I am very confident when I say it is indicative of more overall characteristics of the person the volatile magic comes from. I was initially extremely unwilling to believe that the runes were responding to you, for the very simple reason that the runes do not respond to humans, nor most other races. Yet your magic is of the variety they were designed for, which only stems from one source."

"So, what are you saying?" she asks me, pulling the gemstone a little tighter against herself. "That I’m not human? How the hell could I not be?"

"In this case, it’s a matter of the soul," I tell her. "I do not know the exact mechanism behind it, for there are so few of us to be studied, and I am still not entirely sure how similar it is for other races. But, sometimes, very rarely, a person can be born with a soul not befitting of their body, and this leads to a mismatch. One that could potentially go unnoticed for their entire lives, given a lack of the right circumstances. Such a case is certainly a tragedy, which means that it is my responsibility to prevent the same from happening to you."

She takes a deep breath.

"Just… out with it. Stop dancing around whatever it is."

Well. Here we go.

"Selin, every single person whose magic behaves like this is a dragon."

To her credit, she doesn’t laugh.

"Bullshit," is her response, soft, too quickly. I say nothing, and simply draw my hand down my face, letting my human visage fall away and the deep blue scales of my true form shine through, though still in a somewhat humanoid shape. Selin gasps at my sudden reveal, then glances over to Ember, whose disguise falls away at the same time mine does, leaving a short orange kobold sitting on the couch instead, tail rapidly wagging. She’s still wearing a smaller version of her maid uniform, though, and waves happily to a stunned Selin.

"I hope you understand why I asked you to keep this a secret," I say, only managing to hide around half of the amusement I’m currently feeling. Not much of my body is visible with the robes, but it should certainly be enough.

"I… yes," Selin responds, finally managing to find her voice again. "But you’re… that’s not… I’m not…"

"Here’s a proposal for you," I say to her, leaning forward to give my folded-up wings some space. "Hand the stone back to me, or fail my class."

The immediate look of shock and betrayal on her face is just what I expected, so I escalate, holding out my scaled palm and summoning a roiling ball of flame above it.

"Hand the stone back to me, or die."

She tenses up, eyes narrowing. I know that look, and while it is what I’m fishing for, I don’t particularly feel like ruining my sitting room with a mage battle, so I extinguish the flame and raise both my palms up deferentially while lowering my head.

"Easy, easy," I placate, letting my human form wash back over me to break her concentration. She blinks, eyes refocusing, so that hopefully did the trick. "I’m not going to take it away, I promise. I’m sorry."

"G-good," Selin says. Then, after a moment, her eyes widen. "Wait, holy shit, I didn’t mean to… fuck, I am so sorry, um—"

I lower my left hand, letting the right one remain up to stop her.

"It’s exactly the reaction I was provoking; there’s no need to apologize," I assure her. "It’s natural to get defensive over items in your hoard."

"My hoard?" she asks incredulously. Then, softly. "Oh. Fuck."

I nod at her.

"Are things starting to make a bit more sense?"

"…Getting there," Selin says, demurely. "There’s still a lot I don’t understand."

"Well, we have all the time in the world to get to remedy that," I assure her. "And as it turns out, all the time is the world is going to be a lot longer for you than either of us thought."

"Aaaa, this is going to be so much fun!" Ember squeaks, and I can’t help but agree with her. Even Selin lets a hint of anticipation show through on her face, which makes my smile grow even wider.

Goodness, I love being a teacher.

(Part two is here!)

#short story #fiction #dragons #therian #dragon tf #this is just a oneshot #but the girls are begging me to write more #psych I wrote a second part

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