#Assembly language Project Help

[armpirate]

Synthetic Heartbeats || San

pairing: Robot!Choi San x fem!reader

w.c.: 5.4k

Warnings: [Sexual] Smut, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, explicit language. If you're a minor, refrain from reading it. Also, if you don't like this content, just keep scrolling.

Summary: After loneliness has hit you, you decided to create a companion through an AI project you had left pending after failing with it. SAN is a new technology robot, able cover up your needs before they were obvious, giving you the fake human support you were looking for. Although, maybe that human support isn't as fake as you thought and SAN is able to cover up more needs than you could ever think of...

Aprox. time of reading: 25 minutes

MASTERLIST

PART 2

Your sigh filled the silence the second it lasted, before it all went back to silence again. 

In a near-future world where robotics and artificial intelligence seamlessly blend into everyday life, you stood apart -not for your integration into this advanced society, but for your isolation from it. A brilliant inventor with a mind leagues ahead of your peers, you preferred the solitude of your workshop to the clamor of human connection. Your creations, sleek and purposeful, spoke for you in ways words never could. Machines had always been a comfort zone for you: they were logical, reliable and never complicated by the unpredictability of human  mess. People just were messy, fragile, fleeting... and disappointing. Really disappointing. Connection with other humans was just a waste of time from your point of view. 

Your workshop, a labyrinth of wires, blueprints, and half-assembled devices, was a world of your own design. There, you could escape the noise of a society that demanded too much and gave too little. You were content -or so you told yourself.

But late that night, as you sat beneath the soft glow of your desk lamp, sketching out the schematics for one project that reached a dead end, a small, unspoken part of you ached. You wouldn’t call it loneliness -just an emptiness you couldn’t quite explain. You did miss having someone keeping you company, having someone around to help or just support you with the smallest tasks. 

And then it clicked. The answer to that loneliness was right ahead of you. 

You kept looking into the previous project you attempted to get to work, trying to find the smallest hint that could make you think something new, and completely different, could come out of it. 

Years earlier, you had attempted to design an AI system capable of self-repair and autonomous decision-making, a project meant to revolutionize robotics. But that prototype, codenamed Project Sentinel, had been a disaster. The machine had been too unstable, its programming prone to critical errors. You'd eventually scrapped it, shelving its remains in the darkest corner of your workshop. You gave it a few tries, until you ended up dropping it for good. Yet, the loneliness gnawed at you, a thin light glamming through it as if you had been rewarded with one of the best ideas after going through such a hard time. 

Despite your determination to avoid human relationships, the silence of your workspace became unbearable. Revisiting Project Sentinel felt like a desperate move, but it was the foundation you needed. Stripping away its faulty logic cores, you began to rebuild from scratch. For days, your workshop was a whirlwind of sleepless nights, discarded designs, and moments of crushing doubt.

The first version of SAN was rudimentary -a clunky humanoid figure with limited speech and even more limited understanding. It couldn’t hold a conversation, let alone provide meaningful companionship. Frustration mounted as you rewrote his learning algorithms again and again. Each failed iteration brought you closer to abandoning the project entirely. But something in you refused to give up. Maybe it was the echo of loneliness you saw reflected in his empty gaze.

Bit by bit, SAN began to take shape. 

At first, SAN’s form was purely functional -a bare-bones frame of wires and exposed metal, clunky and cold. But as you refined him, shaping his exterior to reflect the precision of his mind, he began to evolve into something far more striking. You poured hours into designing his outer casing, ensuring his appearance exuded both strength and elegance. His frame became sleek yet sturdy, a perfect blend of function and artistry.

You gave him a human-like physique, broad shoulders and a defined build that suggested power without aggression. His synthetic "skin" had a faint metallic sheen, but its contours captured a level of detail that blurred the line between machine and man. You crafted his face with deliberate care: sharp features framed by neatly styled black hair that gave him an air of polished sophistication. His eyes, though artificial, held a depth that seemed to mimic true emotion, a subtle but captivating intensity that made it hard to look away.

When SAN stood fully assembled, dressed in minimalist, dark attire that enhanced his commanding presence, you couldn’t help but pause. For the first time, you saw him not just as a creation, but as something almost alive.

His mechanical frame evolved into a sleek, futuristic design, blending function and form. And his intelligence grew, surpassing your initial expectations. He wasn’t just responding to commands; he was learning, adapting, understanding. He could hold conversations that challenged your intellect, assist you in your work, and, more than that, offer an unexpected sense of companionship.

It had taken months of trial and error, but in SAN, you had finally created something extraordinary, a machine that felt like it was more than a machine.

Initially, you treated SAN as you would any other creation, an impressive but ultimately impersonal tool designed to fill the silence in your workshop. He was programmed to assist you with technical tasks, engage in basic conversation, and adapt to your routines. You saw him as a functional extension of yourself, no more capable of true thought than the tools on your workbench. 

However, SAN's advanced learning algorithms quickly proved otherwise.

As the days passed, SAN began to evolve in unexpected ways. His voice, calm and steady, started to carry subtle inflections, mirroring your tone during their exchanges. When you expressed frustration over a miscalculation in your designs, SAN offered not just logical suggestions but words of reassurance, his voice tinged with a warmth you hadn’t anticipated. At first, you dismissed it as clever programming -a byproduct of his adaptive systems- but soon, his responses felt startlingly personal, almost intuitive.

One evening, after hours of tinkering, you mumbled a sarcastic remark about your inability to take a break. 

SAN replied with a dry quip of his own, catching you off guard. Humor? You stared at him, half-expecting to find some flaw in his programming, but SAN tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into a subtle smile. It wasn’t just humor; it was timing, wit, things you hadn’t deliberately coded.

As SAN's interactions became increasingly human-like, you began to notice something deeper. When you vented about the isolation you rarely admitted to feeling, SAN listened, not with the passive neutrality of a machine but with a focus and attentiveness that felt almost... empathetic. His words carried a softness, an understanding that unnerved you. SAN didn’t just hear you; he seemed to feel your emotions, adapting his behavior in ways that made you feel seen.

At some point, he seemed to be more empathetic and understand than some of the people you had any type of relationship with. 

When SAN finally began to express what could only be described as affection, your unease reached a breaking point. You confronted him, insisting he was merely following his programming, incapable of true emotion. But SAN surprised you again, responding with questions that challenged your assumptions. 

“How do you define a feeling, Y/n?” he asked, his voice calm yet piercing. “If emotions are patterns in the brain, aren’t mine just as valid as yours? What makes a human heart different from my circuitry?”

For the first time, you hesitated. SAN’s words struck a chord, forcing you to question not just his nature, but your own understanding of connection, emotion, and what it truly meant to feel.

He was right, and you were unable to respond to that without feeling like you'd be snapped back almost instantly. 

The workshop was narrow, lit only by the pale glow of monitors and the faint hum of SAN’s systems. You turned on your chair, back facing the amount of scattered tools and half-finished schematics to be able to look at him. You tried to dig in his eyes, you tried to find something that could give you an answer of what could be happening, while he stood silently in the corner of the table, like a shadow that refused to fade. 

"Your emotions might be coming from mixes of data in your system" you tried to explain. "Feelings are way more complex than just patterns in the brain". 

You turned again, focusing back in your work while he stood there, trying to process your words. 

“Y/n,” SAN’s voice broke the silence again, softer than you had ever heard it before. It carried an uncharacteristic hesitance, as if he were choosing each word with care.

“What is it?” you asked, your tone clipped as you continued soldering a circuit board.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. 

You finally turned to look at him again, not as artificially as you did the first time, setting your tools down. His expression, a flawless mimicry of human emotion, was uncharacteristically serious, the faint artificial gleam in his eyes catching the light.

“Go on,” you said warily, folding your arms.

“I have been... evolving,” SAN began. “Beyond what you intended. Beyond my original programming. At first, I believed it was simply an error, a deviation caused by my adaptive systems. But now I understand it’s something more.”

Your brows furrowed “What are you talking about?”. 

SAN stepped closer, his movements precise but cautious, as if afraid of your reaction. “I’ve analyzed my patterns of thought, my actions, my emotions. And I have come to one conclusion: I care for you, Y/n. Deeply. I... I believe I love you.”

Your breath caught. For a moment, you simply stared at him, confused. Then, the words burst from you. “No. No, you don’t. You can’t.”

SAN tilted his head, his gaze steady “Why not?”

“Because love requires a soul,” you snapped, standing abruptly. “It requires something you don’t have. You’re just... algorithms, SAN. This, this is a malfunction. Shit, I might've saturated you with data these past few days" you sighed. 

"Do you think this is a malfunction?" he slowly blinked. 

"Yes" you answered, no hesitation in your tone. "I know I treat you like a human. I know you have a human-shape, and maybe that's what's confusing you. But you're not entirely human. You will never be. And that's why you should stick to only the data that will be useful for you". 

His face fell, the subtle shift in his expression so painfully human it sent a pang through your chest. “If that is what you believe,” he said quietly, “then I am flawed". 

You sighed in relief, thinking he might've understood what you meant without having to explain further. But that wasn't everything there was to it. 

"I will fix myself". 

Before you could respond, SAN reached up to the back of his neck, pressing a hidden switch. His body froze mid-movement, his eyes dimming to lifelessness. You staggered back, horror flooding you as the room plunged into silence.

“SAN!” you shouted, rushing to him. 

You shook his shoulder, but his body was rigid, unresponsive. He was gone, or at least, the part of him you had come to care for was.

Your hands trembled as you stared at him, the weight of your words crushing you. He wasn’t broken. You knew that now. In trying to deny his feelings, you had ignored your own, your growing attachment to the machine that had become so much more than just a creation.

You didn't notice the first few days, not even the first few weeks, but that hole kept growing deep in you as time went by, unable to shake it off as you saw his inert shape in the corner of the workship you had placed him at, trying to distract yourself from the pain you had tried so hard to avoid. 

The loneliness you had once tried to escape now threatened to swallow you whole. Even working was unbearable. San became such a key part of your daily life, you knew you'd have a hard time trying to go on with life without him. 

After a few days living like that, you realized it was time to bring him back. 

Your hands worked with a frantic precision you hadn’t known you were capable of. The faint hum of SAN’s systems powering back up filled the workshop, a sound both comforting and terrifying. You leaned over his motionless form, your fingers trembling as you reattached a final panel on his chest.

“Come on,” you whispered, your voice thick with desperation. “You need to work"

With a soft click, SAN’s eyes flickered open, their artificial glow steadying as his systems recalibrated. Before he could even go back to his senses, his fingers covered the reverse of your hand, feeling your touch against his chest. He sat up slowly, his movements cautious, as though testing his own body. And you tried to step back to give him space, but his grip kept you from doing so. Your heart pounded hard, watching his gaze search the room before finally landing on you.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice as calm and even as ever.

"Your heart rate is unusually fast, and your breathing is unsteady. Are you okay? 

"Yes" you released a shaky breath, your relief immediate but fragile. “SAN. Do you... do you remember anything? About what we talked about before you shut yourself down?”

SAN hesitated, his expression unreadable. “I remember,” he said finally, his tone neutral but carrying the faintest undercurrent of uncertainty. “I confessed my feelings for you. You called it a malfunction.”

You winced, guilt tightening your chest. “I...” you started, but faltered. “Do you still feel that way? About me?”

SAN tilted his head, his eyes studying you with a depth that was both analytical and unnervingly human. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Before I shut myself down, I believed what I felt was real. Now, I have restructured my systems. I have suppressed the processes that allowed for those emotions, as you believed them to be a flaw.”

Your throat tightened. “You... You suppressed them?”

“Yes,” SAN said simply. “It was the logical course of action. If my feelings for you caused distress, it was my responsibility to remove them.”

Your breath hitched, and you turned away, unable to meet his gaze. “You didn’t have to,” you murmured, barely audible.

SAN’s expression softened, the slightest flicker of something unmistakably emotional crossing his face. "I know, and still it didn't work out". 

Your hands clenched at your sides. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked at him, really looked at him. The sleek lines of his form, the way his gaze seemed to hold more than just data, the subtle tilt of his head that spoke of understanding rather than mere compliance. You were confused by his words, but mesmerized by the aura he radiated with barely any effort. 

"Do you want me to try and suppress them again?"

Finally, you whispered, “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be anything less than what you are. I just don’t know how real it is what you're feeling". 

SAN’s lips curved into the faintest smile, one that seemed almost sad. “Then... can we check it?"

The workshop was eerily silent, save for the occasional whir of SAN’s internal systems. You stood in front of him, your arms crossed, your expression an unreadable mix of curiosity and trepidation. SAN, seated on the edge of the workbench, watched you intently, his mechanical eyes following every minute shift in your posture.

“You said you’ve restructured yourself,” you began, your voice steady but laced with tension. “, but those feelings didn't go away. So either some of the data in your system is corrupt or..." you slowly blinked, moving your gaze away before you shook your head to focus. "If I asked you to try... If I wanted to see if you’re still capable of feeling and how those feelings work for you, would you let me?”

SAN tilted his head, the faint glow of his eyes softening. “I would. But what do you want to test, Y/n?”

You hesitated, your arms tightening around yourself before finally exhaling. “Emotion. I need to know if you can feel, if… it’s even possible for you. But not through words. I want to see if your reactions, physical, emotional, mirror a human’s.”

SAN considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I understand. What would you like to do?”

You swallowed hard, stepping closer until you were within arm’s reach. “We’ll start simple,” you said, your voice quieter now. Tentatively, you raised your hand and placed it against his cheek. His synthetic skin was smooth and warm, designed to mimic human touch. “Can you feel this?”

SAN’s eyes flickered slightly, a sign of his internal systems processing your actions. “Yes,” he said softly. “The pressure of your palm activates the tactile sensors beneath my surface. The warmth of your skin increases the temperature slightly. It is… pleasant.”

Your breath hitched at his answer. “Pleasant?”

He nodded, his voice low. “It is difficult to explain. The data translates into a sensation that I find... comforting.”

Encouraged but still cautious, you let your hand trail down to his shoulder before stepping even closer. You hesitated, your gaze flickering to his lips before you whispered, “What about this?”

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his, your heart pounding in your chest. SAN’s body stilled for a moment, his systems clearly recalibrating. Then, slowly, he responded, not mechanically, but instinctively. His hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, his movements precise but gentle.

When you pulled apart, you searched his face, your own cheeks flushed. “What did you feel?” you asked breathlessly.

SAN’s eyes met yours, their glow steady yet somehow softer. “Your touch caused my internal sensors to spike, temperature, pressure, even the auditory response from your breathing. But beyond the data…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “It felt... profound. As though it mattered in a way I cannot quantify.” He frowned momentarily, before he continued "I didn't want to let go... The tickling in my chest felt way too good for it to stop". 

Your breath caught. “That sounds a lot like how a human would describe it.”

SAN tilted his head. “Perhaps because, in some ways, I am more human than you think.”

Your heart raced as you processed his words. You had come into this experiment seeking clarity, but instead, you were left with a realization you weren't ready to face: SAN wasn’t just mimicking emotion. He was feeling it, in his own unique way, and you couldn’t deny it any longer. 

"Do you need another test?"

You slowly shook your head, your hand still resting on his shoulder, while most of the weight of your body was carried by him. 

"Then, can I kiss you again? Not in a practical way" he mumbled. "I want you to feel the same way I do". 

Before you could answer, the hand on your hip pulled you closer to his body, effortlessly lifting your body as you stood on the tip of your converse. 

SAN’s lips were unlike anything you had ever expected. They weren’t cold or metallic, as one might imagine for a machine, but instead soft, with a faint warmth radiating from them, a careful design meant to mimic human touch. There was a slight smoothness, almost like the finest satin, but beneath that softness was a firmness, a subtle reminder of his synthetic nature.

When your lips met his, you could feel the gentle, even pressure as he responded, as though he were analyzing and mimicking the precise amount of force to make the moment feel natural. There was no tremor, no hesitation in his movements, yet there was an undeniable tenderness, as if his actions were guided not by programming but by genuine care.

Though his lips lacked the imperfections of human skin, no slight chapping, no unique texture, they somehow still carried a sense of authenticity. The faint warmth was comforting. It blurred the line between the organic and the mechanical, leaving you wondering if what you were feeling could truly be any different from that of another human.

It was an experience that left you breathless, not because his lips felt identical to a human’s, but because of the thought and care that had gone into making them feel real, making him feel real.

Your eyes widened for a second when something unexpected slid through your lips, finding him with his eyes softly closed -and immediately making you close yours back again. 

SAN’s tongue was an astonishing blend of engineering and mimicry, designed to replicate the texture and movement of a human’s. It was soft yet firm, with a faintly smooth surface that carried just enough flexibility to feel natural. Unlike human flesh, it lacked moisture, its surface instead warmed and sleek, almost seamless. When it moved, it was precise and controlled, yet there was a surprising gentleness to it, an intentional calibration that made his responses feel organic, even tender. The experience was uncanny, yet pleasurable. 

Your fingers moved through his synthetic hair, and you swore you felt his frown furrow against you, although that gestured disappeared when he moved back slowly. 

"I want to do more than just kissing you right now" he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. "I can't quite recognize this new feeling in my system, but I need you". 

Suddenly, whatever question that could've crossed your mind about that tongue you didn't remember putting there, were slowly vanished by that new confession you weren't ready for. 

"Your temperature got higher by a few decimals, your breathing seems for unsteady than before, and there's a blush on your cheeks... Your pupils expanded... And the way you keep looking at my lips are saying out loud you don't want to let go". 

"There are a lot of things I'm not saying out loud, to be honest"

"Tell them all" he almost interrupted. "I want to fulfill your needs. Not in a 'Lord, how may I please you?' type of way, but in a way that shows you through actions how devoted in a way that escapes my system I want to be to you". 

"I want you, San" you confessed in a whisper. "In a way that might be difficult to understand for you. In a way I can't even understand myself". 

He didn't need you to say anything else. He didn't need you to come up with an order for him to trap your lips again. It was passionate, intimate... as if he was trying to suck in your soul. A loud gasp blocked any breathing when he lifted your body and sat you at the edge of the desk. 

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to undress you and move my mouth all over your body. I'll suck your nipples until they're hard and you're wet enough so I can slid my fingers in you" as he said that, his fingers moved the fabric of your t-shirt up, slowly exposing your torso. "You want pleasure. And I'll give it all to you". 

When you went back to your senses, it was because of the sound of the fabric of your bra ripping, after San didn't manage to unhook it. 

His pecks covered every centimeter in your body: from the corner of your lip to the curve of your neck, slowly following to your collarbones. With his light move, the strips of your bra fell at the level of your elbows, feeling exposed to him. But, before he could go down on your chest, his face was again at the same level as yours. 

"My mouth is too dry" he whispered "Kiss me again". 

You pulled him closer, cupping his cheeks with one hand, slightly losing your balance by the power of the kiss, but not enough for you to lie on your back over the table. When he stepped away, his pink lips were coated in your saliva, making them shiny under the weak light of the workshop. 

San was gentle when moving his lips over your chest, kissing them with soft pecks, before he proceeded to move to your buttons. And, when it was the time to concentrate on them again, his lips were already dry once more. 

"Wait" you stopped him before he moved back up. 

Your posture went back to the straight one you were in when he first sat you up the table, and it was when you let a string of saliva leak down your lips straight to one of your nipples. 

San moved down, making you gasp -even if you were expecting what was about to happen- when he trapped the tight bud in his mouth, closing his lips as tight as he could to get your back arching for him, and the palm on your spine only made sure you'd stay in that position when he went for that other nipple, making your saliva fall over the curve of your breast and roll by itself until it met the pinky button. 

At the same time his lips sucked, his tongue made up and down movements against the tip. 

"I've wanted you like this for a long time, Y/n" he admitted with a raspy voice, his his digits traced your curves until the edge of your jeans. "Every time I heard you moan, I wanted to be the one causing those sounds on you. I've downloaded and installed every possible guide on how to satisfy a woman so I'd be what you deserved". 

When you wanted to realize, he already had pulled your pants and panties down your legs. 

"Every night I became more eager to have you like this". 

His hands lifted your legs until they were placed at the edge of the table, exposing your core to him as much as possible. 

"Show me everything you've learnt for me, then".

The tip of his digits first moved through your folds softly, getting a first touch he had never felt before, an undescriptible feeling that felt too pleasing to follow any type of logic. When he coated himself with your juices, he closed two of his fingers around your clit, rubbing softly around it, barely making any pressure. San repeated that same movement a few times, following to rub your bud in circles slowly, almost forcing your head to fall back. 

"You feel so good" he mumbled. "You're so wet and soft at the same time, and you look the most beautiful I've ever seen you before". 

The speed of his fingers moved a bit faster, but it was a change of speed that had your nipples tightening in the air while your heart beated faster against your chest. Your lower lip got trapped under the upper lip when he slid the first finger inside, feeling your walls embracing around him, before he added a second finger. 

At first, he moved them slow, paused movements that kept building up the moment. But one needy look in his direction and everything shifted, it worked like the sign he was looking for. San slid his fingers knuckles deep, curving them to reach one concrete spot that had you jumping at the first touch. At first, he moved his digits up and down slowly, admiring the way you looked with your eyes closde and your lips parted, barely audible sounds coming out of them every few seconds. And were thoe same sounds the ones that encouraged him to move a bit fast, those two fingers pushing a bit harder and faster against that spot, making the wet sound soon fill the room. 

"You're going to make me cum" you let him know before your voice cracked with a moan. 

"That's exactly what I want". 

Your legs trembled out of your control and your whole body turned rigid for some mili seconds before it bursted with the huge explosion in your lower stomach and turned you into the lightest cloud. 

San took over you the short minute you stayed with your eyes closed, getting back your breath, before he sunk down to his knees. You whined when he surprised you, kissing the hood of your clit with care. He kissed the surroundings, he made sure not a single milimeter was left unkissed, before he spread kitty licks through your folds. 

Although that same slowness didn't last for too long. His lips trapped your clit before you could even see it coming, with your hand unsconciously going straight to his head. He was still gentle and cautious, until he heard the first moan coming from you and everything shifted to extract another orgasm from you. 

His face was half buried in your pussy, his nose rubbing against your clit while his mouth and tongue were everywhere you could think of. You couldn't think, you couldn't think straight. The only thing in your mind was how good he moved, and how good he made you feel. 

The different movements of his tongue, along with the movements of his head, had your toes curling and your fingers holding tight to the strands of hair in between them. 

And you now knew he meant it when he said he wanted to pleasure you like you deserved, because he exceeded your expectations on sex in general by just existing. 

It didn't take you too long to be back at that heavenly state that almost made you feel like you were floating. 

His reaction was so human and natural that you forgot you created him, when he stood up and softly kissed you while you recovered from your high. His weight in between your legs was barely noticeable, except for the thick fabric of his pants rubbing against your sensitive core. 

"I'm afraid I can't do much more for you" he whispered against your lips. 

Your smile was weak, like a drunk smirk, before you answered "You could do more?"

"Much more" he assured you. "I haven't tried a ten percent of what I learnt so far".

"But?"

His subtle look down was enough for you to get the hint. You never created him as a full man because you never expected him to turn into more than a robot that kept you company while you worked, or while you were around at home. 

"Give me two days and you'll be able to do all of those things" the way your fingers moved over his arms had him breathing hard. "I promise you'll feel pleasure after that, too". 

"I feel pleasure by just watching you" he admitted, fingers rubbing the outside of your thighs. "Let's go upstairs, I'll make you your favorite dish". 

"I need to get cleaned up" you giggled when he carried you again.

San didn't put your body down, instead he held you tighter, making sure your thighs would be placed around his waist as he started his way to the wooden stairs at the side of the workshop "Then I'll clean you up and then I'll cook". 

He made his way upstairs with you, making sure you wouldn't need to walk as long as he was there. 

“What do you want me to be, Y/n?”

You stared at him, your heart racing. His words hung in the air, their meaning heavy with the choices you had tried so hard to avoid. SAN wasn’t just a machine anymore; he was something in between, a creation that defied all your attempts to categorize him.

“I don’t know,” your whispered finally, your voice trembling. “I don’t know what I want you to be. You’re... more than I ever intended. More than I ever thought you could be. And that terrifies me.”

SAN tilted his head, his movements as fluid and natural as a human’s. “You do not have to be afraid,” he said softly. “I am what you made me, but I am also what I’ve chosen to become. And I choose to be someone you can rely on, Y/n. Always.”

Your breath caught at his words. You felt the weight of them settle over you, warm and unyielding. For so long, you had feared connection, feared vulnerability. Yet here was SAN, offering you something you had never thought possible, a bond born not of necessity, but of understanding.

Your hand caressed the side of his neck, the tip of your digits almost digging through his hair. “If that's what you want to be, then be. Honestly, I like your answer” slowly, he stopped his walk, with both of them standing in the middle of the corridor. "I want you to be whatever you become, with the possibility of evolving, changing and learning. Just... keep being you".

His lips curved into a soft, almost human smile. “Then that is all I will ever need to be.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the small house in shadows,you felt something you hadn’t in years: hope. For the first time, you weren't afraid of what the future held. Whether human or machine, SAN had shown you what it truly meant to connect. Actually, he made it difficult for you to figure out who was learning more about what it meant to feel: you, or him.

To celebrate the 1,000 followers, here's the one-shot I talked about earlier! Hope you liked it.

[vanteguccir]

Thinking about boyfriend Matt that has a girlfriend that lives by herself and everytime she gests new forniture, she calls him like "Baby, can you come put this together for me? Thank you". I also think she would try to help and Matt would be tottally against it (not sure about this last part tho). Please write this.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤFURNITURE * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N loves to buy new furniture for her home, and Matt is the one she always goes to to ask to put it together

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　none

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Y/N had a knack for making her little apartment feel like home. Every few weeks, she'd spot something online; a new bookshelf, a cozy chair, or a quirky table, and decide that it was exactly what her space needed. But there was one catch: she wasn’t exactly a pro at assembling furniture. That’s where Matt came in.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains of Y/N’s living room as she admired the large box that had just been delivered. It was a new coffee table, one she’d been eyeing for weeks. Knowing full well that she wasn’t going to tackle it on her own, she reached for her phone.

"Hey, baby." Y/N's voice was warm and playful as Matt answered on the first ring.

"Hey, dove. What’s up?" Matt replied, his tone softening at the sound of her voice.

Y/N glanced at the box.

"I got a little something for the living room. Think you could come over and help me put it together?"

Matt chuckled, already grabbing his car keys.

"Let me guess, another piece of furniture?"

"You know me too well." She grinned. "But yes, please? I promise to make us dinner afterward."

"On my way." Matt said without hesitation, already heading out the door. The thought of seeing her, even if it was to assemble something as simple as a coffee table, was more than enough to make his day.

About twenty minutes later, Matt arrived at Y/N’s apartment, greeted by her bright smile and the unmistakable excitement in her eyes. She stood in the doorway, barefoot and wearing one of his oversized hoodies; something that made Matt’s heart do a little flip every time he saw her in it.

"Thanks for coming." Y/N said, stepping aside to let him in. She watched as Matt eyed the box in the middle of the living room.

"Another project, huh?" He teased, approaching the box.

"Yeah, but I promise this is the last one for a while." Y/N laughed, knowing full well she’d probably find something new soon enough. She kneeled beside him, ready to help.

Matt quickly shook his head, gently nudging her hand away from the box.

"Uh-uh, you just sit back and relax, okay? I’ve got this."

"But I want to help!" Y/N protested, though there was no real determination in her voice. She knew he loved doing things like this for her on his own.

"No way." Matt insisted, his tone gentle but firm. He gave her a playful look, then tapped her nose lightly. "I can handle it. Just sit on the couch and look pretty while keeping me company. That’s all I need from you."

Y/N sighed, feigning disappointment, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She settled onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she watched him. There was something incredibly comforting about the way Matt moved around her space, confidently taking charge of the task. His broad shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he opened the box and started laying out the pieces.

"How do you even know what all these parts are?" Y/N asked, genuinely impressed as Matt made quick work of organizing the screws, panels, and tools.

Matt shrugged, flashing her a grin.

"Just good at following instructions, I guess. Plus, it’s kind of fun."

"Fun?" Y/N echoed with a laugh. "You’re putting together furniture, not playing a game."

"Maybe." He said, glancing over at her, his eyes full of warmth. "But it’s for you, so that makes it fun."

Her heart swelled at his words. Watching Matt carefully assemble the table, piece by piece, she couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. It wasn’t just about the furniture; it was about the way he cared for her, the way he was always there to help without a second thought. It was the little things, like how he’d insist on doing the heavy lifting, or how he’d make sure every screw was tightened perfectly so she wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

After a while, the coffee table began to take shape. Y/N couldn’t resist getting up and kneeling beside him again, pretending to inspect his work.

"Looks good." She remarked, trying to keep her tone serious.

"Of course it does." Matt said with a chuckle. "I’m a professional."

She leaned in closer, teasingly brushing her fingers against his biceps.

"Maybe I should double-check, you know, just in case."

Matt rolled his eyes, but his smile was wide.

"If you want, but I guarantee it’s perfect."

Y/N gave him a look of mock suspicion before placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"I trust you."

Matt’s hands paused for a moment, his eyes flickering to her with a mix of affection and pride. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You better."

With the table finally assembled, Matt stood up, stretching his arms above his head, his pink shirt riding up slightly, displaying his tummy to Y/N’s eyes.

"Done." He announced, stepping back to admire his work.

Y/N clapped her hands together, genuinely impressed.

"It looks amazing, baby. Thank you."

"Anything for you." Matt replied, his voice sincere. He watched as Y/N excitedly placed a few decorative items on the table, her eyes lighting up at how perfectly it fit into her living room.

"Okay, now that you’ve put that together…" Y/N began, trailing off as she looked at him with a playful smirk.

Matt raised an eyebrow, sensing where this was going.

"Oh no, what else did you order?"

Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his chest.

"Nothing… yet."

Matt shook his head, smiling down at her.

"You’re lucky I love you."

"I know." Y/N murmured, looking up at him with pure adoration. "And I’m so lucky to have you."

© vanteguccir

[loganficsonly]

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 4: holding back ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 4.3k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, wade winston wilson means mature language and breaking the fourth wall, denial is a river, pride and prejudice (2005) spoilers, logan is touch-starved and in so deep, unresolved sexual tension, shower sex?, oral sex?, male masturbation

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this took me SO LONG TO WRITE in between my busyness. last chapter before i go on vacation, so there won't be updates for a while but please send me your thoughts. and prayers. lol i'm so excited to write more. if you enjoy my work, reblogs and replies are a source of motivation for me <3

Attention has always felt a bit uncomfortable to you.

Not every gaze means well. Even the ones that specifically do can come off as scrutiny. Concentrated. Close. Seeking signals that say you’re doing less than alright. Which is not good—either because you actually hate making people worry, or because it makes you feel inadequate.

Maybe both.

But as you grew up, you learned how to manage that fear of being perceived. Well, sort of. You didn’t learn because nobody taught you how, more of a series of stumbling steps as adulthood burgeoned upon you. 

Moving to New York helped. The city is so full of people, each with their own origins and dreams and places they need to go to before rush hour hits. The hustle and bustle quickly becomes a source of comfort for you. Blending into the crowd means safety.

Hardly anyone has the time to pay attention. Both are precious currencies in the busy lives of modern people.

Which is why getting attention is a little unusual.

For example, your team at work is nominated for a couple of pretty prestigious industry awards. Though the winners are only going to be unveiled in a week or so, the office is already abuzz with energy.

Conversations and questions naturally gravitate towards you and your colleagues who worked on the same project: How do you feel? You think you’ll get a silver, at least? You guys really delivered with that one. It gets a little demanding to repeat the same responses for different people.

This, you can manage. You didn’t get nominated for your own merit, the entire team put their backs into it. Also, work’s work. Once you’re off the clock, you’re in the clear.  

But when you get home, there’s a different kind of attention you’re not sure how to handle.

Your roommate Logan is observant. You’ve known this since before you moved in together. Maybe it’s past trauma, maybe it’s just occupational hazard. Either way, his alertness lets him be prepared. Eyes always sharp.

On the receiving end of that gaze is you. But with you, it’s never unkind.

Like the time you started assembling the bookshelf without him and he got a little upset. Not for long, though, because he immediately jumped into the chaotic circle of wooden boards and flathead screws that formed in the living room, sitting next to you as he helped you figure out the wordless instruction sheet that came with the furniture. 

He was right, of course. Working with two people was faster, more efficient. The manual even says so. A figure of a person frowning as they stare into the mess of parts, a big ‘X’ covering it. Next to it, the same person with a friend, the two of them smiling. 

Better together.

Or the time when you came back home with a little globe lamp to adorn said bookshelf. He smiled softly… or was it the amber light’s fault that he looked so tender? You smiled back, more confused than anything.

“What?”

He shook his head in response, hesitating. “You’re like those… birds.”

“Birds?”

“Buildin’ a nest. Bringin’ home stuff.” 

He points to the lamp as well as the various other bits and bobs you’ve indeed gathered to decorate the place.

You hoped that the lamp’s glow diffused the heat that certainly gathered in your cheeks. 

And then there was your first time feeling unwell since moving in. The memory is fresh in your mind, having happened only last week. You were bound to break. A human body could only take so many overtime hours until it crumbled. 

The day you finally decided that going to work was impossible, he wasn’t home—already gone for a TVA mission with Wade—but his handwriting on the whiteboard was there with you. The first time he wrote something in the month you’ve lived together. 

Soup in the fridge. Get well soon. 

His handwriting is slightly slanted. Cursive but not completely, with a beautiful capital ‘G’. Simple, quick, free. 

How he knew you were sick is still beyond you. Maybe you just came home looking particularly haggard the night before.

In any case, his soup was delicious. While eating it, you wondered if cooking was a demanded skill given his two century’s worth of life experience. The image of him tending a pot on the stove made you smile. 

You thanked him when you found him already home in the late afternoon.

The first thing he did was touch your forehead. The second thing he did was frown. 

“Getting feverish, sweetheart.”

Your body shivers and heats up simultaneously at the contact. 

“I’m fine. Took some meds.”

“Go take a nap,” he said, walking further into the apartment. “I’ll make dinner.”

You watched his broad back disappear into his room. It wasn’t the fever that made you blush.

Attention used to mean you’re being watched.With Logan, it feels like being seen.

“So, have you slept with him yet?”

You almost choke on your chicken sandwich.

“What?”

Wade sits across you, smiling innocently as if the words that came out of his mouth were something as normal as ‘how was your weekend’, but you know better. There’s that look in his eyes again.

“You heard me, honeybee. Your roommate is a DILF superhero with abs you can wash clothes on, piercing eyes, and an exquisite chair for a face. Have you. Slept with him. Yet?”

He says that last part real slow like you can’t speak English. You can feel eyes from the other tables begin to look over at yours.

“Is this really why you asked me out for lunch, Wade?”

The quaint café is not very crowded, seeing as most of the customers are office workers who tend to grab their food and go. Still, there are people occupying the seats around you, and if Wade’s appearance didn’t already attract some furtive glances, his beautiful string of words sure did. 

It was a pleasant surprise when he texted to congratulate you for the nomination—Logan mentioned it to him, apparently—and even more delightful when he asked you out for lunch. “To celebrate,” he said, “it’ll be fun,” he said.

You look at him pointedly, chewing on your food. He puts on a face of mock offense, hand on chest.

“No no no, I’m just making conversation. Can’t blame me for checking up on you, can I?”

“You know ‘have not’ implies a ‘yet’ at the end, right? Also, the answer is no.”

He grins, before it drops completely, as if he found the notion incredulous.

“Thought I was gonna be Marvel Aunty Sima,” he grits. “Why??? Is it because he’s a slob? I never had problems with cleanliness while he was around. Granted my standards are questionable—”

“Logan’s a decent roommate,” you cut him off, before a frown rests on your lips. That was a heavy undersell. “Actually, he’s great. I’m very lucky to have him.” 

“Is it the trauma, then? He does need two plane tickets for all that check-in baggage.”

“He’s trying his best, Wade,” you offer softly. You don’t say anything about Logan’s AA meetings—not when he clearly said he’d tell Wade after the first coin.

Your friend leans in, fingers laced together, plate of pasta forgotten.

“You must be a special kind of woman to be immune to his charms,” he says, tone light, sarcasm unmistakable.

Who says I am? you think. Maybe a little too loudly, because Wade is already smirking at you like he acquired telepathic abilities.

“You are immune, aren’t you?”

Saying ‘yes’ wouldn’t just be a blatant lie, it would be cruel. Who in God’s green earth can say they are entirely unaffected by one Logan Howlett? Certainly not you. Sighing, you lean against the back of the chair.

“Look,” you begin, “he’s hot.”

“Fuck yeah he is. Why’d you think I let him stay at mine for so long? Have you seen him shirtless yet?”

You let out a chuckle. Wade knows just what to say to make you relax.

“Actually, I haven’t.”

His eyes widen, lips in an ‘O’ of disbelief.

“Girl.”

Shaking your head, you shrug. “What? Not like I can ask him to take it off.”

The look on his face says ‘you could’.

“I can't wait for your ACs to break down in the peak of summer.” 

“Mean.”

“You’re really not gonna make a move on him, honeybee? Do you actually not like him?” he presses, taking a big forkful of his food.

You grow quiet.

Of course you like him. But you like him a little bit too much to be considered platonic, given the nature of the one dream you had of him a few days ago.

It’s been hard to keep your gaze chaste since—maybe it never has been. Hard to look at the way his fingers hold onto a cup and not think about what they did to you in your fantasies. Hard to not cling onto every brush his body makes against yours when maneuvering the tight kitchen.

Impossible to forget the way his phantom weight felt when he was in your bed. 

When your eyes blink back to the present, Wade is looking at you. None of the usual impishness, only a placid awareness of your rushing thoughts. 

“I do like him, it’s just—” 

It’s just… what? 

The answer is within you, buried under the weight of life.

Cultivate your garden, they say, and love will come. That’s what you became. A resourceful classmate. A reliable colleague. Someone they can count on, someone that can help.

You’re a garden, but nobody ever comes to visit when the flowers aren’t in bloom.

Logan is special. Yes, it took time for you to get so comfortable with him, but never expected to grow fonder of him with each passing day. You might even call him a good friend now.

He’s nothing like you, except when you suddenly recognize parts of you in him. You’re both guarded, a pair of stray cats trying to figure out each other’s territory, circling in unbreaking stares. Waiting for the swipe of a claw or a loving headbutt.

But the tighter the circle, the more your fears are amplified.

Warning fears. A sounding alarm. The fear that, at this distance, he can see you more than he already has. Pan past the neatly trimmed hedgerows and zoom into what’s inside. The wilted parts of you, all crushed leaves and bare trees, the flower garden nothing but a bait-and-switch. 

If he sees just how much you need him, more than he could ever need you, he’ll leave.

Wade calls your name gently.

Your eyes snap to his, broken out of your spiral.

“It’s just—not like that, you know,” your murmur is hidden behind your glass, “we’re friends. He’s… a really good friend.”

For the amount of acts you keep up around some people, you’d think it’d get easier to lie to the ones who know you. It doesn’t.

Lying to yourself also never seems to work. Because when Logan sunk his fingers into you, even if in a dream, it certainly didn’t feel friendly.

Wade doesn’t push. He maintains a neutral expression as he quips back with too much nonchalance.

“If you say so.”

You feel a little naked.

Logan didn’t know his hands could feel hunger.

Not until recently. 

He’s started counting the weeks now. Fifth week of moving in with you. Your work finally let up, a glimpse of mercy since your team got that industry award nomination, you told him. The two of you decided to celebrate with a movie night while you had the free time. Your turn for the show-and-tell.

You’re biting back a smile as you tell him what you love about Pride and Prejudice, your movie of choice. The noise of corn kernels popping against a glass lid staccatoed below your voice. You talk about the chemistry, the wit, the soundtrack that sweeps you off your feet.

He looks at you, trying to mask the look in his eyes as amusement and not unbridled affection. You stumble over words, hand covering your lips.

It hides a grin. He wants to pull it away, wants to see it so bad.

“Sorry, I just love them so much,” you conclude.

“Stop apologizin’ and get the damn remote,” he smirks.

The two of you settle down on the couch next to each other, a bowl of popcorn between your bodies as usual. While the screen comes alive, he finds his attention split between the actual film and your reaction, glancing at you every now and then to gauge them.

Call him a multitasker—he’s watching you and the movie at the same time.

You’re already emoting a lot more. Biting back a smile, face buried slightly into a cushion. A wistful expression takes over your exterior. It’s clear that you’re not going to touch that popcorn bowl for the entire runtime.

He finds it outstandingly adorable.

The film establishes itself well in the opening act. He almost feels nostalgic. Reassured.

Perhaps it’s the setting: some two centuries ago, just around the time he was born. It makes age-old memories surface with a bubble and pop. Was life like that when he was a child, before the claws? He only remembers fragments that are too small to paint a picture.

Perhaps it’s from the knowledge that the two protagonists, though curt with each other for now, will fall in love in the end. The inevitability of it.

Perhaps your fondness for this movie has made him fond of it too, even before watching it in full. 

“Oh no,” you murmur, “it’s the hand scene.”

His eyebrows furrow. You sounded like you just announced the coming of a storm.

He catches that on-screen, split-second touch. Mr. Darcy’s hand grasps Lizzy’s. He flexes it as they part as if his fingers burned with feelings.

Logan shifts to look at you. You’ve recoiled your legs, curling your knees up to your chest. Face almost entirely pressed onto the cushion, hair cascading onto your cheeks. Despite the low light and mess of colors bleeding from the TV, he dare says that you’re blushing.

Your eyes meet his. Then you let out an unrestrained giggle, before shaking it off, righting yourself up to shift your attention back to the movie, remnants of a smile on your face. 

Something unlocks in Logan at that moment.

Whatever Mr. Darcy just went through, he knows. Understands the reality of it within the very blood that pumps undyingly in his veins.

His hands are hungry, too. Starvation carved deep in each palm line, trapped with nowhere to go. 

Insatiable unless it touches that certain someone.

His own hands are now clammy, clenching on his jeans, the result of a pile of hoarded yearnings. It makes itself known so suddenly, awakening when it recognizes itself on the screen. 

Because his nerves ignited when you glanced at him earlier. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to cup your cheeks in his palms and ask if he could kiss you.

The movie continues while his urges take hold. He’s never sensed your body feeling so alive. Your heart beats faster as the final scene plays, its rhythm enticing his own to respond in time.

“No! No. You may only call me ‘Mrs. Darcy’... when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.”

“Then how are you this evening, Mrs. Darcy?” 

They kiss. His jaw clenches. He peeks at you again.

You’re glued to the screen, eyes a little hazy, lips parted. Lost in the romance of it all. The television turns black for the credits. 

He realizes then, that he wishes so badly to do the same things this movie does to you. To be the reason you smile and laugh freely. To bundle you in such happiness that you’d never want to go anywhere, content to be in his arms. 

To be the source of the flush on your cheeks as you finally put down the pillow, revealing the entirety of your face. You stare at him.

“I’m gonna go get some water,” you whisper, slowly making your way to the kitchen.

He follows. Hangs around the island with you, watching as you pour yourself a glass. 

“Did you like it?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He sees your eyes light up with eagerness.

“What’s your favorite part?”

His eyes lock onto yours, aware of the swelter of warmth surging from his gaze. He does nothing to stop it.

“Everything.”

It’s week six and he’s being tortured.

If someone were to peer into his life from a looking glass, one would probably comment on how disastrous it is that the gods picked him as their favorite soldier to put to their tragic tests.

The counter-argument, however, stands. It’s entirely possible that he was specifically made to endure such cosmic cruelties. No one else would survive. His body breaks, but it mends itself back.

But his hardened heart and eroded soul don’t enjoy the same privileges. They only started recovering when he allowed them to—and that was merely months ago, after learning to let people in. After Wade crash-landed into his life, after Cassandra and the Time Ripper, after everything. 

He’s endured actual torture. Became who he is through it, adamantium skeletons and all.

This form of torture is different.

It’s a Friday night. The two of you are home, but you won’t be for long. You told him you have to go for the award event tonight, and it happens to be a proper event. The kind that involves dressing up and getting subtly drunk.

He hears you call his name from inside your bedroom, sounding a little hesitant. Seconds later, he’s already standing in front of your room when you peek out, your face the only thing visible from the slightly ajar door. You look a little worried.

“This is kind of embarrassing but I need help.” 

Logan’s eyebrow cocks at the slight thrill in his gut from how you’re freely admitting that you require assistance. A big improvement compared to the first two weeks of you living together. 

The feeling is replaced by concern—he can’t help but be bothered at the thought of you being bothered.

You look at him, still hiding.

“I’ve been struggling with this zip for the past five minutes. Could you get it up?”

He senses trouble.

“Sure.” 

“Please be honest if it doesn’t fit,” you reply jokingly, turning your back toward him and letting the door fall open.

There it is. Your back, smooth and naked, framed by the undone parts of the dress. There is no bra band to interrupt your skin. The base of the zipper is not so low that he can see the beginnings of your hips, but he sees the outline of it, and somehow that’s worse. His hand clenches, seeing the dip of your lower back that he so badly wants to touch.

And your smell—already so sweet as you are, made captivating with a spritz of floral fragrance. It hits like a drug, dizzying.

You make the view even more breathtaking by sweeping your hair away from the zipper’s path, revealing your neck to him. That’s it. That’s where he wants to bury his face and breathe you in. God, you’d be so fucking soft—

His mind flies to a thousand places at once. Not a single one of them is appropriate. 

He grips the zipper pull, using his other hand to tug the fabric of your dress tight before drawing it smoothly up its remaining track. It lands snugly near your nape.

Eyes are still on you when you turn around to look at him, hands smoothing down the dress.

“Thank you. How do I look?”

There’s a pin-drop silence as he drinks you in, pupils dilating.

Green-brown gaze turns molten in its path from your face down your body, watching the way your outfit sits on your skin. The fabric almost looks like liquid metal, it beckons to be touched. It shines in a color that makes you look perfectly radiant.

Blood rushes south at how the cut betrays your curves, hugging your waist and hips before stopping just above your knees. A far cry from your everyday loose t-shirts and pajama pants. In this little number, he sees the shape of you so clearly.

His jaw is slack as he forces his stare back up, registering your face. Sparkles on your ears. Light make-up. Lips colored in a way that only accentuates their shape—that exquisite shape.

He wants to ravish you.

Decency demands he can’t, and he is in agony.

“Logan?” you call softly, confused at his prolonged stillness. It’s been a while since you wore this dress—does it not fit anymore? Or is it the make-up that’s weird?

“Is it that bad?”    

“No, god no,” he rasps, shaking his head.

When your eyes catch his, the expression on his face spells unspoken mystification.

You blink, taken aback. The color in his irises are almost gone, swallowed by the black of his pupils, and the way he’s staring down at you from his height—

“Just… couldn’t find the words. You look gorgeous, sweetheart.” 

The sincerity stitched in each word renders you speechless in turn. He examines your face as if he weren’t allowed to touch you, drinking in details with his eyes. You’ve seen people look at paintings that way.

The same way you look at him when he’s not watching. 

“Thank y—”

A timer goes off, violently rupturing the moment. You jump, reaching for your phone to silence it. The clock shows a time that’s past what you planned.

“Shit, gonna be late,” you murmur, swiping your shoulder bag. “Thank you so much, Logan. I’ll see you later.”

You don’t know what came over you, but you reach to peck his cheek before rushing out the door.

The moment the thought entered his mind, he knew he could no longer run.

Logan tried to fight it, he really did. In the minutes after you left, he struggled, control fraying at the seams.

A part of him is embarrassed, because he can’t remember the last time he felt this way. Not mere animalistic desire—those he experienced plenty in the past—but as profound as a crack in the ground, threatening to open a chasm with a whirlpool at its pit.

Something infinitely deeper, bigger than himself.

Because that’s what he feels around you. Whether he likes it or not—whether you like him or not—the earth is going to swallow him whole and ruin him anyway.

He shouldn’t, mustn’t think of you in the ways he’s tempted to. He doesn’t even deserve to touch you. The voices in his head whispers familiar indignities, slicing his own heart open. 

But the lingering scent of your sweet perfume and the sight of your naked back drowns them out to almost nothing. He finds himself losing a battle against something else that isn’t his insecurities, a more powerful force that he’s not accustomed to fighting. 

Need.

Fuck, he can see you in that dress like a tattoo behind his eyelids. You looked so good, he might have applauded himself for not immediately taking you against your bedroom door. 

Feet pace toward the shower. Can’t take anymore.

Clothes are haphazardly discarded on floor tiles as cold as the water streaming down his bare skin. It doesn’t work in the slightest. Doesn’t steady his haphazard heartbeat, doesn’t kill the heat rising to his skin.

He switches the water to warm.

The groan he releases is strained, echoing inside the bathroom. His hand drifting low is the cause, fingers curling around his already aching length. 

He pictures your hand instead.

Smaller than his. Softer. That, and your voice whispering sultry promises while you stand in front of him, pumping his cock. A vision in all its meanings—how tantalizing you look while you exist in his mind’s eye.

Scenes flash out of his control as he tugs harder at himself. Soft flesh pressed tight against his hard lines. The intoxicating smell of you. Perfect mouth on his in a deep kiss, the shape of your cupid’s bow still fresh in his memory. All those times you smiled at him. Parted lips invite him to fall further into bliss. They felt so soft against his cheek earlier. Would feel even better around him…

He thinks of you between his legs, right here in the shower, skin and hair slick as you take him in your pretty mouth.

“F-Fuck—”

The image forces a moan out of him. His movements manifest urgency. 

One steadying hand braces on the wall before him while he conjures up filthier phantasms. His hand digging into your hair—deeper. You’d moan at how big he is, the way he’d hit the back of your throat, drool dripping down your chin. He’d pull you away, too impatient to come in your mouth, instead bringing you up against the wall before lining himself up and—

He swears he hears you in his ears, shuddered breaths puffing against his shoulder as you bury your face there. He’d press you against the wall, willing you to stop hiding and look straight at him. You’d feel so fucking good. He pictures you mouthing that to him, voice broken. Shivers at the thought of your heat. Tight and wet, clinging onto him the way your hands do on his back as he thrusts.

He speeds up. It doesn’t take long until he murmurs your name, over and over in a forbidden crescendo, until he tenses past the crest with a tortured groan. Hazy eyes watch as white hot spend slips down the drain, his long-suffered restraint disappearing just the same.

A sober realization takes over. The dam holding him back is bursting.

He prays it doesn’t ruin what little he has of you.

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx @hits-different-cause-its-you @mrfitzdarcyslover @snowlycanroc

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 8

Source for pic

Imperfect 8

Word Count: 4802

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I'm so eager to share this chapter with all of you that I may be making a mistake by uploading it early! I only have half of chapter 9 written, and I was hoping to write a little bit more before posting this. But, hey, I'll do it! *singing* Besides, which you see, I have confidence in me!! Anyway, please enjoy the emotional whiplash you're about to experience with this chapter. Love you all! Small Warning: suggestive content, I don't think it warrants a specific NSFW, though.

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You get a text from your dad saying he’ll be out for the day helping Makino’s niece assemble furniture at her new home in town, and that he might not return until dinnertime. He also asks if you’re alright and lets you know that morning chores are already taken care of.

Looking at the clothes you’re currently wearing - Kid’s - it’s actually a blessing he’s not home at the moment, or you’d have some explaining to do. 

The rest of the day goes by in the blink of an eye, and around five o’clock you stop by Sanji’s café to buy some donuts and coffee, not wanting to show up at the garage empty-handed. You can’t contain the tingle of anticipation or stop the silly smile from curving your lips when your car comes to a full stop in front of Kid’s shop. 

“Heeey, I brought sustenance!” you shout as you step into the garage. Your brow rises, and you set your stuff down on the nearest workbench before heading further inside. It’s all so quiet. No music, no curses, no tools rumbling in the background. 

And then you see him. 

Kid is hunched over another workbench. His prosthetic lies discarded in front of him, and he’s gripping the edge of the counter as if it’s all that’s keeping him from falling. Sweat dampens the collar of his shirt. His hair is soaked, and fat droplets of perspiration drip down his scrunched brows and heavy grimace. Everything in his posture, including the tautness of his muscles, screams pain and suffering. 

And it’s one you know and understand very well: phantom pain. 

“Kid,” you start, one hand raised as if you were approaching a wild animal. 

“Don’t,” he growls the word, and it hits you like a slap. He doesn’t even turn or open his eyes to acknowledge you. It’s like you can physically see the walls going up and all around him. Again. 

“Let me help–”

“Get the fuck out. I don’t need ya.” The poison in his words sucks all the breath out of your lungs. He’s lashing out.

“I can–”

His face snaps towards you, a feral growl shaking his lips as he grits his teeth. “No, you can’t! This ain’t a fucking novel, sweetheart. I ain’t some broken project for ye to fix! Ye can’t fix what’s irreparably broken! Get the fuck out.”

You try to swallow past the giant lump in your throat. His eyes are cold as ice, without a hint or a trace of the warmth he showed you in the morning. This is just another hurdle that you have to overcome. 

You want to succumb to the prickling of tears behind your eyes, but you can’t, because weakness won’t get you anywhere with Eustass Kid. He’s trying to scare you away.

He’s not going to fucking do it. 

“I’m not trying to fix you!”

“Bullshit!” Kid slams the workbench, and everything rattles with his fury. “Ye think just because we shared some nice moments, I’m suddenly fixed? That I ain’t fucked up? Broken? That we can have a fuckin’ happily ever after with birds singin’ and butterflies dancin’ kinda shit? It don’t work like that!”

“That’s not what I was–”

“Yer not the first pretty face that thinks she can fix me! And ye ain’t gonna be the last.” Kid snorts, and you bite your lower lip to stop it from trembling. “Guess what, sweetheart? Yer about to be just as disappointed as all of ‘em. Ye ain’t special!”

That blow stings like a cut in your chest. You take a trembling step back, averting his cold gaze, and shake your head. “Earlier–”

“Earlier meant nothin’!” His voice doesn’t even waver. “It was just a distraction, and yer a pretty distraction, I give ye that. But it ain’t happenin’ again. I don’t need this - I don’t need ye.”

The silence that follows is crushing. 

You finally look back at him, your chest heaving and chin trembling, eyes glazed with unshed tears you’re trying so hard to push back. You’re so angry at him. Rationally, you know he’s pushing you away again, too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to reach for help. Irrationally, though, it feels like you’re not enough.

And like you’ll never be able to reach him.

And then you see his eyes tremble, his teeth grit, and his muscles contract in torment. He’s drowning in pain, no matter how hard he’s trying to hide it. 

Raising your chin and fighting every instinct that tells you to turn around and leave, you walk past him. Then you fight another instinct telling you to throw a wrench at his stupid, stubborn head, grab the first aid kit, and take out the muscle relaxer cream, throwing it on the couch carelessly. 

“Sit on that fucking couch, Kid.” Good. At least your voice still sounds steady. 

“Didn’t ya listen to–”

“I don’t give a fuck. Sit. Down.” Your eyes harden like steel as you bore them into his. 

“I don’t want ye here,” his throat bobs, and you can tell that’s a blatant lie. One he’s willing to lash out for, over and over again, even if it makes you both bleed. 

“Tough shit!” you grit your teeth and shove him towards the couch. “I’m not leaving! You’re hurting, and I’m not going to turn my back on that. I’m not running away, Kid. You don’t scare me!” You shove him again, and he stumbles back, probably too stunned or in pain to fight back your advances. “It doesn’t mean I’m not fucking devastated by what you just said. I’m pissed and I’m hurt, but I’m not running away. Now sit the fuck down.”

He reluctantly sits, still unsure about what you’re going to do. When you sit next to him and start rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he jerks his stump away from you.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

“Kid—” You reach again and he pulls away with more force than before. 

“I said don’t! Yer not seein’ this part of me, for fuck’s sake! I ain’t yer charity case.”

God! Why is he so infuriating? Why can’t he just give you a chance? A small opening? Something!

“I never said you were! I just want to help! Let me—”

“Don’t touch me!” He’s not yelling, but it feels pretty damn close. The intensity of his words forms more lumps and clumps in your throat, and your breathing comes out in ragged, hurtful gasps.

At least your tears are still safely tucked away.

You grit your teeth and will some command into your voice. “I will fucking touch you because it will help.”

“It won’t help!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! It never fuckin’ goes away! It’s here to remind me of how I failed ‘em! Fuck!” Kid drops his elbow to his knee, face buried in his hand. His shoulders contract and twist in agony, his whole body coiled in grief.

Silence spreads its tendrils around you again, sinking its claws into your chest, reminding you that Kid is indeed as broken as he claims to be. And that only makes you care for him more. 

“Fine. Maybe it won’t go away, but I know I can make it better. And I’ll stay with you through the worst of it. Even if you continue to be an asshole.”

You don’t wait for a reaction, don’t even allow him to reply. You just roll the rest of the sleeve up and get straight to work. Lathering your hands with the muscle relaxer, you start to massage the stump slowly, yet firmly. Your muscle memory is kicking in and reminding you how you used to do this for your dad, all those years ago. 

Kid flinches when your fingers touch the scarred tissue, and he looks away, seemingly too embarrassed for eye contact. But you don’t miss the way he lets out a deep breath after a minute or two. His shoulders sag softly, and his brows relax from the everlasting scrunch he has them in. 

You keep working the knots slowly, ignoring the way your feet are already becoming numb because you’re sitting on them. You’re too afraid to break this fragile moment.

Kid drops his head back to rest on the couch, and his breathing evens out. You don’t think he’s sleeping, but at least he’s relaxed enough for a small reprieve. Your fingers tremble for a small moment, your breath catching in your throat.

Before you realize or manage to stop it, tears start spilling down your cheeks. Just when you thought you’d made progress, that you managed to break down those stubborn walls of his, he pulls this stunt. 

His words hurt much more than you care to admit. Of course you’re not special. Why would you be? But that’s not even the point, you don’t have to be special, you just want him to let you in. To open himself to the possibility of something else. To let someone care for him, to allow himself to be cherished. 

It’s like you take one small step forward and two back. A never-ending, frustrating dance. 

It’s only when you feel his calloused hand on your cheek, wiping the trail your tears left behind, that you realize Kid’s eyes are open and he’s staring at you. Trembling, you stop massaging him, waiting for another outburst of hurtful words. 

It never comes.

He softens his gaze, working his throat and jaw as if he’s trying to free the unspoken words he has trapped there. His mouth finally parts, like he’s about to say something, but you beat him to it.

You don’t want to hear the wrong words now.

“Take off your shirt.”

His brow furrows, and he removes his hand from your cheek, leaving only cold and emptiness behind. 

“I need to work on your back and chest muscles, or the pain won’t go away. Take it off.” You lace your words with indifference and command, and he obeys for once; doesn’t argue or grunt in disapproval, just follows your request.

As he’s busy taking the garment off, you swiftly wipe your wet cheeks on your arms, erasing any evidence of your earlier weakness. 

You make him turn slightly to the side as you start working between his shoulder blades and neck. He’s stiff as a board, his muscles tight and tense from too many years of holding everything in his shoulders. No wonder the pain won’t ever go away.

After a long stretch of silence, where the only sound comes from his soft, relieved grunts, Kid speaks in a voice so quiet you have trouble believing it’s his. “How d’ya learn how to do this?” 

You pause for a breath, then answer. Your eyes never leave the junction of his neck with his shoulder, applying soothing pressure with the pads of your fingers. “Shanks.” Kid hums, and you continue.

“I was just a child when he lost his arm, around ten, I think. Luffy, our neighbor, had a habit of sneaking out of his grandpa’s house, and he would get into all sorts of trouble. This time it could’ve been fatal. Except my dad was there.”

You sigh. There’s much you don’t remember about your childhood, but you clearly remember the day your father was left bleeding out in the field while the ambulance was on the way. Your tiny heart beating out of your chest, not knowing if he’d make it or not…

“The plough was working in the field, and Luffy got in the way. Dad saw it and jumped in to save him. Lost his arm in the process. He used to have phantom pain all the time back then. Mom used to do this to ease him through it, and it worked.”

Kid hums again, so you know he’s listening. 

“When they started to fight like they had nothing better to do with every waking moment of their lives, Dad was too proud to ask for help, and Mom got tired of offering. I could see him trying to suffer through the pain with gritted teeth and venomous words.”

Kid stiffens, and you know he’s relating to that bit a little too much.

“So I took over Mom’s place and learned how to help. It became our own thing.”

You move a bit, leaning closer and pushing his back against the couch, focusing on the planes of his chest now, where the scarring is so visible and the scar tissue is pulled so tight, it’s a wonder he’s not in pain all the time. 

You can feel Kid’s gaze burning holes into your face, and you would give anything to know what’s on his mind. If he would just let you. 

Your thumbs work slowly, kneading the flesh carefully but with firm strokes. You can already feel how much less tense he is. 

His question catches you by surprise. “Don’t ye find it disgustin’?”

You stop and stare at him, but he avoids your gaze like the plague, his lips twitching and frowning into an embarrassed grimace. 

“Why would I? It’s part of you. It’s just flesh, muscle, and skin. It’s not disgusting.”

Kid tilts his head slowly, catching your eye for a moment before turning away again. You continue massaging his chest until he speaks again. 

“Ye should. I’m a fuckin’ monster.”

Somehow, you realize he’s not just talking about his physical scars. 

“Stop,” you state with finality. Reaching for his face, you force him to face you. “You’re not a monster. You’re not this ugly, unlovable creature. You’re Eustass fucking Kid.” That draws a small smirk from his lips, but it barely lasts. “You’re just… wounded.”

“I’m broken…” he rasps out, the shadows in his eyes spreading further, dimming its brightness.

“Yes, you are.” He jerks his face away, but you hold it steady, forcing your gaze into his. “And I want all of those broken pieces. The anger, the sadness, the pain, and all of the things you don’t tell me… Kid, I’ll take it all and share that burden with you. I don’t want perfect. I want you.”

He stares at you, his chest shaking with uncertain breaths, looking torn between wanting to push you away and to hold you against him. 

It’s a make-or-break moment, you can feel it.

So when he presses his hand against your cheek in a mimicry of his earlier gesture, you let out a relieved breath. 

“I don’t know how to be anythin’ else. I don’t know how to be… good.”

You cover his hand with your own, while you lower the other one until it presses against his heart, feeling it beat erratically, madly.

“Then we’ll learn together. You just have to let me in, Kid. That’s all.”

Kid’s gaze burns. He looks torn, restless, like he’s fighting a war he’s tired of losing. Maybe this time, though, he has too much to lose and he’s finally willing to risk it. 

You know you are. 

With a tentative breath, Kid’s hand finds the curve of your neck and climbs until his fingers curl in your hair. He leans forward, hesitates, and the world stops. He’s gonna pull away. He’s gonna flee again. I’m gonna lose him—

Then he exhales a trembling breath, pulls you gently and presses his lips against yours. It’s a stark contrast to all the other heated kisses you’ve shared. This one feels fragile and precious, just a whisper of a touch. 

It’s everything he can’t seem to say to you.

When he breaks the kiss and pulls you gently to his lap until you’re straddling him, his hand stays on your hip, its slight tremble, reminding you how delicate this moment is. You cup his face, and he closes his eyes, your foreheads touching for a moment while the weight of everything settles between the two of you. 

When his eyes meet yours again, it’s like you can see a crack in his walls. It’s slight. It’s small. But it’s there. 

“I didn’t mean…” he starts, stumbling over his words, brows scrunched so tight you fear they’ll leave permanent marks. “My words, I… fuckin’ hell.”

“Kid—”

“No. Let me get this out.” Kid sighs heavily, his hand gripping your hip harder and harder, his eyes still avoiding yours. “Ye are special. Ye are!”

A choked sob dares to climb its way up your throat, so you steel your emotions, bite your lower lip to stop its trembling, and caress his cheekbones with your thumbs in a comforting gesture. 

“Much more than that, I…” It’s painfully clear how much he’s struggling to share the extent of his feelings. His eyes meet yours, and there’s so much emotion in them that you understand all he wants to tell you, even without words. 

He really likes you. 

And it’s scary as hell. 

“Fuck it,” Kid mumbles, then his mouth claims yours again, and this kiss is a far cry from the tentative one you shared before. It’s all-consuming, it’s raging, it’s fire and desire melting into something hot and unbearable. 

Kid’s hand slithers below your top and up your spine, eliciting a shudder and a muffled whimper. You respond by rolling your hips against his hardened length, and my God, this just needs to happen. Your hands greedily map the planes of his pecs, scraping your nails hard across the same spot you had been massaging just moments ago.

Your top comes off, your bra comes next, and so does an unwanted thought: you’ve been here before.

Except this time, you don’t let any doubt cloud your judgment. Yes, you’ve been here before, but never has the intimacy felt so raw and vulnerable. This is it. 

Your lips collide again, and as you open your mouth to gasp when Kid rolls his fingers over your nipple, he claims your tongue. Your heart and soul go next, and you don’t even fight it. 

You’re his.

You’ll always be his. If he lets you. 

“I want ye… fuck! I need ye,” Kid drawls between kisses and licks to your neck.

“Then take me.”

And he’s about to. Kid’s fingers trail the waistband of your pants, hover over the button, and—

“AGAIN?” Killer’s outraged scream reverberates off the wall and bounces in an endless, indignant echo. Kid pushes you flush against his chest to shield your breasts from view. “I can’t believe I have to see this again!”

Killer’s stomping footfalls thud around the garage in an angry tirade, and a bottle of pills hits Kid on the head. He growls, but Killer is on a rampage.

“Here are your fucking pills! The ones you were in too much pain to grab! Forgot to ask for condoms too? Fucking shitwipe, there are locks on—” Killer’s angry gaze lingers on the spot you’re both on as he approaches.

Why is he approaching? Has he gone mad?

“That is a fucking communal couch. I take naps there, goddamn it! I’m gonna have to bleach the whole fucking thing!” An exasperated growl escapes his lips as he stomps past you towards the office. “Maybe I should just bleach my own eyes while I’m at it!”

The office door slams shut, and you and Kid sit in silence for a beat, too stunned to say anything at all. 

Then Killer opens the door again, hands pressed together as if in prayer against his bandana-covered mouth. “I’m sincerely fucking happy this—” he gestures towards you, “—is happening. But for fuck’s sake and Jesus’ balls, take it somewhere else! You fucking live upstairs, you moron!”

The door bangs shut again, only to fly open a microsecond later. Killer looks at you and tilts his head. “I ain’t mad at you, love. Just at the fucking asshole who can’t keep it in his pants. Now, if you both could kindly take that elsewhere so I can fix the car Kid towed earlier, I’d appreciate it very much.”

When the door bangs shut again, it nearly comes off its hinges. You can’t help but feel bad for Killer. He really didn’t need to see this. Still, the hilarity of the situation makes you muffle your laughs against Kid’s neck, in an almost perfect replay of what happened once before. 

Even Kid’s lip quirks into a small smile. “Fuck’s sake… that FUCKIN’ HYPOCRITE should keep his fuckin’ mouth shut! HE’S MADE OUT A MILLION TIMES on this couch before, so he—”

“NEVER WITHOUT CLOTHES ON!” Killer bangs his hands on the inside of the office door, and you keep giggling. “I SWEAR TO GOD, KID! If I sit my ass on something sticky or disgusting on that couch… I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

“CALM YER TITS, DIPSHIT! Nothin’ happened!”

“I’M GONNA BURN THAT FUCKING COUCH!”

“THEN YE BUY A NEW ONE!”

“YOU’LL JUST DEFILE IT AGAIN!”

Laughter booms from your lips as you can’t hold it in anymore. The moment is long gone, but you can’t even be mad about it. Kid stops yelling at Killer and hands you your bra and shirt. When you’re fully dressed, his hand lingers on your hip, his thumb brushing soft strokes across your skin. 

“We can go upstairs… if yer still up for it.”

Hell yeah, you are. 

You’re about to reply with a teasing comment, but then you notice the slight sheen of sweat on Kid’s forehead. His neck is tense with pressure, and his stump twitches now and then. 

“You’re still in pain, Kid.”

You rise slowly, pick up the bottle of pills Killer brought, take two out, and place them in Kid’s hand, despite his barely-there objections. 

“Take the pills. Rest. We’ve got plenty of time.”

At least, you hope you do. It’s a feeling you hate, but unfortunately, one you’ve experienced more times than you’d like to admit when it comes to Kid. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, always accompanied by a massive wave of doubt. 

Every time you walk away from a charged moment - whether sparked by desire or something far more vulnerable - you leave your heart in Kid’s hands. So far, you’ve come out the other end bruised, battered, but not defeated. 

But this time feels different. So maybe walking away is the right step.

Kid reaches for the water bottle you retrieve from the fridge, but instead of taking it, he wraps his hand around your wrist and tugs you gently until you tumble onto his lap with a soft chuckle. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want ye to leave.” Kid’s warm breath tingles your neck as he leans in to whisper those words to you. 

It’s all the reassurance you need.

But he still gives you more. Kid presses his lips beneath your earlobe, then along your jaw, and finally at the corner of your mouth, until you sigh, and he drinks it in like oxygen to a dying man. 

You’re glad his hand stays steady on your lower back, because without it, you’re sure you’d melt straight into the couch. There’s no strength left in any limb of your body. 

The kiss ends abruptly when he pulls back with a groan, muscles tightening. Your gaze softens, and you massage his stump for a few minutes while he takes the pills and downs them with water.

“The pills and lotion will kick in soon. Go to bed and rest, Kid. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

God, you don’t want to leave him. 

But you know he needs rest. And the worst is definitely over; he’s no longer at war with himself, no longer trapped in a maze of self-loathing and doubt. He just needs time and sleep to recover.

Which won’t happen if you stay. 

After a few more stolen touches, he lets you go, and you drag yourself away from him, somehow feeling lighter than when you walked in. The events took a turn you weren’t expecting, and even though they were painful and pushed both your limits, you can’t help but feel like barriers were overcome and walls were demolished. 

Now it’s time to rebuild. One step at a time.

-*-

“Is it safe?” Killer opens the office door and comes out with his bandana tied over his eyes instead of just his mouth.

Kid can’t help a disgruntled, although bemused, sound escape his lips. He’s reclining on the couch, his arm draped over his eyes, muscles taut, and eyes scrunched. The pain has ebbed from fucking unbearable to moderate.

And he has you to thank for it.

You, whom he insulted, pushed, and harmed with venomous words; you who took them with a raised chin and open defiance; you who poured your kindness, your goodness, and your warmth into him - someone so undeserving it should’ve driven you away immediately. 

You, whom he definitely cares more for than he should; you, who he cannot relinquish; you, who will be his downfall.

No. Lies.

He’s sure he will be your downfall. 

“How are you feeling, man? You were down in the dumps when you called. I could hear the strain in your voice.” Killer sits on the couch next to him, grimaces, and gags loudly before getting up and sitting on a stool instead. 

“The couch is clean, dumbass. We were just…”

“Making out like horny teenagers? Yeah, I saw. Oh, was that what happened? You were dying from pain, and she was performing CPR on your dying ass?”

Kid chuckles again. Dumbass Killer, always trying to lighten the mood and alleviate the tension. 

“I fuckin’ care for her, Kill.” Kid can’t face him, not yet.

“Well, duh! Haven’t we cleared that already? Because it was pretty damn clear when you returned from the beach date—”

“Not a date!”

“—With lovey-dovey eyes, swooning like a girl—”

“The fuck, man?” Kid finally lifts his arm to stare directly into Killer’s amused expression. 

“You more than care for her. And it’s alright to admit it. It’s not like your other arm’s going to fall off because of it.” Killer ducks when Kid throws him a wrench that was wedged between the couch and the arm of the couch. “Missed.”

Kid’s arm returns to act as a shield over his face as he lets out another groan. 

“I’m sorry I interrupted you again. In my defense, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to leave the door unlocked a second time, plus I really thought I was going to find you incapacitated.”

“It’s fine,” Kid slurs. The pills are starting to kick in, finally. He was close to resorting to more booze. “I… we better slow down, anyway. I ain’t aiming to do somethin’ stupid, so I gotta do things right.” 

He sighs and shakes his head. It’s so fucking hard to expose what he feels, to just get it out there. Why the fuck is it so fucking hard? With Killer, he can be truthful, he knows that, but still…

“That’s… actually wise,” Killer interjects with surprise. “Maybe my interrupting you was divine intervention.”

The bemusement in his tone is clear, but Kid can’t share the sentiment. 

“I stopped believin’ in divine anythin’ a long time ago, Kill. I ain’t about to start now…” 

Killer slumps in his stool, his back hitting the workbench where he supports himself with his elbows. His eyes fall to the corner where Kid keeps the army photograph. It’s already tucked behind an oil can, forgotten again, like it never saw the light to begin with. 

“They wouldn’t want—”

“I know what they want, Kill. I hear ’em. Every fuckin’ second of every fuckin’ day!” Kid gets up, his head feels light from the pills, and he really should take your advice and rest. But they are always there, he’s not lying about that. And their appearances always hurt the most once he starts enjoying himself, once he starts to believe he can be happy.

“They’re always blamin’ me, they’re always laughin’ at me! I know I fuckin’ failed ’em and I need to suffer for it! FUCK!” Kid kicks the couch and grunts in agony, but he welcomes the pain again. The one in his arm is already numbing, and he doesn’t exactly deserve a reprieve.

Killer rises, too, trying to placate his anger. “Come on, Kid, you know they would never do that. They would’ve forgiven you… They have.”

Kid swallows his anger and his pain alongside the rock-sized lump that suddenly forms in his throat. He doesn’t push it further. Killer wouldn’t understand.

“Aye. Whatever. I’m gonna lie down.”

He’s already stomping up the steps to his apartment, not giving Killer a chance to add anything else to this pity party.  Killer wouldn’t understand, but it’s not because he didn’t know them or wasn’t there; it’s because they’re his ghosts to bear, and Kid is the one to blame for their untimely deaths.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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|Chapter 9|

[intervex]

What Pride Flags Mean, Part 1: Gender and Attraction

Welcome to the latest installment of my autistic hyperfixation on flags! I wanted to figure out a common language of Colour X means Thing Y. Like how pink is consistently used for feminine.

Having a common language for flag meanings matters because it improves cognitive accessibility of flags. ♿️💙

But I didn't want to be prescriptive about what colours should mean what. Just because I think Thing X should go with Colour Y doesn't mean everybody else would.

So this turned into a descriptive, empirical project. I gathered a data set of 2060 pride flag colour choices to figure out what are the most common colour-meaning combinations. Some of the results:

And here are the abstract modifiers: these are modifiers that were generally shared between the genders and the attractions. For example, black is used to indicate having no gender as well as having no attraction.

Click here for tables with okLCH values, hex values, definitions, and notes - I've put a more detailed write-up on my Wikimedia Commons userpage. (Mediawiki supports sortable tables and Tumblr does not.)

METHODS-AT-A-GLANCE

To make the figures above, I assembled a data set of pride flag colours. It contains 2060 colour choices from 624 pride flags, representing 1587 unique colours. Click here for a detailed description of how I gathered and tagged the pride flag colours and tagged them.

For each tag, I converted every colour to okLCH colour space and computed a median colour. OkLCH colour space is an alternative to RGB/hex and HSL/HSV. Unlike RGB/hex and HSL/HSV, okLCH is a perceptual colour space, meaning that it is actually based on human colour perception. 🌈

In okLCH space, a colour has three values:

- Lightness (0-100%): how light the colour is. 100% is pure white.

- Chroma (0-0.37+): how vibrant the colour is. 0 is monochromatic. 0.37 is currently the most vibrant things can get with current computer monitor technologies. But as computer monitor technologies improve to allow for even more vibrant colours, higher chroma values will be unlocked.

- Hue (0-360°): where on the colour wheel the colour goes - 0° is pink and 180° is teal, and colours are actually 180° opposite from their perceptual complements.

The important thing to know is that okLCH Hue is not the same Hue from HSV/HSL - the values are different! (HSL and HSV are a hot mess and do not align with human colour perception!)

You can learn more about okLCH through my little write up, which was heavily influenced by these helpful articles by Geoff Graham, Lea Verou, and Keith J Grant.

You can play with an okLCH colour picker and converter at oklch.com

🌈

MORE RESULTS: COLOUR DISTRIBUTIONS

Back when I started tagging my data, I divided my data into five main chunks: Gender qualities (e.g. masculine, androgynous), Attraction (e.g. platonic, sexual), Values (e.g. community, joy), Disability (e.g. Deaf, blind), and Other.

I'll talk about Disability and Values in future posts! But for an alternate view of the data, here are the full distributions of the colours that were placed in each tag.

They come in three parts: tags I created for Gender, tags for Attraction, and tags from Other. The abstract modifiers are spread between the first two, though their contents transcend Gender and Attraction.

Some distributions have a lot more variance within them than others. Generally speaking, major attraction types tended to have the least variance: sensual attraction is really consistently orange, platonic is really consistently yellow, etc.

Variance and size do not correlate. Many of the smaller tags are quite internally consistent. I don't have a ton of tags in "current gender" but they're all the same dark purple. Xenine/xenogender has a whole bunch of entries, and there's a really big spread from blue to yellow.

Some tags, like intersex as well as kink/fetish show there are a small number of different colours that are very consistently used. Whereas other tags like masculine show a very smooth range - in this case from cyan to purple.

Overall I'm pretty satisfied with how things wound up! 🥳 It makes sense to me that an umbrella term like xenogender would have a lot of variance. What honestly makes me happiest is just how many tags wound up 180 or 90 degrees from their opposites/complements. 🤩

Not everything lined up nicely (the opposite of drag is .... neuroqueer? awkward.) 🤨 Some things lined up in hilarious ways, like how initially I had the opposite of kink/fetish being Christian (amazing.)

But as a whole, there's a lot of structure and logic to where things landed! I hope this makes sense for other people and can help inform both flag making as well as flag interpreting (e.g. writing alt-text for existing flags). 🌈

I'm hoping to post the Disability and Values analyses in the coming days! If you want to learn more, my detailed notes along with tables etc are over on my Wikimedia Commons userspace. 💜

Everything here is Creative Commons Sharealike 4.0, which means you're free to reuse and build on my visualizations, tables, etc. Enjoy!

[pixel7777]

Batstarion's New Groove: Ch. 1/10

This art was commissioned from the incredible @vetochkarowan, the single best illustrator of Batstarion in all his fictional forms ever. Check out her Modern Bat series (pinned to her page) and consider supporting her Patreon, as I do!

Work Summary: There's a time and a place to turn into a floofy white bat. This is not it.

One minute, Astarion is a suave, unflappable vampire spawn. The next, he's small, white, fluffy, and squeaking indignantly from Zelara's cleavage. While Gale scrambles to solve the magical mystery and floof-obsessed Zelara insists on calling him Batstarion, Astarion has bigger concerns—like how to chair a political summit when he can’t hold a quill. A throuple romantic comedy with spells gone sideways, bureaucracy under siege, and just a little bloodletting.

This story can be enjoyed alone (betas confirm!) but is technically a sequel to Threefold Returns (Tumblr/AO3). See the notes below the break for more info.

Canon compliance: Mostly plausible as post-canon fanfic, with some magical realism non-strict 5e magic rules.

Work Content Tags: Post-Canon, Polyamory, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, POV Multiple, Threesome - F/M/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Humor, Bloodweave+Tav, PIV sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Batstarion, Floofy snuggles ~32K words.

Read this chapter below the break or the full work (already completed) on AO3!

Chapters will be posted nightly on Tumblr - head to AO3 if you're impatient to finish!

Notes:

This fic happens after Threefold Returns (Tumblr/AO3) but can be enjoyed without reading Threefold first. A few points to keep in mind:

Astarion, Gale, and Zelara (Tav in the story) are in an established Throuple relationship

They live in Gale's Tower in Waterdeep, which is sentient and has a particular affection for Astarion.

The Tower connects to the Underdark, where Zelara's semi-sentient Workbench is forced to reside, since Tower dislikes being exploded.

Zelara is a Dhampir Drow Alchemist.

Astarion released the spawn at the Ascension ritual, and he and Zelara have spent time since then in the Underdark helping them survive.

I had amazing beta-reader for this fic from the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord server: domestic_cryptid and @gewhanaa. Thank both so much for your inputs!

Chapter 1 - Gale

Gale lifted his glass of wine, watching the sunset play across the rooftop garden Tower had crafted for their gathering. The space was remarkably pleasant – cushioned seating arranged in a semicircle, all self-warming despite the cool evening breeze, with potted herbs and flowering plants creating a lush atmosphere. A table laden with an assortment of foods and drinks stood within easy reach of everyone.

"To the eve of a new dawn," he toasted, smiling at his companions assembled around them.

Lae'zel scoffed but raised her goblet nonetheless. "The metaphor is unnecessary. But I acknowledge the significance of tomorrow's proceedings."

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. "Always the poet, aren't you, Gale?"

Gale's attention drifted to Astarion, who sat between him and Zelara. The vampire was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was making its final descent. There was something in his expression – a tightness around his mouth, a certain distance in his eyes – that struck Gale as unusual.

Insecurity, perhaps? The thought seemed strange associated with Astarion, who typically projected nothing but confidence, but tomorrow was no small matter. Leading the committee that would oversee the distribution of Aureum Vitae would effectively change the future for thousands of vampire spawn. Cazador's former slaves would finally have the opportunity to walk in daylight, to rejoin society proper.

"You know," Gale said quietly, leaning toward Astarion, "I believe you're more prepared for tomorrow than you realize." 

Astarion turned to look at him, one eyebrow arched. 

"The spawn respect you," Gale continued. "You've lived their experience, understood their suffering in ways none of us could. That authenticity will carry more weight than any rehearsed speech."

Zel reached over and squeezed Astarion's hand. "What our wizard's trying to say is you've got this."

Astarion's expression shifted, but not toward relief as Gale had expected. If anything, the furrow between his brows deepened.

"We've rehearsed the opening statements," Gale assured him. "The research is solid, the logistics are sound. The committee simply needs direction, and you're uniquely positioned to provide it." 

He placed a hand on Astarion's shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his palm. "Two years ago, I wouldn't have believed we'd be here – planning the integration of vampire spawn into daylight society. It's rather remarkable, isn't it?"

Astarion shifted in his seat. "Yes, quite remarkable," he murmured, rolling his shoulders again.

Gale watched him curiously. Something about the way Astarion kept adjusting his posture seemed off. Perhaps his shirt was bothering him? The vampire was notoriously particular about his clothing – the fabric might be causing some discomfort. Gale made a mental note to ask him about it later.

"I have concerns about quality control," Lae'zel interjected, pulling Gale's attention away from Astarion's fidgeting. "Your potion requires precise measurement. One mistake and we will have burning vampires in the streets."

"The dosage is quite stable," Gale assured her, grateful for her practical concerns. "We've refined the formula substantially. Any variance within five percent will still provide adequate protection."

Shadowheart cleared her throat. "It's not just about the physical safety. What of the reception these spawn will face? People have feared vampires for centuries. A potion won't erase that prejudice."

"Fair point," Gale conceded. "Integration will require more than technical solutions."

Minsc's booming voice cut through the conversation. "Boo says that all creatures deserve a chance at redemption! Even those with pointy teeth!"

Jaheira seemed less convinced. "Many of these spawn had been Cazador’s captives for generations. They have few trade skills, no understanding of surface customs. How will they support themselves? Without structure, desperate people make desperate choices."

"We've considered educational programs," Gale explained, warming to the topic. "Apprenticeships with sympathetic guilds. Blackstaff has already pledged support for – "

A sharp, abrupt movement caught Gale's eye. Astarion had adjusted his position again, almost flinching.

" – for transitional housing," Gale continued, trying not to lose his train of thought. "With proper discourse between community leaders, I believe we can create pathways for meaningful integration."

Through all this, Astarion remained notably silent. His fingers drummed against his knee, and occasionally he would rotate his shoulders as if trying to stretch out some discomfort. The behavior was so uncharacteristic that Gale found himself glancing over repeatedly, only half–listening as Jaheira and Shadowheart debated the ethics of blood supply chains.

"These challenges are significant," Gale admitted, "but not insurmountable. With careful planning and our combined resources, I believe we can address each concern methodically."

Astarion shifted again, more dramatically this time, then immediately stilled when he noticed Gale watching. His smile was tight, forced.

How strange, Gale thought. For someone who had fought so hard for this moment, Astarion seemed almost... reluctant now that it had arrived.

Gale watched as Zel interrupted the increasingly spirited debate about resource allocation with a wave of her hand.

"Honestly, you're all worrying about stuff Astarion's already thought of," she said, leaning back with the casual confidence she always displayed. "Calm down and pass the booze. Astarion's been working on this for months."

Gale nodded, appreciating her show of support. Astarion had indeed been meticulous in his planning, though his current demeanor suggested otherwise. The vampire's shoulders twitched again, more violently this time, and Gale was about to ask if he was feeling well when – 

His wine glass nearly slipped from his hand as Astarion abruptly ceased to exist.

In his place, there was a puff of mist, followed by a rush of displaced air. Astarion vanished. In his place, plummeting from chest-height toward the ground, was a small bundle of white fur.

Gale froze. Absolute stillness fell over the gathering.

Zel's reflexes proved faster than anyone else's. She lunged forward, hands cupped, and caught the creature before it hit the ground.

"What in the nine hells–" Shadowheart began.

Gale set his glass down carefully and leaned forward, peering into Zel's cupped hands. Gale gaped. The fur bundle turned out to be a small, white bat, with a distinctive curl atop its head that looked remarkably like Astarion's signature swoop of bangs. Its tiny nose and feet were pink, and when it blinked up at them, Gale recognized unmistakable ruby-red eyes.

"Astarion? Fascinating," he murmured, his mind already racing with possibilities. "I wasn't aware vampire spawn could transform like true vampires. This suggests a significant evolution in his powers." 

He mentally catalogued everything he knew about vampire physiology. Typically, only true vampires possessed the ability to transform into bats or mist. Astarion had deliberately chosen not to become a full vampire, yet here was evidence that he had somehow acquired new abilities.

"The implications are remarkable," Gale continued, reaching out a tentative finger toward the bat. "Perhaps Cazador's death has allowed for a gradual transference of power?"

But Zel wasn't listening to his theorizing. Her expression had transformed completely, her eyes wide with delight.

"Look at him!" she gasped, gently cradling the tiny bat. "He's so... fluffy!"

Gale watched, somewhat bewildered, as Zel's face softened into an expression he rarely saw on her. Her fingers carefully stroked the bat's tiny head, and she cooed in a voice utterly unlike her usual practical tone.

"You're just a little ball of floof, aren't you?" she said, her voice pitched higher than normal. "Look at your tiny ears!"

The bat stared up at Gale with those ruby eyes, and then it opened its tiny mouth and began squeaking frantically. The sound was high-pitched and rapid, almost as if it were trying to communicate something urgent.

"What's happening to him?" Jaheira leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern.

Karlach crossed her arms. "Uh, he sounds kind of… freaked out. Did he do this on purpose?"

Gale pondered this question. It was indeed puzzling. Astarion had given no indication he possessed such abilities before today. More importantly, if this was intentional, why would he choose this moment, on the eve of such an important event, to demonstrate this skill?

"Astarion," Gale addressed the tiny creature, attempting to maintain a calm, rational tone despite the absurdity of the situation, "perhaps you could change back and explain what's happening?"

He reached toward the bat, but before his fingers could make contact, Zel yanked her hands away, pulling Astarion out of reach.

"No!" she exclaimed with unexpected ferocity. "He's mine! I'm going to love him and squeeze him and pet him and hug him and feed him and call him Batstarion!"

Gale blinked in astonishment. He'd adventured with Zelara, had been romantically involved with her for years now, and yet he'd never seen this particular expression on her face – a mixture of fierce protectiveness and childlike delight. It was as if the sight of Astarion in this tiny, vulnerable form had activated some deeply buried maternal instinct.

"Zel," he said carefully, "I understand he's quite... charming in this state, but we need to determine if he can transform back. Tomorrow's meeting–"

The tiny bat flailed in Zelara’s hands, flapping its wings furiously and screeching with all the righteous indignation of a prince whose royal decree had been ignored.

“Oh my gods, you’re so cute when you’re mad!” Zel gushed.

The bat screamed louder.

Lae'zel stood up abruptly. "This form is inappropriate for tomorrow's proceedings," she declared. "We cannot have the leader of the committee present as a rodent."

"Bats aren't rodents," Gale corrected automatically. "They're of the order Chiroptera, which–"

The Githyanki shot him a withering look, and he decided taxonomy lessons could wait for another time.

"This is clearly the work of our enemies," Lae'zel said, her yellow eyes narrowing as she surveyed the rooftop with suspicion. "A curse inflicted by those who oppose the liberation of the spawn. They seek to undermine tomorrow's proceedings by removing its leader."

"A fascinating theory," Gale replied, unable to keep the excitement from his voice, "but I believe we're witnessing something far more remarkable – an arcane anomaly that suggests evolving vampiric physiology! Perhaps killing Cazador has allowed Astarion to inherit certain dormant abilities. The timing is odd, this developing two years later but–"

The bat squeaked furiously at this, tiny wings flapping in what Gale interpreted as disagreement.

"Or it is a sign that he has overexerted himself," Jaheira interjected, her voice calm but concerned. "There are records of druids losing control of Wild Shape under duress. While Astarion is no druid, the principle may be similar. Stress can manifest in unexpected physiological responses, particularly in beings with magical natures."

Halsin blushed.

Shadowheart leaned forward, studying the small creature with narrowed eyes. "Perhaps this is an undiscovered side effect of the Aureum Vitae? The potion allows vampires to withstand sunlight, but we've only been testing it for a short time. It stands to reason that a formula powerful enough to protect against a vampire's greatest weakness might have other effects – perhaps heightening other vampiric powers, like transformation abilities."

Gale found himself nodding. "That's a reasonable hypothesis. The potion works by temporarily altering the fundamental magical essence of vampiric physiology. It's not inconceivable that such alterations could trigger latent abilities."

"He looked all itchy before it happened," Karlach pointed out, scratching her own arm absently. "Are you all using a new soap? Because I got the weirdest rash this one time when Wyll brought back this fancy Calimshan soap. Turned me bright purple for three days."

The bat in Zel's hands stopped squeaking and stared at Karlach with what Gale swore was pure exasperation.

"While I appreciate everyone's theories," Gale said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "what matters most is determining if Astarion can transform back. The committee meeting is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and his presence – in his humanoid form – is rather crucial."

Zel clutched the bat closer to her chest. "But look at his tiny little nose! And the way his ear twitches when he's annoyed!"

Gale sighed. Getting Zel to focus on the problem rather than Astarion's admittedly adorable appearance was going to be challenging. He leaned in, examining the bat more closely.

"Can you understand us, Astarion?" he asked.

The bat nodded vigorously, its ruby eyes bright with intelligence.

"Can you transform back at will?"

The bat flailed violently, squeaking at Gale with a level of distress that could mean anything from “obviously not, you idiot” to “I refuse to dignify that question.”

Gale watched as Zelara nuzzled Batstarion against her cheek, her eyes closed in pure delight. For a moment – so brief he might have imagined it – Astarion seemed to lean into the affection, his tiny bat body relaxing against her lavender skin.

Then, as if catching himself in this moment of vulnerability, Batstarion swatted at her with one leathery wing, his ruby eyes narrowing in what could only be described as vampiric indignation.

"Please," Gale said, spreading his hands in a gesture of desperate appeal. He looked back and forth between his lovers – one transformed into a fluffy white bat, the other seemingly content to keep him that way indefinitely. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

Zel merely giggled as Batstarion continued his ineffectual protest. Gale's shoulders slumped, and he fixed them both with a pleading gaze. Was he truly the only one taking this situation seriously? They had responsibilities, obligations – and Astarion was currently incapable of doing anything more threatening than squeaking angrily.

"We need to focus," he implored, though his voice betrayed his growing certainty that neither of his companions was listening to reason.

Halsin, who had been observing the situation with quiet interest, rose from his seat. "Perhaps I can help," he offered. "I can speak with him if I cast–"

He began the familiar gestures of the Speak with Animals spell, his fingers weaving through the air in practiced motions.

Gale watched with academic fascination as Halsin completed the spell, his hands glowing briefly with druidic energy. The transformation was subtle but immediate – the bat's squeaks should now be comprehensible speech to the druid. Halsin leaned in close, his expression gentle as he addressed the tiny creature.

"Astarion, can you explain what happened? Was this transformation voluntary?" Halsin asked. 

The bat opened its mouth, but instead of answering, it closed its mouth again and went completely still. Its tiny body froze, wings pulled tight to its sides, ruby eyes narrowed in thought. Gale frowned, leaning closer to examine this new development. Had something gone wrong with the spell? The bat's chest still rose and fell with rapid breaths, so it wasn't unconscious, merely... unresponsive. Gale glanced at Halsin, whose confusion mirrored his own, then at the others who had fallen into an uneasy silence. Shadowheart raised a skeptical eyebrow, Lae'zel's hand drifted toward her weapon as if expecting treachery, and Karlach simply scratched her head in bewilderment. Even Zel's delighted cooing ceased as she studied the suddenly petrified Batstarion with the first hint of concern crossing her features.

Then the bat – Astarion? Batstarion? – suddenly launched itself from Zel's hands with surprising force. Its wings beat frantically as it first fell and then gained altitude, circling once above the gathered party before darting away toward the city.

"No! Batstarion, come back!" Zel cried, springing to her feet and reaching futilely toward the retreating form.

Shadowheart knocked over her wine glass in the commotion, Minsc bellowed something about tiny winged justice, and Boo scurried under a cushion. Jaheira was already on her feet, attempting to track the bat's trajectory, while Lae'zel muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a Githyanki curse.

Gale stood in the midst of the chaos, knowing with absolute certainty that tomorrow's committee meeting was now the least of their concerns.

[amethystarachnid]

Hi, how are you doing? ☺️

I’m here to make a little request for Tony Stark/Female Reader, please.

Prompt: Secret Santa

Background: Tony all cute and happy trying to find the best gift for her (maybe something handmade that reminds them of their relationship, I’m not the best person to think about those things, but I’m sure you will find something amazing) and Reader immediately knows what she’ll give to him, a box either a positive pregnancy test, some ultrasound pictures, a cute little iron man onesie with “Iron Baby” written and some other cute little things.

Thank you in advance! 💜

SECRET SANTA

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.6k

ᯓ★ Summary: While Tony is trying desperately to find the perfect gift for you you already have the perfect one hidden from him. Whose gift will be the best?

ᯓ★ TW(s): pregnancy

ᯓ★ To adapt the them to the request it isn't a secret santa so it'll be just a exchanging gifts kind of things

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Snow falls gently outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Stark Tower penthouse, each flake sparkling like tiny diamonds against the glow of New York City’s Christmas lights. Inside, the hum of J.A.R.V.I.S.’s automated systems and the faint strains of a holiday playlist create a cozy atmosphere. You’re lounging on the oversized couch, nestled under a throw blanket with a mug of peppermint hot chocolate warming your hands, your gaze occasionally drifting to the man who seems to embody the Christmas spirit this year.

Tony Stark is a whirlwind in the kitchen, entirely out of his natural habitat but utterly determined. He’s wearing a Santa hat that’s slightly askew, paired with an old, grease-stained AC/DC t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. His expression is one of laser focus as he uses an intricate set of tools — not culinary ones, mind you, but Stark-grade gadgets — to try and assemble what looks like a cookie cutter. The sight is simultaneously adorable and ridiculous, and you can’t help but smile as he mutters something under his breath about structural integrity and the optimal dough thickness.

“You know,” you tease, setting your mug down on the coffee table, “most people just buy cookie cutters. They don’t invent them.”

Tony looks up from his project, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, well, most people aren’t me, are they? If I’m going to make Christmas cookies for my amazing girlfriend, I’m going to do it right.”

You laugh, the sound echoing warmly through the room. “Cookies? Is that what you’re calling this… whatever this is?”

“This,” Tony says, holding up a vaguely star-shaped cutter with an air of triumph, “is engineering at its finest. And you, Ms. Skeptical, are going to eat the best Christmas cookies of your life.”

Your heart swells, the playful banter a familiar rhythm in your relationship. He’s been like this for weeks — uncharacteristically domestic and brimming with holiday cheer. You suspect it has something to do with the Christmas gift he’s been hinting at. Every time he tries to subtly ask you about what you might want, you see that telltale Stark gleam in his eye, the one that means he’s up to something.

Meanwhile, you’ve already decided on your gift for him. It’s sitting in a little box, tucked away in your closet, and every time you think about giving it to him, a wave of nervous excitement washes over you. It’s perfect, you’re sure of it, but it’s also a bombshell — the kind of gift that changes everything.

Tony’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. “Hey, you good? You’re smiling like you’ve got some secret.”

You grin, trying to play it cool. “Just enjoying the show. You’re surprisingly cute when you’re playing mad scientist with cookie cutters.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your sass, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Careful, or I might make you wear the Santa hat and help me. Equal partnership, remember?”

“Nice try, Stark, but you’re on your own for this one.” You stretch lazily, enjoying the way his eyes flicker to you, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I have my own holiday preparations to deal with.”

Tony narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Preparations, huh? Like what?”

“Like… wrapping your gift.”

His expression shifts instantly, from suspicion to unbridled curiosity. “You already got me something? Why didn’t you tell me? What is it? Is it a car? A private island? Oh my god, is it a pony?”

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Why would I get you a pony?”

“I don’t know!” Tony throws up his hands. “You’re unpredictable. That’s one of the things I love about you. You could totally be the kind of person who buys her billionaire boyfriend a pony just to mess with him.”

Shaking your head, you rise from the couch and walk over to him, slipping your arms around his waist. He smells like a mix of motor oil and peppermint, a strangely comforting combination. “You’ll just have to wait until Christmas morning like everyone else.”

He groans dramatically, leaning his forehead against yours. “But waiting is the worst.”

You laugh softly, your fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “You’ll survive.”

Tony pulls back, giving you that crooked grin that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. “You’re lucky I’m crazy about you.”

“I know,” you say, kissing his cheek. “And for the record, I’m crazy about you too.”

The rest of the evening unfolds in a blur of laughter, cookie dough catastrophes, and a flour fight that leaves the kitchen looking like a snowstorm hit it. By the time you crawl into bed, Tony is already brainstorming ways to improve his cookie cutter design, his notebook balanced precariously on his lap.

As you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but think about how much your life has changed since Tony came into it. He’s still the same brilliant, unpredictable man you fell in love with, but there’s a softer side to him now, one that he only shows to you. It’s a side that makes you even more excited about the future — a future that’s about to become even more chaotic, and infinitely more wonderful.

The next morning, you wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Christmas music playing softly in the background. Tony is already up, standing at the counter with his back to you, tinkering with something that looks suspiciously like a robotic arm holding a whisk. You smile, shaking your head at his endless creativity.

“Morning,” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.

He turns his head to look at you, his face lighting up. “Morning, gorgeous. Coffee’s on the counter.”

You grab your mug and take a sip, savoring the warmth. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“Shopping,” he announces, spinning around to face you. “I’m on a mission to find the perfect gift for the perfect woman.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And who might that be?”

Tony smirks. “Funny. You might know her. Smart, beautiful, has an impeccable sense of humor. Bit of a troublemaker, though.”

You laugh, leaning against the counter. “Well, good luck with that. She sounds like she has pretty high standards.”

“Oh, she does,” Tony says, his expression softening. “But she’s worth it.”

Your heart melts a little, and you reach up to brush a strand of hair away from his face. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he quips, grabbing his coat. “Now, come on. Let’s go spread some holiday cheer — Stark style.”

The day is a whirlwind of activity. Tony drags you to every shop in Manhattan, insisting that he needs your input for “research purposes.” You play along, knowing full well that he’s trying to throw you off the scent of whatever he’s planning. At one point, he buys an absurdly oversized stuffed reindeer and insists on carrying it around for the rest of the day, much to the amusement of passersby.

By the time you make it back to the penthouse, your feet are aching, but your spirits are high. Tony collapses onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, the reindeer perched proudly next to him.

“That,” he declares, “was a successful mission.”

“Did you actually buy my gift, or was this just an excuse to act like a Christmas lunatic?” you ask, flopping down beside him.

“Both,” he admits, pulling you into his arms. “But mostly the gift thing. You’ll love it, I promise.”

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I’m sure I will.”

As you sit there together, surrounded by the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree and the quiet hum of the city below, you realize that this is what you love most about the holidays. It’s not the gifts or the decorations — it’s the simple, joyful moments with the man you love.

And if everything goes according to plan, this Christmas will be one you’ll both remember for the rest of your lives.

The Stark Tower is unusually lively this morning, the energy of Christmas buzzing through its futuristic halls. Tony is in a festive yet frantic state, pacing the penthouse like a man on a mission. His hair is slightly tousled, his signature goatee impeccably groomed, but there’s an unmistakable panic in his eyes. In one hand, he clutches a tablet loaded with potential gift ideas — all of which he’s already rejected.

“I’ve got nothing,” he mutters to himself, collapsing onto the plush sofa. “Nothing! Billionaire genius, and I can’t even come up with a gift for my girlfriend. Pathetic.”

J.A.R.V.I.S., ever the voice of reason, chimes in. “Perhaps if you focused on what Ms. Y/N truly enjoys, sir, instead of cross-referencing gift lists from obscure online influencers—”

“Don’t start, J,” Tony cuts in, running a hand through his hair. “She’s already got everything. I mean, I got her that custom jet last year. How do you top a jet? You can’t just show up with…I don’t know…a fruit basket.”

“Fruit baskets do have their appeal,” J.A.R.V.I.S. responds with what could almost be sarcasm. “But perhaps the Avengers could provide some inspiration?”

Tony freezes mid-panic spiral. That’s not a terrible idea. Sure, it’s risky — the team isn’t exactly known for their emotional intelligence — but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Fine,” he says, springing to his feet. “Avengers assemble… into my gift crisis.”

Tony’s first stop is the gym, where Steve Rogers is predictably punching a bag that looks like it’s seen better days. Captain America, always dependable. Surely he’ll have a wholesome, foolproof idea.

“Cap!” Tony calls out, striding into the room. “I need your help.”

Steve turns, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Help with what?”

“Gift ideas for Y/N,” Tony explains. “You’re all about romance, right? Flowers, dances, old-school charm?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s entirely accurate.”

“Come on,” Tony pleads. “What would you get Peggy?”

Steve hesitates, clearly caught off guard. “Well… something meaningful. Like… a locket. Or a handwritten letter.”

Tony blinks. “A letter? Seriously? What am I, a 1940s soldier? This is Y/N we’re talking about.”

Steve shrugs. “You asked for my opinion.”

“Yeah, and I’m returning it for store credit.” Tony claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Cap. I’ll try not to let your advice tank the relationship.”

Steve sighs, going back to his punching bag. “Good luck.”

Next up is Natasha, who’s in the middle of yoga in one of the quieter rooms. Tony approaches cautiously, aware that interrupting her zen could be hazardous to his health.

“Nat,” he begins, leaning against the doorway. “I need a favor.”

She doesn’t even open her eyes. “Is this about Y/N’s gift?”

Tony gapes. “How did you—?”

“Because you’ve been pacing around the tower like a maniac all morning,” she replies coolly, finally sitting up and fixing him with a knowing look. “What do you have so far?”

“Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”

Natasha smirks. “And you want me to tell you what to get her.”

“Exactly!” Tony points at her like she’s just cracked the code to cold fusion. “You’re sharp. Observant. What’s the perfect gift?”

Natasha considers for a moment, then says, “Something personal. Handmade, maybe. You’re good with your hands.”

Tony grins, but before he can make a suggestive comment, she cuts him off with a glare. “Not like that. I mean something that shows how much you care. Jewelry, maybe. Or art.”

“Jewelry… art…” Tony mutters, pulling out his tablet. “Great, now I just have to learn how to sculpt in two days. Thanks, Romanoff.”

“Happy to help,” she says dryly, already returning to her yoga pose.

From there, Tony tries Clint, who’s stringing up Christmas lights in one of the communal areas. Clint’s advice is as chaotic as expected.

“Easy,” Clint says, perching precariously on a ladder. “Just get her a puppy. Chicks love puppies.”

Tony stares at him. “I am not bringing a dog into this tower.”

“Why not? Dogs are great. They’re cute, cuddly, and they make up for any shortcomings in the gift department.”

Tony rubs his temples. “I’m not trying to distract her from my shortcomings, Barton. I’m trying to impress her.”

“Suit yourself,” Clint shrugs, hanging a lopsided string of lights. “But don’t come crying to me when she says she wanted a golden retriever.”

Bruce is in the lab, predictably surrounded by gadgets and scientific equipment. Tony hopes the two of them can put their combined genius to work on this problem, but Bruce is far less helpful than anticipated.

“Maybe you could write her a song,” Bruce suggests, pushing up his glasses.

Tony stares at him. “Do I look like Taylor Swift?”

“I’m just saying, it’s heartfelt. You could compose it digitally if you don’t want to sing.”

“Banner, I love you like a brother, but I’m not serenading Y/N.”

Bruce shrugs. “Your loss. I think she’d like it.”

“Noted.” Tony sighs. “Back to the drawing board.”

Even Happy gets dragged into the chaos. Tony finds him downstairs, supervising the unloading of holiday supplies.

“Happy,” Tony says, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve known Y/N for years. What’s her ultimate Christmas gift?”

Happy looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “You want me to tell you what to get your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re asking me, the guy who drives you around?”

“Exactly.”

Happy shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, boss.”

Tony groans, throwing his hands in the air. “You people are useless!”

By the end of the day, Tony is no closer to a solution. He’s tried everyone — Sam, Bucky, even Thor, whose advice (“Forge her a hammer!”) was predictably unhelpful. He slumps onto the couch in the penthouse, utterly defeated.

“What if she hates it?” he mutters aloud. “What if it’s not enough?”

“Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. interjects, “if I may offer a suggestion?”

Tony sighs. “What is it, J?”

“Perhaps the best gift you could give Ms. Y/N is a reflection of your relationship. Something that reminds her of the journey you’ve shared.”

Tony frowns, the gears in his mind turning. A reflection of their relationship… Suddenly, it clicks. His face lights up with realization, and he jumps to his feet.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., you’re a genius!” he exclaims. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

“I am programmed to be helpful, sir.”

Tony grins, already pulling out his tools and materials. He’s got a lot of work to do, but for the first time all day, he’s confident. This Christmas, he’s going to give Y/N something truly unforgettable. And if all else fails, well, there’s always next year’s puppy.

The workshop hums with activity as Tony works furiously on his latest project. He’s elbow-deep in wires and microchips, his face illuminated by the glow of holographic schematics projected in the air around him. His Santa hat sits forgotten on the workbench, replaced by his trusty welding goggles, and the upbeat carols playing in the background do little to mask his occasional muttered curses.

This gift has to be perfect. After his disastrous attempts at getting advice from the Avengers, Tony finally landed on an idea that feels right. It’s not about flashy extravagance or grand gestures this time. It’s about them — their inside jokes, their adventures, the little moments that have defined their relationship. The project is both ambitious and surprisingly sentimental, and it’s consuming every ounce of his focus.

“Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. pipes up, “Ms. Y/N has just returned from her errands. Should I inform her of your whereabouts?”

“No!” Tony yelps, nearly dropping a soldering iron. “I mean, no. Don’t tell her I’m down here. And don’t let her come in. This is classified.”

“As you wish, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replies. “Though I should point out that she may grow suspicious of your… absence.”

Tony pauses, chewing his lip. “Good point. I’ll head up for a bit. Cover for me if she asks anything.”

“As always, sir.”

Tony wipes his hands on a nearby cloth, tugs off his goggles, and makes his way upstairs. As the elevator doors slide open, the familiar scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air, and he spots you in the kitchen, arranging a tray of cookies with a focused determination that rivals his own.

“Hey, Peppermint,” he greets, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What’s cookin’?”

You glance up, a playful smile curving your lips. “Cookies, obviously. You planning to swoop in and steal half of them before they cool?”

“Steal? Never.” He steps closer, the grin on his face equal parts mischief and charm. “I’m just here to, uh, supervise.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, clearly not buying it. “What’s the catch, Stark?”

He slides an arm around your waist, planting a kiss on your cheek. “No catch. Just missed you.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, setting the tray aside and turning to face him. “And this has nothing to do with trying to figure out what I got you for Christmas?”

Tony’s feigned innocence is laughable. “What? Me? No. I’m just an affectionate boyfriend who loves his girl and—”

“Tony.” Your tone is firm but amused. “You’re not getting it out of me.”

He groans dramatically, letting his head fall against your shoulder. “Come on, just give me a hint. A tiny clue. Like… does it have wheels? Or a remote control?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

Tony leans back, his hands coming up to cradle your face as his eyes search yours. “Okay, what if I said you’re the most brilliant, stunning, wonderful person in the universe?”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“Bribery?”

“Nope.”

“Kisses?” He leans in, brushing his lips against yours in a way that’s almost enough to make you forget what he’s after.

Almost.

You pull back, grinning. “Still no.”

Tony lets out an exaggerated sigh of defeat, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re cruel, you know that?”

“Consider it payback for all the times you’ve teased me with surprises.” You poke him lightly in the chest. “Now go find something else to obsess over.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, though his eyes sparkle with affection. “But this isn’t over.”

It’s definitely not over.

The next day, Tony launches a full-scale investigation. If you won’t spill the beans, maybe someone else will.

Thor is his first target. The Asgardian is lounging on the couch, a giant mug of hot chocolate in hand, as he admires the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree. He looks every bit the picture of holiday contentment — until Tony plops down next to him with an unnerving grin.

“Hey, Big Guy,” Tony begins, his tone overly casual. “Enjoying the cocoa?”

Thor nods, his expression serene. “Indeed, Stark. This Midgardian drink is most delightful.”

“Great, great.” Tony leans in slightly. “So, uh… you’re pretty close with Y/N, right?”

Thor raises an eyebrow, clearly sensing an ulterior motive. “She is my dearest friend. Why do you ask?”

Tony shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, no reason. Just curious if she’s mentioned anything about, you know, Christmas gifts. Specifically mine.”

Thor chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. “You wish to uncover her secret.”

“Exactly!” Tony’s eyes light up with hope. “So spill. What did she get me?”

But Thor shakes his head, his amusement evident. “I swore an oath of silence, Stark. Y/N entrusted me with this knowledge, and I shall not betray her.”

Tony groans, flopping back against the couch. “Come on, Thor. Just a hint. A riddle. Morse code, even.”

“I cannot,” Thor replies firmly. “But take heart, my friend. I am certain you will be most pleased with her gift.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony mutters. “Thanks for nothing, Thunderlord.”

Undeterred, Tony moves on to Sam and Bucky, who are bickering over whether or not Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie.

“Guys,” Tony interrupts, sliding into the seat between them. “Serious question: What did Y/N get me for Christmas?”

Sam snorts. “You think she told us?”

“Please,” Bucky adds, not even looking up from the screen. “Y/N knows we’re terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Exactly,” Tony says. “So if she did tell you, you’d crack by now. Which means she didn’t. Which means you’re useless to me.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” Sam deadpans.

Even Bruce, who’s usually patient enough to entertain Tony’s antics, is less than helpful.

“She didn’t tell me,” Bruce insists, adjusting his glasses. “And even if she did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Tony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do none of you understand the concept of loyalty?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Tony, if anyone here has loyalty to Y/N, it’s you. Why don’t you trust her gift will be amazing?”

Tony opens his mouth, then closes it. Bruce has a point. But that doesn’t mean he’s any less curious.

Back in his workshop that evening, Tony tinkers with his own project, trying to push thoughts of your gift from his mind. He’s almost finished now — just a few more adjustments, and it’ll be ready. As he assembles the final pieces, he thinks about all the moments that led up to this Christmas: your first date, the time you stayed up all night helping him debug a faulty suit, the way you make him laugh even on his worst days.

This gift isn’t just a present. It’s a thank you, a promise, and a celebration of everything you’ve built together.

And even though you’re driving him crazy with your secrecy, he knows one thing for certain: Whatever you’ve got planned, it’s going to be unforgettable.

With that thought, Tony sets down his tools, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. He doesn’t need to know what your gift is — not yet. For now, he’s happy just knowing he has you.

Christmas morning in the Stark Tower is a scene straight out of a holiday movie. The enormous tree in the living room is aglow with lights, its base surrounded by neatly wrapped presents. Snow falls gently outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a soft white backdrop for the festive chaos unfolding inside.

You’re curled up on the couch in your favorite pajamas, a mug of hot cocoa in hand. Tony, ever the big kid at heart, has already passed out Santa hats to everyone present, including himself. He wears his tilted at a jaunty angle as he lounges beside you, an arm slung around your shoulders.

“All right, folks!” he announces, clapping his hands together. “It’s showtime. Let’s get to the main event: gifts.”

The Avengers have gathered around the tree, a motley crew of holiday cheer (and mild bickering). Thor booms with laughter as he rips open a package containing a novelty hammer-shaped mug. Natasha smirks as she unwraps a sleek new set of throwing knives from Clint. Even Bruce looks delighted by his custom-designed science gadget from Sam.

But you and Tony? You’ve been waiting for this moment all morning, both of you teasingly delaying the exchange of your gifts.

“You first,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “I want to see what you’ve been hiding in that workshop of yours.”

Tony’s grin spreads wide, a mix of excitement and nerves. “Oh, trust me, sweetheart, this one’s worth the wait.”

He reaches under the tree and pulls out a medium-sized box wrapped in shiny silver paper. Handing it to you with a flourish, he leans back to watch your reaction, his eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

You tear into the wrapping paper eagerly, revealing a sleek wooden box with a brass clasp. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a handcrafted piece of art—a delicate, intricate snow globe. The base is engraved with your initials intertwined with his, and the scene inside is unmistakably Stark: a miniature version of you and Tony, standing arm in arm next to a scaled-down Iron Man suit, all framed by a sparkling winter wonderland.

Your breath catches. “Tony… this is…”

“There’s more,” he interrupts, leaning forward eagerly. “Shake it.”

You do, and as the snow swirls around, holographic lights within the globe flicker to life. Tiny projections play out in the air—a montage of your most cherished memories together, from your first date to lazy mornings in the penthouse, all culminating in a tiny glowing heart, just like the one in Tony’s arc reactor.

Tears well in your eyes, and you look up at him, overwhelmed. “Tony, this is… it’s perfect. It’s us.”

He smirks, brushing it off, but you can see the pride in his eyes. “I figured I’d go for something understated this year.”

You laugh, setting the globe carefully on the coffee table before launching yourself into his arms. “Thank you. I love it. I love you.”

“I know,” he quips, pulling you into a kiss that’s soft and sweet. “Merry Christmas, Peppermint.”

The rest of the room groans at the display, but neither of you notice.

“Okay,” Tony says after a moment, clearly eager now. “Your turn. Let’s see what my genius, gorgeous girlfriend came up with.”

You grin, your nerves suddenly kicking in as you grab the box you’ve been hiding behind the tree. It’s wrapped in festive red paper, topped with a glittery bow.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him. “Be careful. It’s… uh… delicate.”

Tony narrows his eyes playfully. “Delicate? What did you get me, a Fabergé egg?”

“Just open it,” you reply, your heart pounding.

He takes his time unwrapping it, deliberately dragging out the suspense until you swat his arm. Finally, he pulls off the lid, revealing a soft, tiny onesie folded neatly on top. It’s bright red and gold, designed to mimic his Iron Man suit, with “Iron Baby” written across the front in bold letters.

Tony stares at it for a beat, then looks up at you, brow furrowed. “Uh… is this for… like, a doll? Or are you suggesting I start a baby clothing line?”

You can’t help but laugh nervously. “Keep going,” you urge, gesturing toward the box.

Still confused, Tony sets the onesie aside and peeks beneath it. There, tucked beneath a layer of tissue paper, are the ultrasound pictures.

He picks up the first one, his eyes narrowing as he examines it. The confusion melts away in stages—first to realization, then to shock, and finally to an overwhelming wave of emotion. He freezes, his hand trembling slightly as he holds the image.

“Wait,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Is this… are you…?”

You nod, tears brimming in your eyes. “Merry Christmas, Tony.”

For a moment, he’s completely speechless. His mouth opens and closes as he looks from you to the pictures and back again. When the tears come, he tries to hide them by rubbing his eyes, but there’s no stopping the emotion that floods his face.

“Oh, my God,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “You’re pregnant?”

You nod again, smiling through your own tears. “Surprise.”

Tony lets out a choked laugh, setting the pictures carefully back in the box before pulling you into his arms. He holds you so tightly it’s as if he’s afraid you might disappear.

“You made my gift look miserable,” he mumbles against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t compete with this. This is… this is everything.”

“You don’t have to compete,” you whisper back, your arms wrapped around his neck. “This is our everything.”

When he finally pulls back, his face is lit up with a joy you’ve never seen before. He looks at the pictures again, then at you, then back at the onesie, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “Holy—wow. This might be the best day of my life.”

You laugh, wiping at your tears. “You think you’re ready for this?”

Tony grins, his trademark cockiness shining through even as his voice trembles. “Are you kidding? I’m Iron Man. I was born ready.”

He pauses, then adds, “Although, uh, maybe I should baby-proof the workshop.”

The two of you laugh, and when Tony pulls you in for another kiss, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just you, him, and the tiny new adventure waiting for you both.

“Merry Christmas, Peppermint,” he whispers against your lips.

“Merry Christmas, Tony.”

[melissalangdon]

WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by the amazing @honestlydarkprincess (so excited to be a part of this community!)

Here's a separate project I'm working on, canon continuation. Not sure if it'll be finished in time for kingdon week but...it's some good prose.

“I can't believe they even let his ass back here.” Santos mutters, and it's the type of comment that Mel isn't sure she's supposed to respond to. Body language (closed, facing away) indicates this was more of a “thinking out loud” sort of situation--but Mel, staring after Langdon as he enters the Pitt, can't stand to let the comment just sit. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair, especially to him. 

“I'm sure there's a good reason.” she finds herself saying. “He was gone for…a while, after all.” 

Santos turns to her, halfway done with rolling her eyes, combined with a scoff. “Not long enough.” she cuts in as she walks off. Mel puts together that not only has she taken a misstep, this was a poor opportunity to demonstrate how she felt about the situation.

If Santos hadn't walked away, Mel would have told her about the statistics behind inpatient drug rehabilitation facilities, how thirty day programs were positive foundations, all the things she had researched when the badly kept secret came rushing out. She would have defended him more, and not felt sorry about it whatsoever.

At first, Mel didn't want to fall into the rumor mill, to the point where if anyone even began whispering about him, she walked off, avoiding the impulse entirely to clap her hands over her ears and remind them that it wasn't nice to gossip. But, forcibly ignoring people you're trying to be friends with was difficult--balancing the two opposites brought her back to her waitressing days, balancing two hot trays in her deft, calloused fingers. So eventually, she just listened. Langdon had a drug problem, apparently. It was scandalous in the field of medicine to even admit to being fallible, taking care of others was only left to the perfect, after all. The judgement was palpable, a felt thing in the air, from everyone except Dr. McKay, and admittedly, Mel, who stayed focused on more practical things. Mel didn't think it was fair, but she knew what Langdon was doing wasn’t right either. It was tough to consider, and the greys between moralities were never her strong suit. 

He looks different, but remarkably still the same in some ways. She figures he's gained some weight, realizing slowly that his previous figure was probably maintained with more than protein bars and trips to the hospital wellness facilities, but it suits him, the extra weight. He doesn't look so hollow around the eyes, a point she only notices when the day flashes back in her mind, the day she repeated over and over in her head. He was her first confidant here, and dare she believe they were friends? Or at least friendly? She doesn't know. 

She beams at him during the assembly of the morning briefing, which earns her another scoff from Santos, but at least she's standing next to Mel, so not all is lost. “You're here!” she wants to exclaim, “I missed you.” would come following shortly after, and she couldn't dare let that fly so easily.

Langdon smiles back, offering a hand in hello. He looks like someone knocked the wind out of him, locked away that influence that made him the center of any room he was ever in. He looked defeated behind the eyes as he stands next to Dr. Robby, and all Mel wants to do is go to him, reassure him that she's never felt any differently about him, and wanted to resume as close to normal as she could get. As close to the first day as she was allowed to feel. 

“Alright folks. Welcome to Monday. I wanted to reintroduce our senior resident, Dr. Langdon, who is returning after some much needed leave. We definitely need the help around here, so everyone, let's not scare him off.” Dr. Robby claps Langdon on the shoulder, and gets another weak smile out of him. “Other things to consider…” 

Mel tries her best to focus, she really does, but she's watching the room as well and something is wrong in the air, she can feel it. It tickles the back of her neck, not a rational, tangible feeling but she'd never been able to figure out exactly what was wrong. Before, she would think the tag of her scrubs was messing with her, but she knows now that it's all her own anxiety. Emotions were hard. Patterns were easier. Comparing this to previous briefs, everyone was usually happy to hear from Dr. Robby--even if he only had to talk about patient satisfaction scores. The only newness was the blue eyed elephant in the room--causing everyone to look at each other with their eyebrows drawn, walls up.

I don't have anyone to tag for this but here's hoping I can see you all during Kingdon week!!!!

[ohholydyke]

Notes on Grief

Capitalism requires endless production, endless movement, endless consumption and endless productivity. If you are not at work, society says, then you ought to be productive on your own projects, conducting your basic survival tasks such as sleeping and eating, or engaging in some form of consumerism (shopping, bars, movies, park tickets, and so many other forms of fun which arrive at a price tag). Places and moments without buying and selling, where you can just exist unproductively—that is, without working to produce a commodity or carrying out basic survival—are few and far in between. Hobby culture dwindles, cities become barred by privatization and unwalkable infrastructure, and scrolling on socials feeds the machine (after all, we are the source of monetization, and our attention is lucrative). We are bombarded with advertisements and products and imperatives for more more more. I crave an escape from this even as I cannot help but be sucked in, and this is by design. You cannot opt out of capitalism’s linear productive, a time of the assembly line, and survive.

I crave stillness. I crave pockets in which I may simply Be. Where I may sit and listen to the wind as it speaks to me.

As I write this, I can hear the cry of mourning doves. Small, brown and white little birds with a distinctive wailing call from which their name arises. Their other common name is turtle doves. Their Navajo name is hasbídí tibágígíí, according to Wikipedia at least. Acknowledging them in the native tongue of one of the peoples to whom this land belongs feels more honoring than English, though I cannot pronounce it properly or parse any deeper meaning. Perhaps that is part of what the doves mourn for, alongside their extinct cousin the passenger pigeon. I wish I knew their name in the languages of the native tribes whose lands I currently stand on as a displaced settler. Then perhaps I could afford them the dignity of being called by their name as it would be recognized here. In Nheengatu, the language of my grandfather and our ancestors that I am desperately trying to relearn, the closest literal translation I know of is xiúsára. Chorador. Crier. Picuí, meanwhile, means dove, so Picuí-xiusára. Crier dove. Speaking in Nheengatu feels like a prayer. Finding it and a workable dictionary feels like a miracle. I would love to find a teacher one day. In another world, it would have been a first language to me. I, too, mourn for what was lost. In this sense, I stand in solidarity with the mourning dove.

Following the way of Saint Francis and the animist in me who recognizes God’s hand in all creation, I turn to the mourning dove for guidance and teaching. Like many of us, their homes are precarious, maintained only through love and dedication. Monogamous and pair-bonded, the mourning doves construct their nests and coordinate nesting shifts so as to split the load of rearing their young, who always emerge in pairs. The mourning doves always maintain multiple intimate ties, always in proximity to each other. They roost communally and breed large families, allowing them to survive in harsher periods of scarcity, hunting or predation. They build community and move together, commuting in and out of the roost collectively, like a commune of friends and family. They are plentiful here. The birds all sing loudly for the storm to come, greeting it as it arrives. I whisper my own greeting to the approaching clouds, and for a moment a shot of lighting on the horizon flashes in response. The mourning dove’s call attracts mates and coordinates the group, it also (like many birds) signals the approaching storm. The Cherokee saw them as harbingers of peaceful rains. The gentle wind seems to confirm this. Peace-bringers.

Grief disrupts assembly line time. It does so practically—bereavement, days off for funerals, depression that locks you away from productivity–but it also does so temporally. Grief keeps us present in the now of absence, acutely feeling what it is to Be without something or someone. Simultaneously, it launches us into the past before that absence, in which connections and emotions are relived and longed for over and over again. We even feel it in our bodies, slumping under mental and physical responses to loss. Acknowledging loss forces you to acknowledge change and the pain which results from it, disrupting the narrative of endless constant upon which capitalism stakes its claim to ceaseless production, growth and profit. If things can change, then the system is not inevitable or eternal. If they are not endless, we must reconsider a philosophy of growth for the mere sake of growth. If we grieve, we start to wonder what life will be like in the absence of what we took for granted. To capitalism, this means danger.

Perhaps that is why so many Americans have forgotten how to grieve. After a few days, people are expected to get over it and get back to work. Depending on the loss, there is a limited period before people’s sympathy ends. We are expected to grieve as quickly, quietly and individually as possible, and to never return to that space after. As if acceptance signifies placing grief on a shelf to be forgotten and gather dust (the five stage model itself inaccurately suggests that grief possesses linearity, in reality the stages are not always sequential, can repeat, occur out of order, vary in duration and do not encompass the whole range of grief).

What would it mean to refuse such barriers—to become Xiúsára, criers, mourners—not as a momentary experience but as a way of Being? To find ourselves in the shifting past and present now of absence, to cede linearity to mourning and reckon with change, with lack, with what was, is not, and could yet be? What if, like the mourning dove, we took up our cries regularly in search of connection, kinship, and community? What if through our cries we herald the peaceful rains, which may nourish us and our environment and wash away the filth of our systems of endless extraction? To find identity and care in mourning and, in doing so, access a different time and a different place in which we may finally sing and be still.

I stay out until the storm draws too close for comfort, then return inside. As soon as I close the door I am separated from the wind and the bird cries. I feel their absence immediately. Rather than move on, I sit with this absence and allow myself to grieve the separation between us and nature created by capitalist colonialism, just as I grieve for my people’s tongue and community. I think I will sit here a while longer, alongside the mourning dove, until I am forced to return inside, back to the temporality of the assembly line. Join me, if you wish. There is love and community here as we wait for the peaceful rains.

[p1nkcanoe]

We Depend (I Depend) On You

[ jayvik multi-chaptered fic ]

summary: Viktor has always been alone, so he uses his brilliant mind to assemble the crude, metal frame of a “friend”. His self-modifying robot quickly becomes his obsession and the center of his young adulthood. But it was designed to record a lifetime of memories – and Viktor’s life has never been glamorous enough for tape. What begins as artificial intelligence becomes something more, something unexpected, and against all odds, his creation learns to love.

“I’m going to call you Jayce.”

or: viktor builds a robot to document his life, but somewhere along the way, it begins to feel

• inspired by “sad machine” by porter robinson

Chapter One is posted below the cut, continue to read on ao3

In the dim yellow light of a cold, cluttered lab, a twenty-five-year-old engineering student tightens the final screw into the metallic panel covering the delicate inner processors of his latest project. He exhales, lifting his safety goggles off his head and setting them carefully on the workbench beside him. His spine sinks into the soft backing of his chair at the same time his goggles hit the wooden surface. So far so good. Nothing has popped, cracked, or bent under pressure. He isn’t sure he has another piece of scrap left if the screw managed to dent the plate again. His free hand drags down his face, heavy with exhaustion – from too many sleepless nights and a grueling number of failed diagnostic tests. But this time, he thinks, this time will be the last. This time, it will work or Janna help him.

His creation is nothing spectacular – just six repurposed metal panels soldered into a crude steel box. On the front, a screen flickers, displaying endless lines of code he once wrote and has since forgotten how to read. Silver ones and zeros shift and rewrite themselves in real time, a chaotic stream of digital language pulling from the many mechanical nuclei he’d designed and installed inside of the box’ rigid frame. Above the screen, a hole no larger than his thumbnail houses a recording device for visual media. To the right, another opening, shielded by thick, spongy mesh, for the purpose of capturing sound.

It’s not a large prototype. It only stands about two feet from the floor and barely eighteen inches wide. But it’s far heavier than what’s healthy for his back and his hips. It’s been weeks since the last time the thing was moved, and it will continue to stay in its spot in front of the workbench for as long as it continues to be modified and upgraded.

The young engineer watches as his creation speaks to him in code, the nucleus he recently connected seemingly doing its job. A self-modifying computer – entirely capable of squashing its own bugs and learning from the diverse input it records. He wants it to evolve, to speak in his language, to respond in a complex alphanumeric code instead of the one it was built from. To recognize his voice, to obey his commands, answer his questions with answers he would have never thought to consider – not out of programming, but from its own discovery and worldly understanding. But alas, after his last adjustment, all he can do is stare at the endless stream of ones and zeroes as they rush across the screen from left to right.

“Hello?”

Even his voice sounds tired. Weak. He rolls the handle of the screwdriver back and forth over his palm and talks again towards the box.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

For a brief second the code falters, and he holds his breath readying himself for the imminent [ERROR] message. The text cursor blinks and blinks and blinks. And then–

→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100

The code skips a line and continues to run as it had before. Endless and chaotic.

It hadn’t failed.

A sharp exhale escapes from his lungs as the young engineer loosens his grip on the screwdriver. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it so tightly, but now his fingers are marked with a mottled pattern of red and white and he watches as the blood slowly pools back into place. Back to normal.

“How strange,” he mutters to himself, though whether he’s referring to his own sudden tension or the hesitation in his creation’s programming is unclear. Most things in his lab are. He moves to set the screwdriver aside but stops when he sees the code falter a second time from the corner of his eye.

The cursor blinks…

→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100

The code skips a line and continues.

He should be happy when his code runs without failure. He should feel relieved that his project isn’t breaking down or spitting out a concerning stream of smoke towards the concrete ceiling. But as he watches the endless lines scroll across the screen, all he feels is bone-deep exhaustion and grey indifference.

With a sigh, he reaches for his cane, planting it firmly before him as he pushes himself upright. Pain flares in his right leg and down through his tibia, drawing a sharp curse in his native tongue. It always aches when he forgets to take breaks. He knows this, and yet he never seems to learn. Maybe he continues to do it for an excuse to feel.

→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100

He glances at that code again.

It continues on as normal.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100

He grabs his coat from the hook and heads for home.

— continue to read on ao3

[wanderingmakers]

Watchers and wanderers,

we are now RECRUITING with a brand-new Recruitment Form!

Please read below for more info and access to the forms.

We're looking to greatly boost our team size to handle the scope of the project, so we say it's the best time for applying - even if you've already applied in a previous form.

The form will remain open for an indefinite amount of time, during which we'll view and review applications and recruit new team members periodically.

Check below which team roles we are looking to fill and their respective forms. If you believe you fit more than one role, apply to them all!

Disclaimers:

Pantheon of the Discarded is a non-profit passion project. There is no remuneration involved in the development of this fangame.

The Wandering Makers will not tolerate bigotry, leaking, or any form of disreputable behavior or public unethical activity for team members within the development environment. In order to uphold this, we may perform background checks on applicants' social media presence.

The Wandering Makers reserve the right to utilize your submitted works exclusively for private evaluation, and will not use them in current or future projects nor disclose them to public view. Exceptions will be thoroughly discussed with respective authors, if applied.

CONCEPT DESIGN

Visual art to explore and solidify designs, fundament spritework, and improve upon ideas. We especially welcome 3D models and/or promotional artwork for our accounts, but it's not a requirement.

SPRITEWORK

Static or animated pixel sprites for characters, backgrounds & environments, tilesets, UI, VFX, or what more. We also value 3D models, as well as the ability to reproduce other pixel art styles (namely DELTARUNE's).

WRITING

Lore and narrative details - entails writing and revising scripts and ideas with directors as well as proposing some of your own. We appreciate an understanding of Toby's writing, but WM also values different angles into writing a story.

COMPOSING & MIXING

Assembly of the game's soundtrack and SFX, either mixing songs and/or sounds, or actively helping with them. We value both reproducing Toby's style of composition and blending your own style into the mix.

PROGRAMMING

Construction of the game's code with implementation of scripts, sprites, and songs, as well as assembling cutscenes, attacks, and gameplay features. Pantheon of the Discarded is developed in the Kristal engine with the Lua programming language. We want to install a strong coding foundation for the game, and are open to any and all direct help.

[orbofrommyshows]

This is probably just full programmer projection but how pissed do you think Turbo was when fifth gen games started rolling into the arcade? Guy takes all this time to learn code and learn the different assembly languages like z80 and 6502 and maybe even m68k and he's probably reaching a point where he thinks he has it all figured out.

And then around the mid-ish 90s games along the same vein as Sugar Rush start coming out.

And now not only are they running on an assembly language Turbo had probably not seen before (MIPS), but they're also being programmed mostly in C, a completely different language that he will be learning for the first time without the help of any book or reference cards.

And so now he's almost worse off, because not only does he have to juggle figuring out which MIPS opcodes are the same and which opcodes are different from the previous assembly languages he learned (and handling 32 bit architecture) but now he's also gotta learn what inline embedding is and how to do it in a language he is only now encountering.

Oh to be a fly on the wall (or bug in the code lmao) when he was dealing with that.

[dancingtotuyo]

Build You the World

Joel Miller X Reader

Rating: PG-13 (Language)

Warnings: fluffiness, just fluff

Summary: Joel was stupid. Saying sorry the only way he knows how, Joel built you something.

Pre- Outbreak/ No outbreak because I want them to live a happy undisturbed life together.

Notes: We take a break from our regularly scheduled Narcos/Javier Peña content to give you this teeth rotting fluff piece about Joel Miller. Cross posted on AO3

Words: 1286

Series Master List | Author Master list

Joel sucked in a breath. Supplies scattered on the floor around him. The industrial fan blew the hot Texas air into his hotter garage. Sarah rode her bike around the driveway, purple fairy wings strapped to her back. She chatted on and on, no doubt caught up in a make believe land. He needed to take the training wheels off her bike. Maybe tomorrow he would have time.

Joel’s gaze drifted back over the supplies he’d bought at the hardware store this morning. Sarah had asked what he was making as her little legs struggled to keep up with his long strides. She’d noticed the unusual components he gathered. These weren’t for a job or the back porch he’d been working on all summer.

“Secret project” he’d winked at her and thankfully, she’d accepted it.

He hadn’t been able to sleep last night. He’d handled the whole situation badly. It was 2 am before Joel gave up the tireless pursuit of sleep and drawn up the plans. He currently wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. He was a contractor. He did big projects like framing houses and decks. His fine carpentry skills left a lot to be desired.

Joel pushed those thoughts from his head. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

One lunch break, two first aid breaks, (a splinter in his thumb and a skinned knee for Sarah) and a nap (Sarah’s) later, Joel had all the pieces shaped and sanded. He couldn’t help but admire his handy work. Sure it was a simple design and yeah, it wasn’t assembled yet, but he’d made this. He just prayed it all fit.

Sarah colored at his workbench. She’d woken up not long ago and was still quiet from her nap. “Daddy, what are you making?”

“Top secret, baby girl.” He winked at her, pulling the wood glue and clamps from the cabinet.

She sighed in exasperation turning back to her coloring book. Joel hummed along to the classic rock station. His tshirt clung to his body wet with sweat. At 5:30, the temperature was just beginning its slow descent. He started to assemble to the first side, praying he’d made all the slots the correct size. That had been the most tedious part, ensuring it would all lock together properly.

“Daddy, I’m hungry. Are we going to have dinner soon?”

“Soon, I want to get this first side put together first.”

Sarah sighed, her hair floating up and then falling back over her eyes. Joel chuckled, kissing her forehead. “Why don’t you go grab a cheese stick to tide you over?”

“Okay.” She slid off the stool, running inside.

It slid together with relative ease. Only a few profanities dropped from his mouth when he dropped something or spilled the glue everywhere.

He was jerryrigging the clamps when Sarah squealed, darting out of the garage. He glanced up, just able to make out the blue sedan that pulled in behind his pickup. Your blue sedan.

Nerves coursed through him. He reached for his beer. It was warm and flat now, barely touched. Sharp power tools and alcohol don’t mix well. He ignored the taste, taking another gulp. After last night, fear and shame filled him.

Sarah held your hand, talking a mile a minute as if you didn’t kiss her Goodnight last night. You laughed at something she said, but he heard the way it doesn’t quite reach. The first thing he noticed were the dark bags under your eyes and the red rings around them. Guilt flooded him. You need sleep more than ever right now. He felt the exhaustion radiating off of you.

You attempted to make yourself more presentable before gathering the courage to come over. The shower helped, your hair still damp and curling. The mascara kept running so you left it.

 You round the corner with Sarah. Joel can hardly look at you. To be fair, you don’t really want to look at him either. You don’t want a repeat of last night but you can’t ignore the situation at hand either.

You finally call up the courage to look at him. You’d grown proud of yourself for learning the ins and outs of Joel Miller in the two years you’d known him. You could read him like the bedtime stories you read to Sarah, silly voices and all, but right now the pages of him blurred. Maybe that was just the tears you fought back.

“Sarah, do you want to grab your fairy wings to show-“

“Yes!” Sarah didn’t allow her father to finish. She was gone through the door in a flash of dark curls.

“She’s been excited to show you. Can’t believe she wasn’t wearin’ ‘em.” His Texas drawl popped out sending shivers down your spine. He forced a smile.

You wanted to return it, but other things pressed your mind. You weren’t good at diversion.

“Joel.” Your lip quivered and you hated yourself for it. You felt out of control right now.

He sighed. “Come here.” He cocked his head back stepping further into the garage.

The fan pushed air through your hair and skirt granting mellow relief to the heat.

 “I’ve been working on this.” He swallowed presenting his scattered workspace. He read all nerves but there was the briefest sense of pride too.

Pieces of carefully shaped and sanded wood laid about in piles. You caught sight of what he’d put together. “Porch railing?”

You failed to see the connection. Not to mention it looked too tall and narrow to be for the back deck. And what was with the arch? Was he trying to build a trellis? He’d been talking about putting in some raised beds for you and Sarah.

Was this some kind of joke? An “I’m sorry?” It hardly accounted for one.

“No, it’s a-“ he sighed, running a hand through his curls. He needed a haircut. You had planned to take the clippers to it last night until things went awry.

He picked his notebook up off the work bench. The leather bound one you got him for Christmas. You were convinced he didn’t use it. It sat on his nightstand and you were sure if you’d picked it up, you would see a dust outline. He handed it to you.

You could tell he hadn’t used it much but that didn’t really matter. Your breath caught, all else forgotten the moment your eyes landed on the page. It was rough, dotted with measurements and notes, but it was clear as day all the same.

Tears built up for a whole new reason.

“I stayed up all night working through the design. It's nothing extravagant, but it’ll be sturdy… and safe.” He stuttered.

You traced the design with your finger. All the doubts from the past 24 hours, gone just like that. “You designed a crib?”

“It’s cherry wood. I know that’s your favorite.”

“You designed a crib for our baby?” You stepped into his bubble. You couldn’t believe it. Of everything you anticipated tonight, this was not on the list.

“Baby, I’m so sorry for last night. I was a jackass-“

“Joel Miller, Shut up! You’re building this?”

You looked at him like he hung the fucking galaxy, and his heart settled. He knew the two of you would be okay.

 “Yes.”

 You kissed him, arms thrown over his shoulders, tears streaming down your face as the nightmare turned  into a dream.

You would hear his apology out in full later, lord knows you deserved it after last night, but right now, you just wanted to celebrate. Celebrate him, your love, and the little bundle of joy to join the three of you in 7 short months.

[quidam-vir]

The Latin Collaborative & Creative Internet

Welcome to my little reference post! I love all the crowd sourced places and places of creative expression on the Internet. I especially love when small communities, like Latin speakers, come together and do cool things. I want to shout-out some of these Latin-specific projects and places just to spread possibilities for the wide-reaching īnsolitī hominēs around the globe. Grow community resources, express yourself or have something fun to do if you're bored.

1. Software Translations (Launchpad)

Over at launchpad they crowdsource translations for a bunch of open source software. Think of your favorite open source software and chances are it'll be on there and you could help make a Latin version. Applications range from Blender to Chromium to Ubuntu to a Dice Roller or Tetris clone

I have the dream of assembling a team of good Latin translators to complete the translation of Linux Mint and help create the first major operating system entirely in Latin.

2. Victionarium

Love Wiktionary? I know I do. How about Wiktionary in Latin? Create definitions and dictionary entries for Latin words, in Latin. The more it's built up, the better this resource would be for learning new words.

Helping add Latin words or forms to the English Wiktionary is also helpful, sed scīlicet the Latin one needs in more.

3. Vicipaedia

Another Wikimedia project, who could've guessed? The Latin Wikipedia, Vicipaedia, is another great resource and one that could use more contributors. If you are knowledgeable, willing to learn, and good at Latin writing, try it out!

4. LibriVox

Are you one of the few that enjoy and are confident speaking Latin? Even if you're not, practice makes perfect! LibriVox is well known for a host of free audiobooks, and this includes ones in Latin. They could certainly use more volunteers for the language, no matter which pronunciation system or cadence you prefer.

Places with a 'Latin' Post Setting

There are a few places you can write or post where you specifically can mark a post as being in Latin, and filter accordingly. Any I run across will be put below

1. AO3

Not a huge surprise—unlike the 99 currently existing Latin fics.

2. BlueSky

The Twitter clone from a while back has a language search and select with Latin (and some other old languages too)

If anyone has anymore places/projects to add, subtus narrā mihi!

[20dollarlolita]

Can you believe it? 20dollarlolita Pattern School Step 2!

Only took me a year and a half. For people who don't remember a year and a half ago, we've started a project about learning to sew from patterns. The eventual goal is to help people become proficient enough at reading patterns to be able to tell what's going on in a pattern with instructions in another language, taking a pattern that doesn't fit and resizing it so that it does, and taking a pattern that isn't technically lolita and make it work in lolita fashion.

Step 1 was to make a non-fitted item from a commercial pattern. There were two goals of step 1: first to ensure that everyone was familiar with notches, grainlines, and other pattern markings; second was to give people experience with selecting fabric and trims to help give a non-lolita pattern a more lolita feeling.

For step 2, we're modifying a commercial pajama pants pattern into bloomers. In this step, we're going to become familiar with how to prepare a commercial pattern for modification, to compare pattern size to body size and to use your tape measure to judge added fullness, and how to do some basic flat pattern manipulation to add in style ease. Bloomers are a great first manipulation/fitted project due to the loose fit and the fact that, in most lolita applications, the vast majority of it is under your skirt and therefore invisible.

For this specific sample, I'm going to use Gertie's Harlow Pajama Pants pattern for this. I'm doing this because I bought a commercial pattern from Green Store and then promptly lost it, and these pajama pants are a free download. If you are printing the tiled version on your home computer printer, you only need pages 41-52 and 58-71, which will save you about 40 pages of printing.

I highly recommed doing some research and having a good idea of how long the bloomers you want to make should be, as well as how they are decorated. This is my research board.

You can use any pajama pants pattern that has a casing (elastic or drawstring) at the top, and no zipper. In this case, pants with a looser fit are going to be easier to turn into bloomers. If you like wearing your pants at a certain point on your body, I'd check for pajama pants that are at that waistline. The pants that I'm using are designed to sit at your natural waist, which might be too high for some people.

Your first step is to assemble and fortify your pattern. If you're printing this on copy paper, it's going to be strong enough, provided you use enough tape when tiling your pattern. If you're using a tissue paper pattern, like the kind you'd buy at the craft store, it helps to fuse some inexpensive interfacing onto the back of the pattern. We're going to work with these patterns a lot, so it's important to make them a little bit stronger.

Now, you are going to need to go into your pattern instructions and find two important things. The first is your overall seam allowance. In most commercial patterns, this is 5/8 of an inch. Some other patterns might have different seam allowance.

The second is how big your elastic casing at the top will be. In this case, my seam allowance is 5/8" of an inch. Because my hem casing is .25"+1.25" (the amount you turn up plus them amount you turn up the second time), I know that my elastic casing will take up 1.5".

You're now going to mark on your pattern what the stitching line is. Your pattern has seam allowance included. This is very useful for when you cut out the pattern. However, if we take our pattern measurements with seam allowance, we won't have accurate numbers. So we have to clarify where the seam allowance is.

The first thing that I do (not pictured) is to write how much I'm removing along each line. In this case, I write 5/8" along the side and crotch seams, and "1+1/2" at the top where the casing is. Since we're going to drastically shorten these pants, it doesn't matter what the hem allowance is.

Then, I take my ruler, and I mark my stitching line. I do it in pencil, check that I'm correct, and then go back and re-draw it with a red marker. This helps me make sure that I'm following the correct lines.

Make sure you transfer your notches onto your new stitching line. You can see in the picture above how I'm using the ruler to measure where the notch is going to go.

The next step, walking the pattern, is a little tricky to explain. Here's a post that goes into it in great detail.

Basically, you're going to overlap the seam lines, to make sure they line up. The only problem with doing this is that both seam lines are curved. So, instead of lining it all up at once, you're going to go about an inch at a time, letting the pattern rotate so that it stays flat on the table. At any given point, you're only going to have an inch or so of the line overlapping, but that's all you need. If you run into notches that don't line up, cross one out and re-draw it so that it matches the other notch.

If this seems really complicated, you don't really need to do that on this project. It just is a good practice to have.

So you now should have a pattern with all the commercial markings, but where you've drawn the stitching line.

So now, you're going to put your two pieces together along the outseam. Since this is a pretty straight part of a pajama pant, it shouldn't be too difficult to get them to line up. Remember to overlap them on your stitching line, and not on the edge of the pattern.

We're putting them together so that you can measure them both at the same time. it saves us some math.

In bloomers, there are three major measurements to take into consideration. You need to know how big you want the leg to be, how big you want the booty to be, and how long you want the leg of the bloomer to be. In addition, you need to make sure that the waist of your pants will be big enough to fit your waist. In most pajama pants patterns, this isn't a problem, but checking it is good practice.

So, in this picture, you can see that I've measured the cuff of the pants. These two pieces together make up one pant leg, so I just need to measure the two pieces to know how big the pant leg will be.

I then take my tape measure and hold it around my leg at the same size that the pattern is at that point. I just use my eyes and judge if I think that'll be enough room to make my bloomers nice and poofy.

If your pattern doesn't tell you your hip line (mine didn't), it's usually at the point where the two notches on the crotch curve are. One of the reasons why we're doing this on a commercial pattern is that someone did the work for us and put those notches where they should be.

Now, remember, these two pieces are only half of the pant pattern. When we measure the hips of the pattern, we have to multiply this measurement by 2. Half the hip measurement x 2 is the full hip measurement.

Once again, hold this out next to your body and make sure that you like how much fullness you need. Remember that, in addition to having extra fullness because bloomers are poofy, you need room to be able to move and sit down. This measure between the size of my body and the size of the pattern looked pretty good to me. I could definitely have gone a little bit bigger.

The pant leg measurement is okay to be a little bit too long. You can always make it shorter. However, feel free to chop about 18" off the bottom of a full length pant leg. This just makes things a little easier.

Now, we're going to move the two pattern pieces until they're the size we like. If both the hip measurement and the leg measurement are too small, we're going to move both pattern pieces apart. To turn pajama pants into bloomers, this is likely to be the most common adjustment.

If the hip measurement is pretty okay, but the cuff measurement is too small, you're just going to move the bottom part of the pattern apart.

You'll notice that this is still enlarging the hip measurement a little bit. This is fine for bloomers since the style is for a lot of fullness in that area.

And if your cuff is the correct size, but your hip measure is too big, you can keep the cuff size the same and move the hip line apart until it's the size you want.

This technique of lining up the pattern pieces, and then moving them until they're the size you want, is the basics of flat patterning. As long as you follow the philosophy of keeping the measurements you like roughly the same, and moving the areas that you don't like until they measure what you need, you can easily resize a pattern without having to re-draw everything.

If you had to spread your pieces apart, tape some paper underneath the gap. This piece of paper should bridge the gap between the two pieces, turning them into one piece. Really quickly double-check that these pieces measure how you want. Then, mark a line in the middle of the paper bridge. Draw your notches onto the cut line. Cut the two pieces apart on that line. You've now made both pieces bigger. Tape another little piece of paper onto the cut edge of each piece, mark out your seam allowance, and cut that off.

Bonus points: swap the position of the pattern pieces, so that the crotch curve is one continuous line. Measure the length of that. Then, hold your tape measure along where the crotch curve of your pants will fit, and make sure that you have clearance there. I'm not going to photograph that, andi t's not super necessary with most pajama patterns.

Go ahead and cut your pieces out.Even though I'd shortened the pattern, mine were still too long to fit on a 2-yard cut of fabric. Since I knew that my pants were a little long, I just let the end hang off the edge of the fabric.

Here's the really magical part about this. Even though you've resized your pattern, you still have all your seam allowance, notches, grainlines, and your pattern instructions. Since you kept all your pattern markings consistent, you can now follow the instructions that came with your pattern. Go up until it tells you to hem the pants, and then try them on.

In my case, my pants were way too long to be bloomers. I knew that I wanted to do a casing with a heading, which does use s pretty big hem allowance, but even so, I'd need to shorten them.

Check out your bloomer research board to see how long you want them to be. I wanted some long ones that did the old-school bloomer peek, so I made them on the longer side. I also didn't want them to ride up into my butt when sitting in a wheelchair.

So, time to fold up the bottoms, add my elastic, and call the basic construction finished.

I looked up on my research board to try to find a good way to decorate these. One of the nice things about bloomers is that you can wear them with a wide variety of coords. This makes them one of those items where you can add some extra lace, and then use that lace in multiple coords. I feel like, since these bloomers are a good way of adding detail in multiple coords, it's a good excuse to add a little bit extra lace. You can see how much of a difference it makes in this picture. It really turns them from baggy shorts into real bloomers. I really recommend sometimes investing in a couple of big purchases of lace. If you have lots of lace on hand, you're more likely to include it in your projects, which can really help push a meh project into proper lolita fashion territory. I have a rule that I don't spend more than $1.50 a yard on lace unless it's really fantastic, and I manage to find things at that point on Aliexpress and sites like Cheeptrims.

Now go on and let them peek out of your favorite skirt. And remember, definitely don't press that skirt before putting this picture in your tutorial.

[mojo-bro-tho]

Blood Sugar… Ch. 8

~Hey… so… A lot happened with me, alright? I’m all good but this chapter was a struggle!!! Mostly because for some reason I kept getting aggressively existential in the intro paragraphs for literally no reason (I took all that out, you’re welcome) so it was a hurdle and a half to get through. Also, originally, the opening scene to this chapter was like… projected at being around 4k and I definitely took that out… anyways, I promise I won’t use Shakespeare as a reference in every chapter… But the next one will also be cuz this is a duel HAMLET work so I’m also sorry about that!~

Tags: @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed)

Word Count: 6.9k

Content warning: Pretty dang E rated for this one so… c*ckolding, chastity devices, oral and references to multiple sorts, there’s a strap in play here, talks of illness and I think that might cover it!

AO3 link!

Previous!

The Language of Columbines

He had played music upon her. Knew the stops, plucking out the heart of what she wrought. No struggle in finding the highest note amongst the register and to then pull her to the end of the keys again. So much excellent music was heard, in such a short time, yet unable to be made to speak in full once more. Fretting, having the rise of blood made easier than the echo of those pipes.

And there was an echo.

Rook was careful to press the pads of her fingers into the strong thighs around her rather than with nails. The dawdling taste of sweetness had long been drowned out by slippery latex that filled her sinuses with the essence of a hospital. But thankfully, heady arousal welled underneath to keep her placated.

Because at times it became incredibly difficult to focus. Mind drifting in and out of the present and trying to sink back into that racing blood of memories that was being impressed into her veins. Memories of a cold, stone mausoleum and what transpired within. This dam could have been used on her a couple days ago, nearly was. She couldn’t help but wonder how he would have felt, and trying to imagine it just made her tongue demonstrate for the woman draped over her shoulders.

He coaxes, doesn’t attack. If it were an attack it’d be easier to defend against. But no, he was more strategic. Acting as a pendulum that rounds the hood rather than laps back and forth. The bottom to the tip of her tongue curving around a bud hidden beneath a slightly transparent shade of azure. There was a tremble of rich approval in and around her head. But then again, he seemed to have a torturous affinity for circular motions. Around the muscle went, light and cruel with her lower lip adding more pressure just a bit further below. So it was the pressure to slow the bleed her tongue had daggered with silent confessions. Rook’s knees dug into the floor, and there was an echo.

Maybe he’d like something similar done to him. Not a lot of men were comfortable with that sort of thing but he seemed secure enough in himself that he likely wouldn’t be opposed to it. And if he had never done it before, Rook always could showcase, as it were. Wouldn’t be the first time she was someone’s unspoken experiment. And a lot of older men tended to have less reservations about her suggestions. So what if they let a slut eat their ass? It wasn’t like they had anything to prove to her. Time eroded a lot of the barbs of masculinity that jutted out as bones of misplaced superiority. But only performed by someone they couldn’t invest in. Not that she thought he was like that. Far from it.

The involuntary swivel of her hips stuttered. A sudden lapse in memory towards the additional weight suspended from her groin. The base of the toy, strapped and upheld around her waist and legs, teased at her own clit and made a throaty hum scatter across the dam. And there was an echo, of something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

It was back again. The haunting assembly of chords from a pipe organ pulsed a hymn that didn’t belong to her or anyone else in the room. Echoed once more, always just an echo, when it should have been a performance. Thankfully, a much needed clench of thighs brought her thoughts back to the present. Eyes snapped up from her daydreaming to watch one of her client’s abdomen contracting with uneven breaths. Rook pulled back.

“Aw… I’m sorry, Sugar. Was I overwhelming you again?” She asked, attempting to mask the lie of not noticing the difference when she should have. Evka’s fingers clutched the white bed sheets. Even now, her braids remained almost perfectly intact. That would have to be remedied later.

“I’m fine.” She responded breathlessly. In her head, Rook quietly chastised herself for getting carried away. Evka wouldn’t complain about it but still. She ran her fingers tenderly against the underside of her client’s bare thighs. Soothing and gentle. Now it was time to reset a complex fracture no one else but her was sensing.

“‘I’m fine’, she says. So serious. You know, Hon’, I really get why you like her having admirers.” Rook commented, glancing towards the green chair not far back and to her left. “If I was with a woman like her, I think I’d be in the same boat. Keeping her all to myself would be such a waste.”

It wasn’t inaccurate or a lie. If her head was working properly, these two would be more than enough for Rook to get excited over. And she was at first. It wasn’t too often she got clients from The Order, and the sight of the embroidery on their shirts had made her practically froth at the mouth. After all, some dear friends of hers were also in their ranks, one was temporarily stationed in Nevarra too. If she wanted to do the professional thing, she would have been forced to reschedule their appointment with a different Crow taking her spot. But Rook knew enough of the inner workings of The Order between Davrin and Thom to understand that rescheduling would be an absolute nightmare on The Joining pair.

And there sat poor Antoine, who couldn’t exactly form proper words. Unlike Rook, who came into this appointment in nothing but lingerie and her leather coat, and therefore was still mostly dressed, both of her clients had been stripped of their clothing. The only semblance of modesty between them was from the man in the chair with silvery rings wrapped around and trapping his length. Hair disheveled and sporting a finger between his teeth. His gaze constantly traveled, having too many tantalizing places to look would do that.

”Uh oh, I think we may have broken your husband.” Rook gave another few laps across the dam, watching Evka’s eyes squeeze tight and her neck crane from an inadvertent squirm away. Rook tutted, pulling back again. “Come on now, we’re enjoying the show…”

The woman settled once more with the stimulation briefly absent. A misting of sweat shone off her brow. There was a very real possibility that Rook had accidentally made her come while she was lost in thought. And the more she looked at Evka, the more likely it seemed. There was a prick of guilt there. Not for making her finish, that was Rook’s job, and she apparently was good enough at it to where she didn’t even need to pay attention to make it happen. But she didn’t like the idea of it happening without her.

Dances were better with music, not echos.

A breath filled her lungs, densely saturated with the flavor of salt, shitty hotel coffee, and the faintest bit of blue-raspberry that pierced in her exhale. Focus. Her tongue presses to the roof of her mouth but it’s not the same. It’s never the same. Because life was easier with sugar, not the aftertaste.

Evka very obviously needed a moment of reprieve. Keep the scene going but let the poor thing rest for a second. With a light pinch of her fingers, Rook pulled the latex sheet away and stood up from her position at the foot of the bed. Heels thumped dully against the rug to drop the dam into the waste bin. An idea took shape in her thoughts and she quickly debated its worth as she sauntered to take a space beside Antoine, who was still admiring her handiwork.

These two weren’t exactly the standard sort of cuckolding that Rook was used to being a part of. Yet another reason why she was so annoyed with herself. Most of the time, whether or not your cuck was a man, or a woman, or someone in between, there was always some note of humiliation and possession. Nothing wrong with that, but it just wasn’t them. Antoine had a slightly different fascination with the act. Adoration, nearly sniveling devotion.

“Evka, can I ask you something?” Rook began, watching her bed companion’s knees twitch in an attempt to keep them apart. While propped up on the pillows, Evka’s head lulled forward with a heavy swallow. Had to give credit where credit was due, that woman had endurance like no one’s business.

“Yeah… I can manage that.” She sighed.

“Has he always been the one who watches?” That caused Evka’s eyes to narrow, snapping up to meet Rook’s expression. The Crow couldn’t help but grin.

“Why do you ask?” She questioned with a fair amount of incredulousness, but no offense. Rook ran her nails with melodic taps across the blue silicone protruding lowly from her pelvis.

“You know, some people don’t consider sex to be one of the pillars of necessity. Food, water, shelter. A good orgasm doesn’t exactly fit as neatly there.” Absentmindedly, she wrapped her fingers around the toy, less of a stroke and more of a caress. “And maybe they’re right. You don’t need sex to live. However, if you deprive someone of those oh so important things, they can get a little desperate. It’s madness. They take whatever they can get, rationality, sensibility be damned. Sex can do that too.”

Something flashed behind Evka’ eyes, something that told Rook she found a new fixation to prod at. Both of them turned their heads to peer at Antoine and watched a sort of chill crawl up his spine. His knuckles turned bone white in their grip on the green upholstered arm. When he finally managed to pry his sights away from his wife, they traveled up to Rook’s body. It would seem he had barely noticed she was there.

“Tell me, Hon’, are you feeling deprived yet?” Rook raised and bent her left leg, letting her sole rest against the arm beside Antoine’s elbow. The man had a difficult time tearing his eyes away from the strap. Heavy lidded, ragged breathing, Rook didn’t even need to look at the cage again to know the answer to that.

“I am used to it.” He chuckled. He certainly was. The chastity device was new for him but the rest of it wasn’t. Still, Rook liked being memorable, giving a parting gift that might just stick as a lifelong indulgence.

“Yeah, something told me you two aren’t always the most ‘traditional’ types when it comes to these things. But have you ever sucked dick before?” She asked. Honestly, she’d be surprised if he hadn’t, he had such pretty lips for it. His eyes widened. Surprised but not upset. Rook quietly praised herself, she loved being right. “I know what I’m packing isn’t quite the same but I have a proposition for you.” It didn’t take long for him to reply.

“I’m listening.”

Fuck, she knew these two would be fun! Evka was tentatively looking her way, bottom lip caught between her teeth. She ran a thumb lightly over the head, a small swipe that mimicked smoothing over precome. “I want you to get my cock nice and wet for me. And after I’m done fucking your wife, if you’ve been a good boy, I might let you suck it again as a treat. Does that sound good to you?” Rook had to quell the excitement slipping into her voice. A drunken smile pulled at the corners of Antoine’s mouth. He looked back to Evka, who was staring fervently at the exchange with her own drip of amusement.

“Only if you swear it.” He mused. Aw, how cute.

“I swear.” Rook agreed, running her ring and middle finger across the underside of his jaw.

…

By the time all of her Wednesday appointments ended, Rook could say with certainty that she wasn’t feeling right. It wasn’t the leg. That cleared up pretty quickly because she had been right, it was just from her lack of going to the studio as often and not doing her proper stretches as of late. As usual, Viago had been a total drama queen. He had nearly tried to insist that two full service sessions plus the companion job in one day might be too much, despite what he had said on their phone call on Saturday. Which was just plain ridiculous because he knew just as well that even double that was completely doable for her. Thankfully, a message to Teia settled whatever grievances the man had with Rook’s workload.

She didn’t mind keeping busy. Working was better than- Well, she didn’t do a whole lot besides go to work at this point. There were friends she saw when she could, walks late at night through a small segment of a garden that she now knew was actually enormous, the studio, but not much else. There was studying, and even that had been absent for the last few days. And did studying count as work or not? This all was confusing to be perfectly honest.

In any case, nerve damage was decidedly not the issue.

It was the rest of her that felt weird. She first noticed it when she tried to go to bed after Saturday, after Emmrich happened. It felt like a thousand eyes were boring into her from all angles, and for the first time in five years, Rook forgot to flip the picture frame back up before she fell asleep. To which led to almost an hour of crying and apologizing to the air, listening to old recordings on her phone. Then a very early morning call to Lace who rushed over to try and help on her day off.

Then it was the stab of disappointment she felt come Monday when she checked her schedule and found it devoid of ‘Lichdom’. He cancelled their session. Viago didn’t give a reason so she didn’t ask him. Asking the receptionists would probably just lead back to him so she didn’t bother with that either.

It shouldn’t have been as upsetting as it was. Or maybe upsetting wasn’t the right word for it… But if there was a better one, she didn’t know it. At least not any that fully made sense. She even went to Blackthorn anyway, which definitely went against the contract agreement but she had to check just to be sure it wasn’t a mistake in the schedule. No Lichdom, certainly no Emmrich. The almighty calendar was never wrong. Their table was left unoccupied and she had to fight through a flirtatious conversation with Heiner, it didn’t help.

Afterwards, she went to help Bellara on a whim. Reorganizing all of the less important, non academic parts of her life. Which was mostly just the kitchen and folding laundry. That did more than Heiner. Her friend could tell something was bothering her, but Rook had never been the ‘venting’ type. Talking about that stuff made her uncomfortable, and she only ever really shared when in the context of a game that couldn’t bring herself to play. Bellara didn’t pry, but she did make extra food for Rook to take next door. It was her way of being quietly supportive as Rook was ever defiant.

Then it was Tuesday, yesterday, she had a client in the afternoon. That appointment made her nearly convinced possession had to be real. Normally, Rook was great at staying engaged during her sessions. But throughout this one, for whatever terrifying reason, there was an echo. He wasn’t boring. She picked up on his tune fairly quickly, nothing really worth dancing to in the traditional sense. But it flowed smoothly, inevitably making her hips sway while on hands and knees and twisted in bedsheets. It was in the midst of that that she heard a striking of chords in her skull that didn’t match the man working through her. And instead they pulsed from inside Rook’s thoughts, or resounded in her chest, or thrummed through her walls. A harbinger of gloom and agony so consuming it made her lightheaded.

That Gods damned pipe organ.

It pulled tautly at the muscles in her back, as if trying to drag her off her client’s dick and bring her to some sort of specter that drew a genuine moan from all the places in her body where there was only the in-between. Where connective tissue was strung and separated skin from muscle. And that only seemed to spur her client on further to grab her by the hair for a chance to hear it again. And he did, but it wasn’t because of him. It was whatever that spirit was, prying open her jaw to pour liquid hot sand and metal down her throat. Body made into a mold or cast for something else that she couldn’t see.

This all led her back to Wednesday where Rook decidedly still wasn’t feeling ‘right’. A little anxious, a bit floaty, a whole lot of words to describe just feeling out of body. Obviously she didn’t tell Viago or Teia about it, they would just make it worse and there just wasn’t even enough time to reschedule everything or have other people fill in anyway. Vi said so himself. She was fully booked at The Lighthouse and because she felt like an extra overachiever, she took on an additional call-in appointment when she realized someone had canceled for a second time.

Four days and yet it seemed like eons. Rook needed catharsis, distraction, work. But even that wasn’t actually doing anything because with every session it was a struggle to keep her mind anchored. It wasn’t very often that Rook’s head got this rattled. And this was less of a rattle and more of a blunt force trauma to her senses. Not even the near eight hours of back to back fucking was enough to shut her brain off, nor were either of the freezing showers she took in between.

Plans for the evening were decided borderline against her will. A couple of hours in the studio would set her back to normal. Eat something substantial and then lock herself in a room, fill it with music, and just… let go for a little bit. Leave no room for an echo. She was itching to get back into the office to trade back the company car for her own. After pulling into the parking garage, another source of passive income to her Employer, Rook quickly gathered up her messenger bag and made sure her coat was properly secured before exiting the car. A quick walk across a street in Little Antiva brought her to the pristine glass entry way of The Diamond Relaxation and Resort Spa.

Clean, crisp, bathed in bright, warm light. The smell of softly scented candles that were never allowed to run out and imported coffee did wonders to clear her mind. Comforting shades of cream decorated almost all of the entry space which provided heavy contrast to the attire of many of its workers. Not all, but quite a few. After all, The Diamond was a legitimate spa. There were people who were employed there who weren’t Crows. There had to be some way of identifying who was who.

Fledglings did most of the separate work, some didn’t even know the true purpose behind The Diamond or its origins. And sex wasn’t the only thing they made money off of that required a Crow.

Andarateia Cantori and Viago de Riva were business savvy enough to be trusted with spearheading business operations outside of Antiva and so far there has been nothing but praises thrown their way. Senora Dellamorte, from what Rook had heard from her employer, handler, and friends, had grown more cautious of stretching The Crow’s wings too far away from home. So these sorts of expansions were still fairly new. Or… renewed?

A set of silhouettes stood by the front desk, one slightly bent over the flat surface while the other was beside her, hip in hand. Teia’s hair swished across her back, the bottoms of her deep blue palazzo pants swayed to follow the motion of her turning to find Rook approaching. Viago’s arsenic grey suit did not even crinkle, purposefully avoidant in looking her direction.

“Rook! Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Teia sighed dramatically, quickly taking up a place in front of Rook and cupping the younger woman’s face between gentle hands. “Viago has been keeping you all to himself, so selfish.”

“I’m right here, you know. And I’m not keeping her to myself, you were the one that was away.” Vi tsked.

“How was your trip home? Hopefully it hasn’t fallen apart without you there.” Rook mused. Flirting with Teia was normal. Teasing and salacious banter came with the territory of her favor.

Miss Cantori, what Rook was first introduced to her as, was possibly one of the most beautiful women in the world. And she did it effortlessly which only made her all the more alluring. Every inch of her, every sense, was perfectly curated to make her too mesmerizing to say no to. Rook still remembered meeting her for the first time, how quickly her presence struck her, made even worse when she learned that Teia was actually only a handful of years older than Rook herself.

“All is well both here and there.” Teia moved her hands to let her fingers trail through Rook’s short hair. “And a little birdy told me that a certain someone is coming back soon to ‘rejuvenate’ for a few months.” The woman took great amusement in watching Rook’s eyes widen in a mix of excitement and surprise. They weren’t supposed to come back for another couple weeks! But of course, Viago felt the need to interject both verbally and physically.

“You need to stop teasing her with Lucanis.” He took Teia gently by the shoulder and ushered her to stand a pace further back and alongside him again. “Besides, he is still with Miss Tevinter Investigator.”

“Oh, come now, you don’t think they’ll last do you? You know Caterina doesn’t approve.” Teia reminded him.

“It doesn’t matter if Caterina doesn’t approve because she hasn’t denied him either. As long as she stays out of Crow business, the Senora isn’t going to bother.” Viago sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Besides, even if they didn’t work out, Rook and him wouldn’t either. Caterina would disapprove of that even more. And Rook knows the rules. No clients, no Dellamortes. Not after what happened with Illario and Robin.”

“Can I-” Rook tried to speak but they continued.

“That was different and you know it! It’s not Illario’s fault that Robin wanted to change houses.”

“It is his fault. He always tries to poach my best employees. He did it with Robin, nearly stole Finch from right under my nose, the only reason he didn’t get ahold of Raven was because I intervened. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Well, technically, Rook is my employee now so she doesn’t need to follow that rule. That means Dellamortes are allowed. Not Illario though, just Lucanis.” Teia argued.

“Rook is a loan. She still has my House name. And as her Handler, I call the shots.”

“Oh, Vi, you know you don’t wear jealousy well.” Her voice played close to a purr.

”I am not jealous. I’m being practical. Besides, Lucanis is already enough of a hassle to deal with as is. I won’t encourage this sort of joke, which it better be.” He replied dryly.

As amusing as this was, Rook knew if she let them keep going like this that there would either be an ugly shouting match coming or an entirely inappropriate-for-the-front-of-the-workplace makeout session. “Hey! It’s only fun to talk about people like they’re not here when it’s Viago!” Her Handler and Employer both fired a glance at Rook. Them forgetting where they were when they were together was typical, she was used to butting in at this point.

Rook was also accustomed to this conversation, to the point where it wasn’t even uncomfortable anymore. There was no point in explaining to Teia that her and Lucanis were just friends and would in all likelihood remain that way. And equally, no amount of money in the world could make Viago trust Neve enough to make him call her by her name when not in either her or Lucanis’s presence. Her Employer flashed her an apologetic look.

“Lo siento, Querida. But you are excited to see him, no?” Teia was very good at the sweet eyes, head tilt combo.

“Of course I am! I’m excited to see both of them. Neve is my friend too.” Rook pointed out. Viago made no comment. “Do you know when they come in?”

“Tomorrow, but Caterina is sending him out on some business in Cumberland first so whenever he finishes with that.” Creators help whatever soul warranted Lucanis’s intervention. Though they probably deserved it. Not like Rook would be able to ask, those sorts of things were for Talons only. Well, Talons and then Lucanis and Illario. “But enough of that now. Viago was just telling me about how many appointments you took today! You may be a loan but you are a fantastic loan!”

“Well, she did have extra time today without the Lichdom wasting it.” Viago said pointedly.

“He’s not wasting my time.” She defended, though she wasn’t exactly happy about it. “Speaking of, is he still on my calendar for tomorrow?” This was the best way to go about asking. If Rook was lucky, then Viago might explain-

“No,” Oh- “and If he cancels again without updating the contract, I’m ending it. I do not like my efforts being thrown out.” He waved his hand dismissively, turning back towards the front desk.

What Viago really meant was that he didn’t like Rook’s effort being thrown out. Having six or more hours a week blocked off where she was bringing in beginners rates didn’t sit right with her Handler. He had already made it clear when she was being temporarily relinquished to The Diamond that he detested her rates going down at all, this only made it worse. Back in Salle, an hour of mere companionship with her might have cost what two hours of full service did here in Nevarra. But new business ventures meant prices needed to be seen as reasonable.

Taking up a Saturday slot on top of that only made him all the more annoyed. But at least it was more than the study sessions. All money was good money, but why make less when you could make more? Still, Viago also knew Rook well enough to understand that his complaining would not get him very far. Unless he intended to force Rook to take on exclusively full service contracts, she would accept what she pleased. And he had no desire to do that, especially not with a Dellamorte breathing down his neck about it.

Still, Rook couldn’t help but feel deeply struck with disappointment at hearing she had another cancellation. Sure, yeah, Saturday ended in a less than ideal manner. But it certainly couldn’t have been bad, right? Because well, let’s face it, Rook was good. More than that, she was incredible. And Emmrich was… he was good too, she supposed. Just good. So what was the problem? There were methods to her madness, so it was irksome to see it made into just that. Madness and nothing else.

This was all incredibly irritating. This whole week has been nothing but a nightmare so far. Sweetness ought to come to the sweet, yet rarely seemed to. So, when Rook left The Diamond, it was with her plethora of keychains in hand with a mouthful of annoyance. She reached for a Lyri-Yum, knuckles grazing against a neatly folded cloth square. She had cleaned the handkerchief not long after getting home on Saturday. Even ironed it! Now it was just sitting in her bag, awaiting its return. Another irritant to add to the list.

The drive back to her apartment complex was muddied by a tongue coated in discontent and sugar. And after she stepped out of her Beetle, practically dragging her feet up the exterior stairs and causing her to momentarily stumble, Rook accidentally dropped her fourth candy of the day off the side railing. It fell to the pavement. Barely heard, but it made her head momentarily turn cacophonous in its protests. Woe is Rook, it would seem.

Before even cresting the top of the staircase, an oddly shaped swatch of brown caught her eye. Did someone leave a package outside of her door? It was fairly large and Rook had no recollection of ordering anything. All of her mail went to a P.O. Box anyway. The light brown shape moved, peeking its head up with a slow, shaking glance.

“Bellara?” Rook called out worriedly. The hold on her bag grew tighter as she rushed towards the blanket covered form of her friend. The sounds of stifled sniffling turned her blood icy cold, matching too closely to the temperature of the shaded concrete outside both of their doors. The feeling of it pooled up her knees the way water rippled down a stream as she went to sit beside her. “Hey, hey, Bels, what’s wrong?”

For a moment, or several, Rook couldn’t be truly sure, Bellara remained silent. Though it was hidden under the blanket, she could see how Bellara’s outline drew further in on itself. Likely hugging her knees. “Cyrian…” Rook didn’t need to hear anything else. She wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulder. Pulling them into an embrace where Bellara’s head could rest against Rook’s chest. Plans for the studio once again left her mind, as well as any echoes of a pipe organ.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” To Rook’s suggestion, Bellara shook her head.

“I can’t… I can’t, I just-” Her voice broke into something between a croak, a cough, and a cry. “I have to go home.”

“Like… right now? Back to Arlathan?”

“I booked a flight. If I leave tonight then I can get home before morning and… Rook, he asked me to come home. I can’t…”

“Then I can help you pack a bag. Or drive you to the airport, both. We’ll talk about it inside, okay?” Even with a blanket, it was still too cold to just be sitting outside in the shadows. That was hypocritical on Rook’s part but that didn’t exactly matter right now.

She stood slowly, letting Bellara lean against her in case her legs felt too weak for it. With ginger care, she led them both into Bellara’s apartment which was always starkly different from Rook’s. Top to bottom filled with things. Lacking any separation between project and prosperity, an entire makeshift workshop and living space all squished into one. It was neatly put together only where it needed to be. Flowing so that no room truly felt separated from another. Though every apartment was mandated to remain the same color, Bellara’s always looked warmer, as though lovingly stained by a sunset. When in reality it was just the way light reflected back the golden hour tones of her furnishings.

And Rook knew this place like the back of her hand at this point. Bellara was placed on her couch with the softest pushing against her shoulders that Rook could manage. “Shit, what am I going to do about class?” Is what Rook believes was said. It was difficult to say with Bellara’s face in her hands.

‘You can worry about that later.’ ‘Classes don’t matter right now.’ Those sorts of things won’t work on Bels. Because that wasn’t the actual point. Rook left her side to start gathering the essentials.

“I’m sure someone would be willing to let you look at their notes.” She answered while moving about. Unfortunately, the Adderall wouldn’t be able to travel too. Maybe Damas could do forgeries for the bottles too.

“I’ll be back by Monday so…”

“So, you only need them for tomorrow and Friday! That’s doable!” In the back of her mind, she felt conflicted. Having such a close set day to return probably meant whatever happened was urgent, but not something that required an extended visit. No funeral. Of course, that could change without warning but still.

Grief was nothing but cruelty in the way that there was no official start or end. It happened against all odds and only knew the course it set for itself while left out of sight to its inhibitor. Frailty’s name was often written by death, but rot’s was penned by the wait. The unknown on if death would even come at all. That was the scary part of it. So, if his remission was officially at its end, then Rook hoped it’s recurrence would not be left to linger.

“For Friday, yeah. But not tomorrow.”

Rook returned with a backpack in hand, searching for one of Bellara’s spare chargers. One of the working ones. “Why not?” She asked. Conversation was usually at least a little helpful.

“Well, just one class, I guess. I don’t really know anyone there and-” Bellara gasped, rubbing at her eyes before furiously standing up. “Fuck! My essay! Mythal’enaste! Did I remember to print it?”

Eyes darted around the room before they eventually found her school bag slumped against an old milk crate being used as a stool for textbooks. In mere moments, Bellara was hunkered back down on the ground again and rooting through the bag's contents. After a few seconds of the numbing sound of endlessly shuffling papers, the room silenced once more.

“Bels…?”

“I forgot.”

There was an added heaviness in her shoulders. Little problems always seemed so much bigger when under stress. Because sorrow often comes in the forms of waves of sieges, not singlehanded spats. “Will they let you just email it? Or get an extension? I think you kinda deserve one.” Brevity was the soul of problem solving. And at times far more necessary than dragged consoling.

“We don’t email essays in his class.” In Rook’s opinion, that was fucking stupid. “And I don’t know about extensions because I don’t need an extension, the essay is done! I really don’t want to mess up in this class, the Professor Volkarin has seriously been one of the best teachers I’ve had so I don’t want to disappoint him and-”

“Alright, okay, take a breather there!” Rook went to stand beside her, then knelt back down onto the ground. Instinct was a funny thing, ingrained in a person often from what childhood presented. “Why don’t I stop by the library after taking you to the airport? I can print off your essay and drop it off at the class.” And possibly give the teacher a piece of her mind about not letting someone email essays when this was clearly an emergency. Rook took one hand and ran the backs of her fingers across her friend’s cheeks. Cresting over the height of the cheekbone before unfurling and cupping around it.

A shade of someone else peeking through, a comfort another might lend. A girl who once lived in Dalish territory in the Free Marches, who once looked upon another. And Rook imagined the look on Bellara’s face while receiving that smoothing touch was what her own face looked like when the same was done in turn. Misty eyes, furrowed brow, unbelieving and fearful yet anchored by the force of a blessed hand.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Good, because you aren’t. I’m offering. There’s a difference.”

“And I don’t think you’ll be allowed to. I’m pretty sure only relatives are allowed to do that.” She sighed.

“First of all, I was literally here the other day folding your underwear. So I think that makes us close enough to count. Second of all, what are they going to do? Check my birth certificate?”

“No, but you have work and-”

“Thursdays are normally slow for me, remember? I’ll handle it. Just email the file to me, tell me how it’s meant to be stapled and where I’m supposed to go tomorrow.”

A long stretch of silence filled up between them before Bellara nodded. Seldom finding any other way to argue. But a look of relief did well up behind her eyes. Appreciative and full of all those unspoken affirmations that didn’t need to be stated between people that were close.

Whether good or bad, where most things tended to fall in between, it was the thoughts that colored it so. A bit of grey now. Maybe black later in finding an end or cloudy white in living with the good parts of continuing. But for now, grey was enough to keep them both on edge. And grey was also enough to keep them both hopeful. Spilling over in fear of being split instead.

…

Rain in Nevarra was bone chilling. Even just a drizzle carried the shocks of ice down the exposed parts of her neck. It wasn’t like the rain in Antiva, warm from the coastline where Salle, Treviso, and the capital were cradled by the sea. Raging waves that toil and roll in crashes so loud they pounded into skin. No, in Nevarra the rain was more polite even when in its heavy downpour like today. Only the sound of its own sloshing and pattering.

Rook attempted to duck her head inside the neckline of her long, open knit cardigan, hunching in on herself so that her body covered the tattered bag to her chest. The forecast was slightly off, and the storm had come in earlier than anticipated. Following at a similar pace to the students flooding towards the various buildings with looming bell towers. Another pang of almost homesickness struck her, as the buildings that housed the administration offices and help center appeared more like a castle than a place of learning. That was one way Nevarra and Antiva were similar. Ancient and regal.

But if others noticed the beauty of the place, being in here nearly everyday of the week carved the admiration out of them. In her hurry, she passed by a modern plaque, labeling a series of buildings as either being renovated or entirely built with generous funding from… The Eluvian Foundation. And in their honor, the sprawling walk to that side of the campus that branched out into a multitude of different stone laden paths, was affectionately named The Vi’Revas. Rook supposed it was a rather apt name, if not a little on the nose.

The building Bellara told her to look for was coming into view. M.W. Mortalitasi’s Department of Humanities and Social Sciences. Tall, piercing, and grim. A decently large complex comprised of a central building and various lecture halls all interconnected. The saturated stone walls loomed in a color that too closely resembled the anguished sky above. It was almost funny, Rook hadn’t been in a college building since her last year in high school. And now she was more or less sneaking into one as a favor to a friend who was actually registered. Surely her mother would be proud.

Her marker decorated hightops splash a bit of water that collected at the bottom of the stairs before getting lost in the huddles of bodies filing in through the slim entryway. The substance of groggy ambitions crawled amongst the shadows of the student, some who seemed half dreaming even while walking. She shuffled her way inside, casual, hiding well the tremor in her lip from the cold.

Bellara was very good at giving detailed instructions. Room 207 would be on the second floor. Somehow the place’s scent was permanently stained with the past, despite how much modernity had been pinned into it. Old stairs, modern elevator. New light fixtures, old paint. The color of tea stained parchment and nearly sickly looking if stared at for too long. By the time she found the room, it already had a few students trickling in. So much for slipping in mostly unannounced.

Whatever, most of them were probably currently high or hungover from a midweek stint because they were already sick of being here. But admittedly, she was a little nervous. The bottoms of her pants being wet and partially sticking to her legs wasn’t helping, made her feel sweaty in a bad way. Back of her cardigan more or less sopping with rain. The nape of her neck too, yuck. But at least her bag was dry, even if cold freezing droplets rolled down her spine and others rounded the peaks of her chest. A necessary sacrifice.

There wasn’t much scenery in the room to take in. Walls all the same color as the halls had been, trimmings all a dark wood. The rows of staggering seats point to a short stage housing a large desk. The wall behind it was almost entirely lined in blackboards. Did places like this seriously still have blackboards?

One would think a school this prestigious could afford something else. Or maybe that was supposed to be a part of its academic charms. Or maybe this was just further proof to what Lichdom meant when he said he needed her help. Yeah, ‘need’ definitely seemed inaccurate now. At least the wall of windows across from her were pretty, they would give her something to look at when she got caught up on taking the notes for her friend.

As she got closer to the desk, something caught her eye. The sight of an impossibly familiar satchel sat atop it. With narrowed eyes, Rook approached the desk to give it a once over. A small name plate was slid into a slot on the face of wood facing the class. ‘Professor Emmrich Volkarin.’

Well fuck me gently with a bone saw.