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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

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Beneath the constellations

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Scared of needles!Reader

Summary: You are a needle-phobic but somehow agree to get a small, meaningful friendship tattoo with your best friends Darcy and Jane.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Needle phobia; mild panic; anxiety; physical discomfort; descriptions of a tattoo needle; nervous rambling; comfort

Author’s Note: This again is a request from one of my sweetest mutuals! I adore you, my dear and I hope you like what I did with your interesting and so creative idea ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Your knee is bouncing. Your heart is racing. The design is folded up in your hands - a little tattoo that is so simple, tiny, meaningful - but your palms are sweaty and you can’t stop assaulting the inside of your cheek with your teeth.

The walls of the tattoo parlor are soft with shadows. Dark navy paint. There is low music humming along but it’s not soothing anything inside you. Sterilization hangs in the air and there’s also ink and something smoky - cedarwood or sage. It stays at the back of your throat like a ghost you swallowed by accident.

The waiting room is actually pretty aesthetically pleasant but you feel like choking on your own spit.

The cold vinyl bench beneath you vibrates with your leg rapidly moving up and down and up and down.

“I can’t do this,” you mutter lowly. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

Darcy, sitting on your left, gives you a smile that doesn’t ease you at all. “You’re not getting open-heart surgery, babe. You’ve got to chill your beans.”

Jane, sitting on your right, grabs your leg to still its movement. She probably got annoyed at being shaken with the whole bench. “It’s so small, I’m sure you will barely feel it,” she tries to reassure you.

Darcy nudges you. “And it will stay on your body forever.”

“This is not helping at all, Darc,” you half whine, half grumble. “Can’t we just make this temporary, or something? Like, I don’t know, draw it on with a sharpie?”

“Hell nah,” Darcy complains. “This is for life,” she goes on, pointing wildly at all of you three. “We are going to seal the deal. Make it forever, officially.”

You want to laugh. Or scream. Or run. Or disappear.

A part of you thought this would be fine. That you could sit here like a normal adult with a normal nervous system and be needled with grace and honor. That the tattoo you promised you’d get with your best friends - the tiny one, the subtle one, the one you talked about under a summer sky, lying on your backs in a parking lot eating cold fries - would somehow feel like a small ceremony. Like something important.

Instead, your palms are damp and your stomach is a washing machine of dread and iced coffee. It turns round and round and round in circles, making you instinctively look for a nearby trash bin.

The door creaks open.

And then he walks in.

Bucky Barnes, according to the framed certifications on the wall. Also according to Darcy, who not-so-subtly whispered oh my god he’s hot when you walked in earlier and now leans in to your ear, to whisper “oh my god, he’s even hotter in person.”

He’s broad-shouldered and tall. Black tee, black jeans. Arms inked to the wrists in clean, complex lines. Geometric patterns like armor. You spot a white wolf curled around a blooming branch. A forget-me-not. The tattoo work is detailed. Almost luminous. An artwork of constellations on his skin, coiling like a secret he’s allowing the world to glimpse.

He looks at you.

You stop breathing.

“You ready?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

You make a sound that might be English. Might be a prayer. Might be a dying animal.

He blinks, then smiles. Just a little tug at the corner of his lip.

“Maybe one of you should go first,” you say to your friends quietly, voice barely hanging on.

“It’s not the gallows, babe,” Darcy muses, nudging you again.

“I know, but I-”

Jane cuts you a dry look, interrupting. “You made us matching Google Calenders for this.”

“I was drunk on sentiment and pinterest,” you argue but it’s useless.

“No stalling. You can’t back out now.“

“I’m not backing out,” you grumble. “I’m delegating the trauma.”

But they’re not moving. Not budging.

You indignantly get up. Slowly. Darcy leans over and smiles sharply, mischievously. “Hey, just ask if you can hold his hand during the act.”

You choke. On air. On dignity. On the sudden imagine of his fingers wrapped around yours. And you’re up, throwing her a last glare that lacks all the heat.

You turn to Bucky and he is full-on smirking now. Though his voice is not mocking.

“We can take our time,” he says gently, and gestures toward the door that will, as you can imagine, lead you to the torture chamber. Yes, that’s dramatic. Yes, you don’t care. Yes, you are spiraling.

After sending your friends a panicked look and them not that supportively giving you thumbs up in return while grinning brightly, you follow him as if you’re approaching your own funeral.

You walk like you’re made of wires and wet paper. Trailing behind him into the back room, your chest beating out the morse code for panic.

The chair is deceptively comfortable. Everything is clean and neat and doesn’t smell scary but your heart is beating so loud, you think it’s bruising your ribs.

He sits down on a stool, brings it closer to you with one hand, and adjusts his gloves. He moves slowly, most definitely for your sake.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he says, soft and even. “You’d be surprised how many people get nervous.”

You inhale. Exhale. Fail.

“I’m Bucky,” he says easily, glancing at you with eyes the color of melted steel and winter storms. You give him your name and he smiles. “What are we doing today?”

You fumble with the paper in your hands, clumsy movements lifting it to show him.

It’s stupid, honestly. Three tiny constellations in a delicate arc. Only a little bigger than a thumbnail. Barely enough to be called a tattoo.

He leans closer to look. His knee brushes yours and you hold your breath.

“I know it’s small. It’s dumb. I mean, not dumb, like-”

Bucky waits.

Silent. Patient. The corner of his mouth tilts up.

“It’s three constellations.” The words tumble out of you, messy and fast. As if trying to explain your favorite dream to a stranger who wasn’t there. “Mine, Jane’s, and Darcy’s. We got stranded once during a road trip, out in the middle of nowhere, and the car battery died. So we laid on the hood, freezing our asses off, and waited for a tow truck under this crazy clear sky. Jane started pointing out stars and we found our constellations. And we just talked. About everything. So we-”

You stop.

Because you’re talking too much. Because your face is hot. Because he’s watching you as if he’s listening.

And Bucky only smiles. Just this small, warm curve of his mouth that feels like praise.

You blink too hard. Look down at your hands.

“It’s silly.” You just can’t help explaining yourself. “I know it’s barely anything. And it’s not even a real design, really. I’m not even supposed to be here, I mean-”

You stop again. Press your lips together.

He’s still looking at you. Calm. Not judging. Not laughing.

“You were saying?” he asks, voice quiet.

You breathe in a shaky breath.

“I’m scared of needles,” you admit embarrassed. “Like. Deeply, irrationally scared. I had to get a flu shot once and almost took out the poor nurse with my bag.”

Bucky huffs out a short and amused laugh, but his eyes are genuine and sympathetic. He nods like that’s the most normal thing anyone’s ever said.

“It’s not dumb, sweetheart. Nor is it silly.” You’d be on the floor if you were standing up. “I like it,” he says earnestly. “Three stars. Three best friends. Kind of poetic.”

“Yeah, it’s-” you stammer. “It means a lot to us.”

“That’s nice to hear.” His eyes rake over you so intensely, so sincere. “Some of the best tattoos I've done were barely the size of a freckle.”

You don’t know if he’s saying this to make you feel better, but either way, you are not sure it helps.

You feel like your skin is trying to slip off your body.

He opens the packaging with quiet and sure movements that still seem to be a little slower than he would probably be normally.

“I tattoo six-foot-tall dudes who pass out cold,” he starts soothingly. “You’re sittin’ here, scared, and still doing it. That’s brave.” He says it so simply.

You stare at him. Try to believe it.

“May I?” he asks, looking up at you, and gesturing toward your arm.

You nod. Too fast.

He reaches out carefully like you’re glass and holy.

His fingers are warm. Gentle. He adjusts your wrist, turning it slightly toward the light. It feels like gravity has shifted. Like the earth tipped a little, just to watch this happen.

His thumb brushes against the inside of your forearm, where your pulse is having a complete existential crisis. His touch might be absentminded but it sparks something that goes way too deep. A tremor. A stormcloud. A sigh under your skin.

“Right here okay?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The needle glints in the light like a tiny sword ready to tear apart your skin.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say honestly, voice a little unstable. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He chuckles under his breath and his smile changes, gets softer, younger.

You let out a breath. Try to remember the sky that night, the way the stars felt close enough to kiss. But there’s something else you’d rather kiss right no-

“I’ll go slow. And I’ll be gentle. Promise,” he says, almost under his breath. “Just breathe.”

You nod. Let him see the fear. Let him see you choose it away.

He turns on the machine. Your hand is shaking. The buzz rings in your ears.

He touches your arm again. Carefully. Steadying you. Taking in an exaggerated breath for you to follow.

“Tell me if you need a break,” he states softly, but there is something else in his tone. “Or, you know. If you want to hold my hand.”

You freeze. Not sure if you heard that right. Your brain is a flock of birds flapping around your skull.

“I- What?”

He smiles. Not teasing. Not smug. It’s soft. It’s kind.

“Some people do better with a distraction,” he says like it’s no big deal. So casual, but his undertone makes you promise yourself to punch Darcy Lewis later on.

You stare at him for a second too long, not sure if he is even serious. You feel like you’ve been thrown into a different body. One that’s nervous and melting and acutely aware of every square inch of air between you.

His palm lays open as an invitation. Looking so soft and callous at the same time.

“Can you even do this with one hand?” you ask cautiously.

He smirks. “You bet I can, darling.”

After a patient moment, you reach out, fingers finding his, and he shifts just enough to meet you halfway. His grip is loose and open, letting you decide how much to hold on.

And you do. Not tight. But not soft either.

It’s safe.

He starts.

The needle meets your skin sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t feel unbearable. You’re too focused on the fact that you’re literally holding hands with the hottest guy you’ve seen in a long while. Maybe ever. His thumb has started tracing circles on the back of yours.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Minutes stretch and snap and vanish but then it’s over.

The buzz stops. The silence blooms around you.

You blink down at your wrist, skin warm and reddened and wrapped in something tiny and starborn. Three constellations, nestled close.

He wipes it gently, thumb brushing away excess ink with a kind of care that makes you want to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. Quiet. Like it’s just for you.

You don’t even realize he’s still holding your hand until he gives it a squeeze and pulls away to grab a mirror.

You almost say wait.

He places the mirror in your hand.

Your breath is lost somewhere deep when you look down at your inked skin. It’s so small. So perfect. Exactly what you hoped for, only softer now. As if it’s always been there. Meant to stay forever.

You glance up at him.

His eyes are warm. Curious. “Took it like a champ,” he says.

You shrug, a little shyly. “I didn’t faint. So that’s a win.”

He lets out a low chuckle. The sound does things to you.

“I’ve seen people pass out from paper cuts. You’re fine,” he assures.

You don’t know what to do with that or the heat pooling at your neck, so you look down again. Tracing the constellations with your eyes like you’re learning to read a new kind of language.

“Thank you,” you offer, and it’s not just for the ink. It’s for the kindness. The patience. The hand-holding. The compassion. “I love it.”

“No need to thank me, darling.”

He takes a few more moments studying you before peeling off his gloves and standing up.

You stand too. Your legs wobble a little, traitorous and unsure, and his hand hovers near your back.

You don’t say anything.

But you feel it.

All of it.

The warmth.

The hush.

The stars, still burning softly beneath your skin.

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a-little-ray-of-fantasy · 1 year ago

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An analysis on how Sir Pentious' character design represents his personality and development perfectly (beware of Hazbin Hotel spoilers)

Let's get this out of the way: Sir Pentious is a snake, an animal mostly known for generally believed negative traits such as poison, deceit and betrayal. We don't know WHY he's in Hell, maybe he was a "snake oil salesman" considering he comes from the Victorian times and he's into hyping up what he does, or maybe he was into war. Thing is, he's a Sinner whose design just scream "Evil".

(BTW, a snake could also represent "fertility": looking at you, Egg Boiz!)

He always had eyes all around him not just because of a stylistic choice.

Sir Pentious always felt like he was watched, and had to watch out for any danger.

"Everyone here is too nice: obviously it must be a lie! I can sense they are planning to kill me, but when?! HOW?! I must be PREPARED!"

Sadly, he's been constantly berated by other demons, far more effective in destruction, status, cruelty and charisma. Alastor won't ever bother to remember him, Cherri always ones up him, and the Vs, the ones he admires to most, won't care less about him.

To the point that Vox sent him as a spy without the intention to save him if things were going to fail. Heck, he even openly tells him to die while calling him a failure.

So of course he's got reasons to have trust issues, or taking everything so seriously, being constantly reminded of what he can't accomplish. So he puts an air of grandure that may be very flamboyant, but is VERY frail.

But, if we have to be frank here, his biggest source of insecurities... is himself.

He has eyes on his tail (his softer, more vulnerable side, which is ironically made even MORE lieable to getting hurt because of how sensitive those organs are), and inside his hood, so he could look out better for danger when on alert mode.

Heck, even the mark on his hood kinda resembles one eye.

Problem is, when you see his hood folded, when he's at ease, neutral or sad, those are not looking at outside sources.

They're looking at him, at his back. A constant stare that happens everytime he lets his guard down and shows how vulnerable he is. A gaze that can sense all of his weakness, his struggles, his insecurities.

And it's all him.

Pentious constantly believes that his inferiority complex will fade away once he'll accomplish something grand that will make others accept him. But he is his biggest critic, his worst enemy: HE is the one who believes he's a failure, that he'll never gain approval from others.

This show takes place in Hell, but this is Sir Pentious' personal Hell: insecurity born out of self hatred. Doomed to feel everyone's gaze upon him, including his own. Believing the danger to his self esteem is from others, when it's really from him.

But then he's accepted at the Hazbin Hotel: Charlie forgives him, he bonds with Angel, Husk and Niffty who don't care a bit about what he's accomplished or not, or what he's done in the past.

He feels more comfortable in showing his vulnerable side, and no one judges him for how easy it is for him to get emotional.

Of course he's still very insecure, considering how he struggles to confess to Cherri, but notice how he stops building machines or planning to attack others as soon as he starts bonding with the others: he doesn't have a reason to destroy or attack, now that he knows he's loved.

And his final design, when he goes to Heaven, shows how much he's changed, yet stayed the same. He may have died a hero, but he's still the same awkward snake we've come to love.

Speaking of love, let's talk about that!

No more eyes on his tail, now it's just on his chest (showing he's opened his heart), his glasses are now heart shaped, and even the markings inside his hood resemble kiss marks more than anything else.

And look: the mark on his hood is now heart shaped!

Why all these hearts? Why did all the eyes disappeared from his body? Even his eyes that were looking at his back?

Simple: love. Love defeated his insecurities and self hatred. He died for love.

He died protecting his friends, his new family, his new home.

He confessed and kissed Cherri knowing full well he wouldn't have made it, and yet he went anyway.

The usually cowardly and timid Pentious actually faced a great danger with courage and determination: he acted selflessly by putting himself in harm's way, he didn't steal (naturally) and by going against Adam he did indeed "stick it to the man"!

He used his weaponry knowhow and battle experience not to conquer, but to save his loved ones.

His only thought up until his demise was: "I'll go down protecting them".

And he's been rewarded not only by becoming an angel, but also being spawned directly in front of Emily and Sera, two Seraphim, the highest rank for an angel to have, who have also been depicted as snakes of fire throughout history! Sir Pentious, the lowly demon considered a failure by everyone, actually has been noticed by the Seraphim! He's come so far!

He's now come to represent the REAL symbolism of a snake: the duality of death and rebirth, transformation and immortality (ironically a reference to the fact he's been around since 1888 without ever dying from any Extermination or blessed weapons).

And isn't so poetic that a snake, the "source of the original evil", was the first sinner to ascend to Heaven? Or that this episode was released on February 1st, or National Serpent Day?

And of course, as the Bible itself says:

"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends."

(John 15:13)

And knowing him, I'm confident in saying he'll keep helping his friends even in his new position, like the soft hearted noodle he's always been, but was to afraid to show it up until now.

#Vivziepop #Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel Spoilers #Hazbin Spoilers #Sir Pentious #Fave Character #Comfort Character #Personal Rambles #What a wonderful lovable character he turned out to be 🥲#Character Analysis

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the-teufort-nine · 6 months ago

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may i rq a scenario with any of the mercs where they find reader injured when respawn's down. maybe bc of an accident or an ambush. i like angst as long as its ok in the end

HOLY SAXTON HALE ANON THIS ONE GOT AWAY FROM ME!

This isn't explicitly romantic, but you could definitely interpret it as being romantic if you want! You're def the team's fave <3

Anyways, enjoy about 8400 words of hurt/comfort goodness and the Blu team being pathetic lil meow meow when they think you're dead dead.

Mercs x GN!Reader | Respawn Malfunction

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Hurt/Comfort | SFW | Cw: starvation, temp character death, excess drinking, animal death ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Featuring:

Everyone! Even Miss Pauling is here!

Scenario: During the last few moments of a match, Blu team's Respawn Machine suddenly malfunctions, with you inside! Left reeling by the loss of their Chemist, the team attempts to cope. A week later, Miss Pauling receives a most unexpected phone call...

There had been no warning.

If there had been, then the sharp eyes of RED and BLU’s Engineers would have certainly caught it. Unfortunately, the Respawn Machine had been just as reliable as ever for the entire match, bringing the mercenaries back from the great beyond time and time again, just as it had been designed to do.

Scout and Soldier had just been revived when it happened; the two men taking a moment to shake off the inevitable rush of nausea that came from going through the unholy machine. An Ubercharged Heavy had taken both them and their teammate, Y/N, known officially as the Chemist, out as the hulking giant made a final push to capture one of their points, and both BLU men knew it was only a matter of time before they heard the biting voice of the Administrator informing them of their failure.

Scout scuffed his sneaker against the concrete floor of the Respawn Room as Soldier launched into a furious rant, leaning against the wall as he waited for Y/N to come through, knowing that they'd been killed only a moment after him. He sighed when felt the gentle pulse of the machine as it vibrated like a speaker, getting ready to return his friend to the world of the living.

SKREEEEEECHHHH- BOOM!

A blast of hot air sent the two men crashing into the wall, stunning them momentarily. It was Soldier who regained his wits first, the BLU quickly pushing up his helmet and looking back at the source of the damage in shock and mounting horror.

“Aeughhhh… what da hell just happened?” Scout moaned, one of his hands rubbing against his throbbing forehead. He blinked, his blurred vision slowly clearing, and as he regained his sight, his eyes began to widen.

Respawn was on fire.

Flames licked hungrily at the walls as they spread out further from the Respawn Machine, with the contraption itself bathed in white and blue hues, the intense heat making quick work of what hadn't been destroyed in the explosion. Shards of complex metals and pools of gleaming Australium were littered all over the room, reflecting the light of the fire.

“HOLY CRAP!” Scout yelped, adrenaline coursing through his body as he attempted to scramble up off the floor.

His voice jolted Soldier out of his shocked state, and he shot a hand out to grab the back of Scout's shirt and yank him along as he made for the door.

“Emergency! Cease fighting immediately!” The Administrator's voice boomed out over the battlefield, the old woman's voice sounding more shocked than stern for once.

Scout finally found his footing as he pulled out of Soldier's grip, spinning around to stare at the encroaching flames. Fear roiled in his gut like an angry serpent as his disoriented mind finally allowed the reality of their situation to sink in. Respawn was gone.

Death was permanent once again.

“Private, this is no time to be standing around! We need to go!”

They could die. For real.

“Scout!”

If they'd come through only a moment earlier, they wouldn't have come back at all.

Wait…

“Solly, where's Chem?”

Soldier paused in his attempt to drag Scout down the hall, his gaze snapping back towards Respawn. He hadn't seen them when he'd grabbed Scout, too focused on getting away from the rapidly approaching fire, but he'd assumed that they were right behind him.

“They probably snuck past us! They're sneaky like that.” he replied. That had to be it! Otherwise that would mean they…

Scout looked down the hall, searching for any sign of the Chemist, before looking back towards Respawn, his face paling. He jerked forward, sprinting towards the blaze.

“Chem! Chem, hang on!” Scout yelled, reaching the doorway in only a few seconds, his eyes desperately searching for where his friend could possibly be.

The room was as empty as it had seemed before. There was no trace of the Chemist, alive or dead, to be found in the room.

They hadn't made it through.

“What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here?!”

Scout wrenched himself away from the door as he heard his teammates gasp behind him. Engineer was up by his side in an instant, his mechanical hand gripping the doorframe so hard it cracked the material. He pushed his goggles up, and Scout could see real fear in the other's eyes.

“Vhat zhe hell happened? Zhe Respavn Machine vas fine only moments ago vhen I came through!” Medic said, pausing as he looked at Scout, who was trembling. Gently, the doctor led the young man away from the fire, “Scout? Are you alright? Vere you injured?”

“Chem’s gone.” was Scout's quiet reply.

“Vhat?”

“They was suppose’ta come through after me ‘n Solly, but Respawn went up in flames before they could come through.” the runner's voice was shaky and hollow, and he leaned more of his weight against Medic as his legs started to feel less dependable than usual, “They're gone. Like, gone gone.”

The gathered mercenaries went quiet, the only sounds being that of the crackling flames and Scout and Soldier's laboured breathing.

“DAMN IT!” Engineer bellowed, throwing his hard hat onto the ground, “GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!”

Medic closed his eyes, bringing a gloved hand up to his face as a wave of grief crashed down on him. He'd been rather fond of their newest teammate, glad to have someone around who was as interested in risky experiments as he was. The Chemist had often taken up many of the smaller, more neglected duties around the base, such as cooking proper meals and making sure that Medic's less used medical supplies stayed topped up, in case of emergencies. They'd also been of great help in wrangling some of his more… problematic patients, using their charms (or stealth) to herd them into the Medbay for check ups or shots.

He watched them die every day, but this was different. This was permanent. The machine he and Engineer had worked so hard to build, the one that had allowed them to cheat death time and time again, had finally taken its pound of flesh. Y/N had been taken from them, from him, before he'd been ready to let them go.

Now, this usually wouldn't have been a problem; committing sins against both God and nature was something he did quite often and with great delight, and he was sure he could wrest Y/N back from the afterlife, provided that he had access to their body.

And therein lay the problem. There was no body. Respawn hadn't even spat them out half formed or thrown them into the flames, it had simply not reconstructed them. Whatever remained of the Chemist was likely nothing more than a partially formed mist of human remains that had burned up almost instantaneously.

The tenth class was no more, and there was nothing Medic could do.

“Aw, hell,” Engineer gritted out finally, looking back at his teammates with a tired, beatdown expression, “Christ, someone go ‘n track down a fire extinguisher. If we don't get this under control soon, we'll all end up dead.”

Seeing an opportunity to both flee the horrific scene and be useful, Scout ran off like a bat out of Hell, skidding around a corner and disappearing from sight. Soldier, who was being uncharacteristically quiet and still, made to follow him, but Engineer stopped him before he could take more than a few steps.

“Hold on, pardner. I need you to round everyone up and let ‘em know what- what happened.” the southerner swallowed hard, trying his best to push down his emotions for the time being, “The last thing we need right now is to lose someone else because someone did somthin’ stupid and got themselves killed.”

Soldier thought of how often Demo tested his equipment after their daily battles, especially after a loss, and stopped only long enough to give Engineer a salute before rushing off, determined not to lose any more teammates.

“Gott, vhat a mess.” Medic whispered hoarsely, mentally preparing himself for the utter shit show that was inevitably coming their way. The Chemist had been a friend to all of them, even to Spy, who pretended that he didn't care, and losing them was going to be hard on everyone.

Personal loss wasn't something the mercenaries were used to, lulled into a sense of security, of immortality, by the Respawn Machine. After all, why be afraid of death when you knew that you would be back in what felt like only an instant? None of them ever considered that Respawn might fail one day.

“C’mon, Doc. We can't stay here.” Engineer said, leading his co-worker-turned-friend away from the fire.

“Ack!”

You yelped as you tumbled face first out of Respawn, hitting the floor hard and fast. You hissed in pain, pushing yourself up and rubbing a hand over your aching face. Instinctively, you check over the various vials of chemicals you have strapped to your person, praying that your odd tumble hasn't resulted in anything breaking.

A sigh of relief passes your lips as you determine nothing to be out of place or wrecked. You pulled yourself to your feet, stretching and cracking your knuckles. Christ, the RED Heavy must have gotten you good that time, because you felt just awful. Exhaustion made you slouch slightly, and your stomach ached something fierce.

After bracing yourself for the inevitable screech of the Administrator's voice telling you that you had failed, you allowed your eyes to fall open, expecting to see Scout and Soldier's sour faces.

An unfamiliar room greeted you, wooden planks replacing the expected concrete. Dust lingered around the space, and your only company was a chittering raccoon, which startled and ran off upon seeing you.

What the fuck was going on?

“Hell-o?” you called, confusing coloring your tone, “Scout? Soldier? Anyone?”

Silence greeted you. Not even the sound of gunfire and shouting could be heard, only the sound of a fierce wind blowing outside.

Thoroughly confused and more than a little creeped out, you stepped out of Respawn, head constantly swiveling about as you called for your teammates. However, no matter how much you yelled, no one ever responded. No matter how much you searched, you couldn't find anyone. No matter how much you listened, not a soul could be heard.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” you chanted, rubbing your arms. It was so cold here, and your outfit was designed for the New Mexico heat.

Your breaths came in steamy puffs, and you could feel goosebumps prickling along your arms as you made your way towards what you hoped was the Intel Room. Whatever it was that was going on, you were too tired and too sore to try and puzzle it out. If this was some kind of elaborate prank, you were going to kill whoever was responsible, because the last thing you wanted to deal with after such a rough day was this creepy bullshit.

Finally, after a solid hour of getting lost within this bizarre, wintery base, you managed to find the Intel Room. A phone, blue in colour, sat mounted on the wall only a few feet away. Wasting no time, you dialed the number Miss Pauling had given you to use if there was ever an emergency, or if Engineer and Medic started spending too much time together again. (The last time they'd gone unchecked for too long, the base had become overrun by something they called Spycrabs. It took weeks for you and your team to get rid of them, though you were fairly certain both Spy and Pyro had managed to hide one to keep as a pet.)

“Aperture Bakery, where the cake definitely isn't a lie! This is Tammy speaking, how can I help you?” an obviously fake cheery voice greeted you after only two rings, and you smiled slightly.

“Jesus, Pauling, I think that's your worst ‘wrong number’ persona yet.” you groused, no real venom in your voice.

“...Y/N?” Miss Pauling’s voice suddenly became very soft and disbelieving, something you'd never heard it do.

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Yeah, that's me, last I checked. I thought you were supposed to call me Chemist, though?”

“Holy shit, you're alive?!” she shouted, the volume causing you to pull back slightly, “How are you alive?!”

“Uhhhhh,” you stammered, completely at a loss as to how you were supposed to respond, “I… I breathe? And eat? And sleep? Jeez, Pauling, I don't know what you want from me here.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, one that lasted so long, you began to worry Miss Pauling had hung up on you.

“Hello?” you tried.

“Oh! Shoot, sorry, I'm still here! I just-” there was a sound like papers being moved, “Chemist, what is the last thing you remember?”

“Losing the point and getting shot to pieces, why?” Was this a test? Had you already failed somehow?

“Right, yeah, okay that makes sense.” Miss Pauling took a deep breath, and you shifted uncomfortably, sensing that something was wrong.

“Chemist, Y/N, you've been declared dead for just over a week now.”

The phone slipped from your grasp, and it was only years worth of training and quick reflexes that kept it from smashing into the wall. You gripped the phone right, pressing it tightly into your ear as you spoke. “I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right, Miss Pauling. Would you mind repeating that?”

“You were dead, Chemist. Something happened to BLU’s Respawn Machine, and it was completely destroyed before you could come back. I- I don't know how or why it took so long for you to come back this time, but I'm so glad you did.”

You all but collapsed onto the wall, your free hand tangling itself in your hair. You'd died? Like, died for real? The thought made your stomach turn, and you had to suppress the urge to vomit.

“Pauling, Christ, I-” you swallowed, breathing in through your nose, “Is everyone else okay? Oh God, please tell me no one else… died.”

“No, no, no! Everyone's- well they're not fine, but they're all alive. The Administrator called for an emergency ceasefire the minute she saw what happened, and both teams got the message pretty quickly that something was wrong. The ceasefire is still in effect, since everyone needs to be relocated to one of the other base locations.” Miss Pauling replied.

You audibly sighed in relief, tension leaving your body as you uttered a soft ‘Oh, thank God.’ “I think that's where I ended up. One of the other bases, I mean. It's fucking freezing here, Pauly.”

“Shit, you're that far out?” Miss Pauling sucked in a breath through her teeth, “Okay, just- just stay put, alright? There's not going to be any supplies there, so just fine somewhere warm and try not to move too much. I'm going to come get you, okay?”

“Okay.” you replied, smiling slightly as you heard her immediately begin to gather various items on her desk, “Thank you, Miss Pauling. I know you're busy.”

“I'm never too busy for my mercenaries, especially when they manage to defy all logic and cheat death more than they usually do.” a warm, fuzzy feeling settled in your chest at her words, and it remained even after you hung up. There was something so viscerally pleasing about being wanted, about having someone care for you.

Worn out from your return to the living world, you peeled yourself away from the wall and wandered around the base a bit, before locating what had to be the common room. A couch and a few chairs were tucked in around an unlit fireplace. There wasn't anything around to burn, and you didn't feel up to going out to find something suitable, so you chose instead to simply curl up on the couch. Once you laid down, it was as if all of your strength left your body. The aches and pains that plagued you became more apparent, and your stomach growled and gurgled loudly. You were starving, but as Miss Pauling had said, there was no food at the base, and you certainly weren't going to be able to hunt any animals that might be scuttling around.

Resigning yourself to a fitful sleep and an empty stomach, you closed your eyes and pressed yourself in closer to the back of the couch, slowly drifting off into a light slumber.

The BLU base had never been so quiet. It was not a calm quiet, like one might find if they walked into a library, or in a room full of people simply enjoying each other's company while they entertained themselves, but rather a tense, unnatural quiet. A mercenary base with nine men living in it should have been full of noise and movement, but each member of the BLU team seemed more than happy to break away from the norm today.

Engineer was holed up in his workshop, pouring over blueprints, both new and old, determined to find some flaw, some imperfection, some failure, that could give him an answer as to why the Respawn Machine had gone up in flames. He needed to find the problem so that he could fix it. He couldn't leave things as they were; everyone, even the RED team, once they'd found out what had happened, felt unsafe going through any of the Respawn Machines, since no one knew what exactly had gone wrong.

Medic was working himself to exhaustion right alongside him, while also fretting over packing up his birds and equipment on such short notice. They weren't due to rotate out to another base for another month, but the accident had pushed the timeline up to a few days. What's more is that he needed to review the applications for a new Chemist, though he'd been putting that particular task off for as long as possible. He'd never once needed to replace a teammate, nor had he ever expected to. The process of both finding someone who was Respawn compatible and willing to fight and die everyday was an arduous one indeed, and Medic could feel a stress induced migraine begin to come on whenever he even glanced at the paperwork.

Heavy had been trying his best to help Medic prepare for the move, but he, like everyone else, was feeling the effects of their friend's sudden death. He kept expecting to hear their voice coming from the kitchen, or to see them waltz through a door with some manner of bubbling condition held in their arms. Often, he caught himself setting out the supplies for two sandviches, only realizing his mistake when he had plated the food.

Pyro had firmly planted themselves in the Chemist's room, taking special, delicate care to pack up their things into neat little boxes. When Medic had gently floated the idea of reusing their supplies for the next Chemist, Pyro had chased the doctor around the base with their fire axe. There were drawings of the two of them taped carefully to the wall, gifted to the Chemist by the resident firebug, and Pyro left them for last, wanting to keep pretending that they were simply packing up to move like the rest of them. When they'd nearly finished, Pyro noticed that the Chemist's uniforms, which had been folded up on their friend's bed, had mysteriously disappeared. They'd panicked for a moment, before the faint smell of cigarette smoke filtered through their mask.

Sure enough, the clothes were returned the following morning, freshly washed, dried, and without any wrinkles. Any and all holes or rips had been carefully hand stitched with expert precision. There was also a single rose lovingly tucked into one of the pockets on the outfit the Chemist wore most frequently.

Demo could often be found in the company of Soldier, sitting out on some roof or bridge, nursing his tenth or so bottle. Soldier didn't drink nearly as much, but when he inevitably did get drunk, only he and Demo knew about the few tears that would slip down his cheek. Neither acknowledged it, nor the sinking fear of having to inevitably go through Respawn again that sat like lead bullets in their guts.

Scout ran to ignore that same sense of fear and loss, to push it down into the deepest parts of himself. He ran from sunrise to sunset, pausing only when he absolutely needed to. Sometimes, when he would stop, panting and sweating and one small breeze away from toppling over, if he was in just the right spot at just the right time, he'd catch a glimpse of Sniper, tucked away on some far off cliffside or peering down from a tall, rickety building. The marksman hadn't been seen in the base proper since the accident, but he was always around somewhere, watching day and night to ensure nothing happened to his remaining teammates during the ceasefire.

So it was no wonder that it was him who first spotted a frantic looking Miss Pauling as she parked her scooter and dashed off towards one of the base entrances.

Curious, Sniper pushed himself up out of his hiding place, ignored the burning sensation that rippled through his taunt, stiff muscles, and started to make his way down to the base. He didn't make any attempt to soften his footsteps, but he also didn't call any attention to himself. The dark haired woman had been heading for Engineer's workshop, so that's where Sniper went.

Just before he could reach the door that led to the workshop, he collided with someone coming down the hall. He let out a quiet ‘oof’ and stumbled back, baring his teeth instinctively when he saw an expensive suit and steely blue eyes. He calmed, however, when he saw that this Spy was dressed in his team's colours

“Bushman.” came Spy's snide greeting. The Frenchman eyed Sniper up and down, “You look like shit.”

“I could say the same for you, mate.” Sniper sneered back, and he really could have.

There were heavy bags around Spy's eyes, and he smelled as though he'd been absolutely chewing through his expensive, imported cigarettes. Clearly, the man had been coping just as well as Sniper had.

“I'm shocked to see zhat you are no longer wallowing in your mobile hovel, or rolling around in zhe dirt, or whatever it is that you've been doing zhese days.” Spy raised a brow, “What has brought you back to zhis cheap imitation of civilization?”

Now, normally, this would be the point in their conversation where Sniper would tell Spy to not-so-kindly fuck off, but the Australian was running on coffee and will, and Spy was good at getting information. If Miss Pauling’s sudden appearance was supposed to be a secret, then Spy would be Sniper’s first choice for a partner in crime.

“Miss Pauling just showed up lookin’ real frazzled, and I want to know why. I didn't get any alerts or messages, did you?” Sniper asked.

Spy pursed his lips. “Non, I did not.”

Both men's gazes flicked towards the workshop door, and before either could contemplate if this was a good idea or not, Spy had cloaked and Sniper was pushing the door open slowly. A conversation came into earshot as the door opened silently.

“Engie! Thank God you're here!”

“Miss Pauling? What are you doin’ here?”

“There's no time, I need to borrow your truck!”

“Whu- mah truck? What for?”

“Listen, I need to get up North. Fast. And my scooter isn't going to cut it for this trip. Also, I think I might need that emergency dispenser you guys built a while back.”

Sniper's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. Miss Pauling did many things to people, but healing them wasn't something he'd ever heard of her doing.

“Well, now, see that there dispenser is still a prototype. It ain't ready for fieldwork yet- HEY!”

“Sorry Engie! Look, I promise I will bring the truck and the dispenser back, but I really need to get going! If this works, I'll bring back something that will make up for all of this.”

“And just what the hell would that be?!”

“Your Chemist!”

Sniper jolted, his body moving faster than his mind, which was still struggling to understand what he'd just heard. He gripped the guardrails that overlooked the lower floor, arriving just in time to see Miss Pauling putting the pedal to the metal and hauling ass out of the workshop in Engineer's truck. Engineer himself was standing stock still on the workshop floor, hand still raised mid gesture.

A set of hands suddenly grabbed Sniper by the shoulders and spun him around. Spy was staring at him, eyes alight in a way Sniper hadn't seen in a long time.

“Bushman, you can fit at least four people in your disgusting van, yes?” the man asked, squeezing harder when Sniper's mouth failed to make words come out, “Well?!”

“Eh- ur- yeah mate, that's right.” Sniper nodded finally, still reeling from the idea that Chemist might still be alive, “What's it to ya, Spook?”

“Gather up Soldier, Heavy, and Demo. I will take Medic, Scout, Pyro and Engineer in my car. We need to get going immediately if we want any chance of catching up to Miss Pauling!” he exclaimed.

Sniper's eyes widened as he understood what Spy was saying. The Frenchman wanted to follow Miss Pauling, to see their supposedly not dead teammate for himself, and he knew the rest of them well enough to know that if they didn't take them along, then the others would find their own way to them. That, or they'd simply destroy the base if left alone for too long, and Sniper was willing to bet that Spy didn't want to risk Pyro or Soldier destroying his precious suit collection.

‘Still,’ Sniper mused, ‘It’s nice to see that Spook cares about our feelings, even if it is mostly for ‘is benefit.’

“Right, I'll go round up the boys. You focus on snapp’n Engie outta his stupor, yeah?” Sniper agreed.

Spy nodded, and the two separated, with Sniper wasting no time in flying back down the hall. Obsessively stalking- er, observing everyone over the course of the week had granted him a decent understanding of where they chose to spend their time while in mourning.

Heavy and Medic were up first, and Sniper knew exactly where they'd be. With a swift kick, he burst into the Medbay, startling both the pair and all of the birds.

“Augh! Herr Sniper, vhat do you think you're doing, barging in here like-” Medic started, but Sniper cut him off.

“Can it, Doc! Pauling was just ‘ere, and she says Y/N is alive!” Sniper exclaimed. The other two men's eyes widened, and Medic almost dropped the glass beaker he was holding. “She sped off a moment ago, and we're gonna follow ‘er. Spy's taking you, Scooter, Engie and Py in ‘is car, while I'm takin’ the rest.”

The dynamic duo shook off their shock and nodded.

“Heavy will grab Soldier and Demolitions. Leetle Sniper will find Pyro in their room.” Heavy paused, then fixed Sniper with a stern look. “Be very careful how you tell news. Fire starter has… not been taking loss well. May attack, if they think you are playing joke.”

Sniper gulped quietly. “Think we should hold off on tellin’ them why we're really leaving?”

Medic shook his head quickly. “Nien. Zhough it is not alvays apparent, Pyro is quite intelligent. Lying to zhem about zhis will not end well for any of us.”

The marksman winced, remembering the feeling of fire blasting across his skin. “Too right. Okay, I'll handle Pyro, and Heavy’s gettin’ the drunk bastards. Hopefully they can sober up a bit, because I do not want those two sicking up in my van.”

Suddenly, a thought came to him.

“Oh, and bring yer Medigun. Miss Pauling mentioned something about need’n the emergency dispenser, but Engie didn't seem too confident that it would work.”

Medic's face crumpled up in distress. “And he shouldn't be! Zhat machine is just as likely to kill both zhe Chemist and Frauline Pauling as it is to heal zhem.”

“Shit.” Sniper swore, “We better be quick, then.”

The three men scattered, each one going in a different direction. Sniper hauled ass towards the barracks, eyes flicking to the different class symbols that marked each of the doors. He had only ever been here once, but picking out the little blue and yellow picture of a bubbling vial was easy enough.

He skidded to a stop before the door, taking a second to rap his knuckles against the wood before pushing the door open.

Pyro was where Heavy had said they would be, sitting on their friend's neatly made bed, their stuffed Balloonicorn clasped tightly in their grip as they rocked slightly. Pyro tilted their head at Sniper, communicating their confusion at the man's sudden appearance.

“C’mon, matchstick. We gotta get going right quick now.” Sniper panted, motioning for Pyro to follow, “Miss Pauling was just here, and she seems pretty damn convinced that our Chemist isn't as dead as we all thought.”

Pyro stilled on the bed, their masked face staring right into Sniper's soul. The Australian licked his chapped lips, feeling a sense of unease creep across the nape of his neck. After a moment of relative silence, Pyro seemed to find no deception in his words, and quickly leapt up, pausing only to grab their axe and holster it on their back.

“Huddah huddah huddah!” They yelled, voice muffled by the mask. A thick rubber glove suddenly gripped Sniper's vest, and the marksman found himself getting dragged along towards an exit.

Barely able to keep up with Pyro’s quick stride, Sniper stumbled a bit, all but crashing into the firebug when the large door before them slid open.

“Let's go, let's go, let's go!” Scout's voice carried across the desert base as the young man practically flew towards the workshop, clearly having been told the news, “Py, Snipes, let's friggin hustle! We got places to be, ya bunch a slowasses!”

“Piss off, ya bloody roadrunner! We're goin’ as fast as we can!” Sniper shot back, no real venom in his voice. He knew that Scout had been hit hard by the loss of their teammate, especially since he and Soldier had been the last ones to see them. The kid was more sensitive then the rest of them, especially when it came to someone he cared about dying

Scout slowed ever so slightly, just enough to grab ahold of Pyro's hand. The runner and the arsonist took off together to where Spy was waiting, and Sniper deviated off towards his van.

Heavy was already waiting for him when he arrived, the hulking giant holding both Soldier and Demo over his shoulders. The two had clearly had more to drink than usual, because neither of them were conscious. Sniper contemplated waking them for a moment; this was important after all, and he knew neither man would want to be left out of the loop.

And then he considered how completely insufferable the duo would be if they were awake, and he simply nodded towards the back of the van as he moved to sit in the driver's seat.

Heavy joined him a few moments later, and they were off, speeding down a dusty New Mexico road. Spy's expensive, gleaming vehicle was tearing down the same road as them, the light of the gradually setting sun bouncing off the well maintained blue paint job. He'd told Sniper the name once, while also threatening to gut the marksman if he so much as stepped near the vehicle, but Sniper couldn't be bothered to memorize it.

Sniper had thought that Spy wouldn't ever dare go as fast as he was now, what with all the potholes and tumbleweeds around that could potentially damage the Frenchman's precious ride, but perhaps he'd underestimated how much losing the Chemist had weighed on their most elusive teammate. Spy, for all his aloofness, did occasionally let slip the fact that he actually liked his teammates. Sometimes. Rarely. And usually in some strange, hard to interpret way.

He saw Scout's head pop out of one of the backseat windows, and the lad raised a hand to shield his eyes, like he was trying to see something in the distance. He must have spotted something other than desert, because he pointed towards an upcoming side road before popping back inside.

Sure enough, the car skidded around the corner, and Sniper followed, squinting his own eyes in an attempt to see what Scout had been pointing at.

Tire tracks marred the road, ones that hadn't been caused by Spy's quick turn, but that were also very recent. Sniper grinned and pressed harder on the gas, accelerating until he was only a few feet behind the other vehicle.

He'd never had a target escape before, and Miss Pauling wasn't about to make him break that streak.

Cold.

You were so cold.

You'd awoken to the sound of your teeth chattering, the sound only made worse when another wave of ripples inevitably wracked your prone form. Each breath came as a gasping wheeze, catching on the film of phlegm that had made a home in your throat and chest. Your stomach felt almost alive in your guts, spitting acid on your sensitive middle as it growled and snarled and roared for food that you couldn't give it.

You tried to get up, but your body began to shake and wobble dangerously as you began putting pressure on your forearm. Apparently, all your energy had been diverted to shivering in a, perhaps futile, attempt to keep your internal organs from freezing over. Breathing out a puff of warm air, you slid your hands over your chest and stomach, eyes widening as you realized that something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Gone was your well earned muscles and insulating body fat. You felt dangerously thin, like a starved greyhound. Whatever dark magic and science pulled you back from death had seemingly lost most of your fat and muscle reserves in the process. Truly, it was a miracle that you'd been able to walk at all!

You were in a bad spot, and you weren't sure Respawn would be able to save you again, should the worst happen. After all, no merc had ever starved to death before, and you had no idea what would happen if you did.

‘That’s not going to happen.’ You tried to reassure yourself, ‘Pauling will come to get me.’

How long had you been asleep? It hadn't felt like long, but there were no windows in this common room, and it wasn't as though you could rely on your stomach to tell you that a great deal of time had passed.

With little else to do, you lay your head back down on the cold couch cushions, attempting to curl up closer to the plush, velvety fabric. You tucked your arms into your armpits and folded your knees up close to your chest as you shivered once again. You'd lost feeling in your toes and fingers, but you could still, with great difficulty, wiggle them, which you counted as a win. Your eyes slipped shut as you turned your face down towards your chest, nose buried in the fabric of your uniform in a desperate attempt to seek out any scrap of warmth.

Sleep came easy enough, but it was far from a peaceful rest. Nightmares of endless darkness and being reborn wrong plagued your mind. You woke frequently, but exhaustion dragged you back into unconsciousness just as quickly. Each time you awoke, you were reminded of just how hungry you were, and the urge to gnaw at your own dangerously thin arms grew in intensity. Thirst plagued you as well, and each time your failing mind allowed it, you licked desperately at the inside of your mouth, trying to acquire some moisture for your sandpaper-esque throat.

On your next return to the waking world, as you stared out towards the door that led to the hallway, contemplating drinking one of your fatal mixtures, if only to end your suffering and quicken your return to Respawn, a sound echoed out into the lonely building. You lifted your head, blearily squinting towards the door. Had that been real? Or simply an illusion, a trick crafted by your starved brain?

“Chem? Chem, can you hear me?!”

Miss Pauling.

She did come for you!

You grinned, the action pulling at your chapped lips. You tried to call out, but all you managed was a slight cough. Huffing, you flopped your head back down, eyes locked on the door. You knew that she knew where the phone was in this place; there was no way someone like Miss Pauling didn’t know the ins and outs of every place her mercs set up shop in, so it was only a matter of time before she found you.

Sure enough, after a few minutes passed you began to hear footsteps pounding down the hall. It wasn’t the heavy, familiar footfalls of your team, but rather a lighter, quieter sound. A blurry purple figure entered your field of vision, and after your eyes finally focused, you saw a disheveled, red-cheeked Miss Pauling standing before you.

“Hey there, stranger.” You rasped, wincing slightly when you felt hands suddenly cup your cheeks. Pauling’s hands were warm and slightly calloused, and you blinked slowly, leaning into her touch.

“Jesus Christ, Chem. You never do anything by halves, huh?” Pauling laughed, though the noise came out more like a sob.

“Can't. I wouldn't be a very good Chemist if I did, right?” You joked softly, your eyelids drooping slowly as you began to relax, “Things’d be spillin’ all over the place.”

“Woah, hey!” A series of quick, rapid taps against your cheeks made you open your eyes again, “Stay awake, okay? You're in rough shape, but I brought- well, stole but that's really not important- Engie's truck and his little mini dispenser thing-”

“You stole Engie’s truck?” You interrupted, voice tinged with a sense of horrified awe, “He's gonna kill you.”

The raven haired woman gave you a half smile as she reached an arm under you, pulling you up to your feet to stand beside her. Your vision swam, and you had to lean heavily into her.

“I think bringing you back will soften him up a bit.” She said, looping your arm around her shoulders, “Come on, let's get you to the truck. You look like you're about to pass out.”

“I might.” You admitted. “Got anything to eat? I'm starving.”

Miss Pauling glanced over your emaciated form. “That… actually might be the case. When Respawn brings someone back, it usually leaves them feeling a little bit drained, and it's why you're all so hungry at the end of a battle. Respawning takes energy, and I'd say this last trip took almost all of yours. It ate right through your fat and muscle reserves!”

“Ah,” You replied, “I was afraid that might be the case. What happens if I Respawn again?”

“It's… it's probably best if we don't test that out.”

The two of you walked through the base in silence after that, with you leaning heavily on Miss Pauling for support. She didn't seem to mind, however; though you often caught her casting worried glances at you. You felt the temperature in the air steadily drop as you reached the entrance to the base, yet you were still caught off guard when a chilly blast of wintry air smacked you in the face. Snow swirled all around you, coating the base and battlefield in white. The first rays of an early morning sunrise were just starting to peak over the horizon, giving you enough light to see by.

In the distance, you could see Engie's truck, the blue vehicle standing out amidst the white. However, something seemed… off about the truck. You squinted, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Hey P, did you bring a… a dog with you?” You mumbled, tilting your head at the canine shape that stood in the headlights.

“What?” Miss Pauling looked confused for a moment, before she, too, saw the creature. “What is… uh oh.”

“Uh oh? Why uh oh?” You questioned, before taking a closer look at the dog, which was now slowly moving towards the two of you.

Oh.

Uh oh indeed.

It wasn't a dog.

It was a wolf.

The beast was huge, with a thick, ungroomed black coat and amber eyes that glowed a bright, golden color in the early morning. It growled as it approached, and you could see saliva frothing at its mouth.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” You balked, stumbling as Miss Pauling pulled you both back, “A rabid wolf. Why not!”

“How did it even contract rabies all the way out here?!” Miss Pauling yelped, quickly drawing her pistol. You eyed the small gun, wondering if she could aim well enough to shoot the hulking animal with your dead weight hanging off her.

Left with no other options, you weakly pawed at your coat, trying to locate something that could help you fight off the rabid beast. You had all the ingredients needed to make something truly dangerous, but if you tried to mix them now, you'd just as likely make something that would kill you before the wolf could.

Grabbing something that would at least blind the animal, you braced yourself as best you could, ready to try and help Miss Pauling fight.

“INCOMING!”

You, Miss Pauling, and the wolf all turned your heads as one, eyes widening when Sniper's van suddenly emerged from the snowstorm like the chariot of an angry Australian god. The vehicle slammed into the wolf, sending it flying out of sight. A few seconds later, an expensive looking car skidded to a stop a few feet away, one of the back doors opening before the car could even fully stop.

Scout came barreling out first, slipping on the snow and ice as he tried to regain his balance. Sniper, Heavy, and Spy followed suit, with the other's appearing behind them. They all looked absolutely horrendous; their eye bags had eye bags, Soldier and Sniper clearly needed to shave, and none of them were even remotely dressed for the cold weather of the north.

But they had never looked better to you.

Scout spotted you first, and you hardly had time to blink before the Bostonian was upon you, yanking you out of Miss Pauling's hold and into his arms.

“You're alive! Holy crap you're alive!” Scout cried, spinning you around and pressing his face into your shoulder.

Pyro joined you next, the arsonist all but smothering both you and Scout as they sobbed. You patted their back, leaning into their warm suit, attempting to leech their abundant body heat.

Before you could get a word out, a fierce yell startled you into a defensive stance. Suddenly, you were being held up by your armpits and being shook like a maraca.

“DO NOT PULL SUCH A STUNT AGAIN, MAGGOT!” Soldier yelled angrily, but you caught a glimpse of wet eyes under his helmet, “IF YOU DIE LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL PERSONALLY RIP YOUR YELLOW-BELLIED SOUL RIGHT OUT OF HELL!”

“Sol, put them down, consarnit!” Engineer chided, smacking Soldier in the side. Once the helmeted man set you back down onto the ground, Engineer pulled you into a warm, firm hug, his flesh hand coming to rest on the back of your neck.

“Hey Engie.” You murmured softly, “Don’t be mad at Miss P, okay?”

“Buddy, ah’m gonna be treatin’ her to a steak dinner after this.” he chuckled, before gently passing you over to someone else, “Here, Demo. Be careful with ‘em. They ain’t lookin’ too good right now.”

“Aye, ya look like shite, dont’cha?” Demo laughed softly, gently ruffling your hair before pulling you into a hug, tucking you under his chin. “Ah, I’m glad yer alright. Ye gave us a right scare, ya wee bastard!”

“Sorry.” You chuckled, leaning into his chest. Demo patted your shoulder, before you were released and spun around to see Medic, Heavy, Spy and Sniper. While Heavy lifted you up into one arm, Miss Pauline began questioning how the mercenaries had found out where you and her were.

Medic descended upon you like a mother hen, fretting about the poor state you were in while simultaneously raving about the unexplored limits of the Respawn Machines. He plucked a few tablets out of a bottle in one of his coat pockets, instructing you to swallow, not chew them as Sniper handed you a well worn thermos. It was warm, and when you opened the lid, the smell of coffee hit your nose. A quick sip revealed that it was made just how you liked, which made you smile, because it meant that the usually unsociable marksman had gone out of his way to make the drink specifically for you.

“Here, mon ami,” Spy strode forward, a blanket draped over his arm. He wrapped it around your shoulders gently, tucking it in tightly, almost like your parents would do for you when you were small, “this should warm you up a bit.”

The tenderness of your usually tough, rowdy teammates made you sniffle, and you snuggled in closer to Heavy, clutching your thermos.

“I love you guys.” You said, your voice wavering with emotion, rather than cold this time, “Seriously. I- there isn’t a better team out there.”

Your praise made the gathered men puff up slightly. It was clear your opinion mattered a great deal to them.

“Hell yeah! We’re da’ freakin’ best!” Scout shouted.

“Leetle Chemist is included in that.” Heavy added, and you blushed slightly.

“Heavy is right, mein Chemiker.” Medic agreed, “Jou have cheated Death more zhen anyone else before jou! It is truly amazing!”

“I don’t feel amazing.” You said, quickly sipping the offered coffee.

“Vell, you are severely malnutritioned, so I am not surprised.” Medic replied. “Ah, don’t drink zhat so fast. Jou’ll just zhrow it back up.”

Once the word ‘malnutritioned’ passed the doctor’s lips, you could practically hear Engineer’s ears perk up. You were sure many home cooked meals with Engie in his workshop were in your future.

“Come on, mate, let’s get em’ outta the cold, yeah?” Sniper suggested to Heavy, gesturing towards his van. Spy snorted.

“Please, you want to have our dear Chemist rest in zhat thing? The last thing zhey need is to be surrounded by piss and crocodile jerky.” he snarked, which drew a disgruntled sneer from Sniper.

“Oi! My van is perfectly clean, and its leagues bettah than your dinky lil’ car! You just wanna hog all their attention ‘cause you’re a needy, selfish buggah!” Sniper shot back.

Heavy sighed deeply as the two men started arguing, before looking down at you.

“Heavy thinks it would be best for leetle Chemist to ride with Engineer in his truck for now. Team is very excited you are alive, and this makes them act-” the two of you winced as Soldier started yelling again, “more like loud idiots than usual, да?”

“At this point, big guy, I’d welcome the noise.” You admitted, “It was… quiet here. And lonely.”

Heavy looked at you with a saddened expression. “How long were you alone for?”

“A… a day, I think. It was hard to tell, since there were no windows.” You glanced over in the direction the wolf had been flung. “Honestly, that might have been for the best, considering what was waiting out here for me and Miss Pauling when we finally got outside.”

“Was wolf, yes? Heavy could not see very well, but it looked like wolf.” The heavy weapons expert said as he started off towards Engineer’s truck.

“Yeah, it was a wolf. A rabid one. You guys showed up just in time. I was afraid it would get close enough to bite us.” You shivered, pulling your blanket in closer.

“Miss Pauling would not have allowed that. She is small woman, yes, but very fierce.” Heavy paused for a moment, looked over at Scout and Soldier, who were talking to Miss Pauling, then leaned in to whisper: “She is better shot than some of the team. Do not tell them I said this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.” You winked as Heavy gently set you down in the passenger seat, careful not to jostle you. The seat was still warm from the heater, and you relished in it, almost not even noticing when Engineer slipped into the driver’s seat next to you.

“Buckle up, darl’.” He grinned, reaching to pull the seat belt over your chest.

“Thanks, Engie.” You returned his smile and lay back, resting your head against your seat belt.

As you got comfortable, you noticed that the truck had an extra few passengers. Pyro waved to you from the back as both Soldier and Scout climbed up into the bed. Both men looked visibly cold, but they stubbornly plonked themselves down, dead set on staying near you. Just in case.

Spy and Sniper finally stopped squabbling when they realized that you were no longer around to fight over, and both slunk back to their respective vehicles as Engineer started up his truck. Miss Pauling and Medic followed Spy, while Demo and Heavy trailed after Sniper. Knowing your team, there would be another fight the second you all stopped for gas or food, likely over who you should sit with for the rest of the drive back. Honestly, it was like being back in school, surrounded by a friend group of mentally ill lunatics who fought like spoiled dogs for your attention.

You wouldn’t change a thing. You were, after all, just as needy and clingy as the rest of them, and you knew you’d be even more desperate to be near someone all the time, afraid to be back in that horrid silence.

How wonderful for you, then, that you had 8 men, 1 woman, and 1 Pyro who would be more than happy to indulge you.

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chocodile · 5 months ago

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Worldbuilding time! Let's talk about vehicular travel in modern day Amaranthine, using the snowmobiles from this recent comic as a jumping off point.

"Prowler" - Ironfrost patrol snowmobile - (year of manufacture: 1912)

These half-track all terrain vehicles are used by Ironfrost soldiers to travel long distances over the tundra. Originally adapted from older, four-wheeled automobiles, the half-track Prowler design became increasingly standardized over the years as eternal winter continued to creep southward. They are capable of operating in a wide variety of terrain conditions and are fairly modular. Common mods include removable skis, hardtop and softtop roofs, gun mounts, and towing attachments.

Like all vehicles, Prowlers are steam-powered. The external combustion engine runs on kerosene. In snowy conditions, feedwater can be obtained automatically through a scraper port on the underside of the vehicle, though manual feeding is required in muddy or dry conditions.

Though not as fast, reliable, or efficient as trains, their agile nature have made them an essential part of life in the far north… and, increasingly, in the middle country as well. The Rising Dawn have stolen several Prowlers for their own usage.

"Aspire" - Classic automobile (year of manufacture: 1890)

Four-wheeled vehicles are an unusual sight in the modern day. Ironfrost-made cars were in vogue among the southern rim upper class for many years, but the worsening climate has made them more and more niche as road conditions outside of major cities deteriorate. The majority of higher horsepower automobiles were converted directly into half tracks, while older, lower-end vehicles were generally scrapped for parts.

The Aspire was the last four-wheeled vehicle widely available to the public. Advertised as a stylish, powerful, modern vehicle for the elite on the go, it boasted a sleek, classy aesthetic, a removable softtop roof, and a powerful steam engine with a large kerosene tank suitable for travel between cities. Preorders were advertised to southern rim wealthy in local papers. However, a series of unusually bad winters soon after its debut scared off buyers, shutting down production early and ultimately spelling doom for the entire four-wheeled automobile industry.

One of those Aspire preorders went to Baroness Jocosa North. Though she has since passed away, her son, Theopolis North, still maintains the now wildly impractical car in near mint condition. It is almost never seen outside of its garage.

"'Icebreaker' Class E 250" - Northern cross-country train (year of manufacture: 1903)

The majority of modern-day overland travel is accomplished via train. Massive long-distance rail lines, laid before the world became quite so cold, connect the remaining cities, allowing (relatively) safe travel and trade across vast expanses of tundra.

Southerly locomotives typically operate with only a basic wedge plow attachment. However, trains that run further north must be fitted with gigantic rotary snowplows. These complex machines require significant maintenance. Though they can and will chew up most things that get in the train's way, encounters with particularly large and bony beasts have been known to jam them.

Ironfrost's line terminates in a massive, sprawling rail yard where Icebreakers are fitted and maintained. Those who have visited it tell of a dark, dreary wasteland of twisted scrap metal and ice where coal dust and smoke have turned both the sky and ground black. All northern trains must pass through that place eventually.

"Chariot of the Dawn" - One-of-a-kind luxury automobile (year of manufacture: 1920)

The only place where four-wheeled automobiles still thrive is the City of the Sun. The eternal summers and paved roads are well-suited to cars and trolleys, though they are, of course, still something of a luxury good. Licenses for ownership and operation are ultimately controlled by the church, with His Radiance having the final say. (His most devout followers, of course, tend to get preferential treatment here.)

The City of the Sun manufactures its own vehicles, adapted from Ironfrost designs in a sort of divergent evolution. Freed from the road and weather concerns of the outside world, their automobiles favor sleek, swoopy body shapes, ornamental trim, low-slung bodies with limited ground clearance, and pastel paintjobs. Additionally, the engines are far less powerful and far more finicky, requiring regular maintenance.

His Radiance himself owns several custom automobiles, all of which are egregiously bedazzled to a degree that would look grotesque to anyone who wasn't used to it. Some are open-top, allowing his loyal followers an audience with his beautiful face and glittering halo, while others feature tinted windows. You know, in case he wants subtlety.

#furry #furry art #cars #vintage cars #worldbuilding #verse: amaranthine #things nobody asked for but I did anyway :P #it is pretty important to have designs for these though the story moves the characters back toward civilization (slowly)#my ocs #alex #ridge #others' ocs #theo #ambroys #(as usual the vehicles are heavily referenced!)

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raffaellopalandri · 1 year ago

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Leisure time

Bloganuary writing promptWhat do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time?View all responses Complex Leisure When most people tell me about their definition of leisure time, they imagine themselves engaged in activities like playing, watching TV, or going for a walk. But for me, leisure is about challenging my mind and pushing myself to learn new things. Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on…

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#Algorithm #algorithm design #Artificial Intelligence #bloganuary #bloganuary-2024-25 #calculus #chemistry #complexity #dailyprompt #dailyprompt-1828 #fun #Language #Leisure #Leisure time #Machine Learning #Maths #Physics #Raffaello Palandri #Statistics

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fabrickind · 2 years ago

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I know the joke is that Ghost Trick fans can't tell you why to play it, just that you should, but here's some spoiler-free reasons to play it:

It's an incredible puzzle game. The puzzles are basically Rube-Goldberg machines, where you manipulate objects in a series to effect change in the overall situation. Do you like complex mechanisms and the concept of the butterfly effect? Play this.

The basic gameplay: you are a ghost. You have the ability to posses and manipulate objects, and move from object to object. Someone bas died. You can go to four minutes before their death to change their fate using your Rube Goldberg powers. Also! The puzzles do a great job of ramping you up in difficulty and teaching you the gameplay, but wow do they get HARD in late game. You can replay any puzzle, and also rewind time as you wish. You can't lock yourself out of things by doing it wrong, since you can redo.

The story is SO GOOD. There's a reason why everyone tells you as little as possible -- it's a compelling mystery that sucks you in. The basic idea: you are dead. You need to figure out who you are and who killed you. This spins out into a tale of political intrigue.

It's by Shu Takumi, the creator of Ace Attorney. It has very similar vibes, in that it's absolutely bonkers characters and situations but also WILL make you cry once it's all revealed. Great mix of serious and humorous tones. Seriously, someone dies when a giant roast chicken statue falls on them and the root cause is because of [serious political events]

The aesthetics. Great music, great character design, have you SEEN what the game looks like? Really good use of color and stylization. Character animations are often hilarious.

Missile is there. You WILL love bestest boy. Don't google him. Just trust.

#ghost trick phantom detective #ghost trick #please play ghost trick #if you saw this reposted from twitter #no you didn't

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ellipsus-writes · 2 months ago

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Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression. This week:

Inkitt’s AI-powered fiction factory

Inkitt started in the mid-2010s as a cozy platform where anyone could share their writing. Fast forward twenty twenty-fuckkkkk, and like most startups, it’s pivoted hard into AI-fueled content production with the soul of an algorithm.

Pictured: Inkitt preparing human-generated work for an AI-powered flume ride to The Unknown.

Here’s how it works: Inkitt monitors reader engagement with tracking software, then picks popular stories to publish on its premium app, Galatea. From there, stories can get spun into sequels, spinoffs, or adapted for GalateaTV… often with minimal author involvement. Authors get an undisclosed cut of revenue, but for most, it’s a fraction of what they’d earn with a traditional publisher (let alone self-publishing).

“'They prey on new writers who have no idea what they’re doing,' said the writer of one popular Galatea series."

Many, many authors have side-eyed or outright decried the platform as inherently predatory for years, due to nebulous payout promises. And much of the concern centers on contracts that don’t require authors’ consent for editorial changes or AI-generated “additions” to the original text.

Now, Inkitt has gone full DiSrUpTiOn, leaning heavily on generative AI to ghostwrite, edit, generate audiobook narration, and design covers, under the banner of “democratizing storytelling.” (AI? In my democratized storytelling platform? It’s more likely than you think.)

Pictured: Inkitt’s CEO looking at the most-read stories.

But Inkitt’s CEO doesn’t seem too concerned about what authors think: “His business model doesn’t need them.”

The company recently raised $37 million, with backers including former CEOs of Sony, Penguin, and HarperCollins, proving once again that publishing loves a disruptor… as long as it disrupts creatives, not capital. And more AI companies are mushrooming up to chase the same vision: “a vision of human-created art becoming the raw material for AI-powered, corporate-owned content-production machines—a scenario in which humans would play an ever-shrinking role.”

(Not to say we predicted this, but…)

Welcome to the creator-industrial complex.

Publishers to AI: Stop stealing our stuff (please?)

Major publishers—including The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, and Vox Media—have launched a "Support Responsible AI" campaign, urging the U.S. government to regulate AI's use of copyrighted content.

Like last month's campaigns by the Authors Guild and the UK's Society of Authors, there's a website where where you can (and should!) contact your representatives to say, “Hey, maybe stop letting billion-dollar tech giants strip-mine journalism.”

The campaign’s ads carry slogans like “Stop AI Theft” and “AI Steals From You Too” and call for legislation that would force AI companies to pay for the content they train on and clearly label AI-generated content with attribution. This follows lobbying by OpenAI and Google to make it legal to scrape and train on copyrighted material without consent.

The publishers assert they are not explicitly anti-AI, but advocate for a “fair” system that respects intellectual property and supports journalism.

But… awkward, The Washington Post—now owned by Jeff Bezos—has reportedly already struck a deal with OpenAI to license and summarize its content. So, mixed signals.

Still, as the campaign reminds us: “Stealing is un-American.”

(Unless it’s profitable.)

#WarForever

We at Ellipsus love a good meme-turned-megaproject. Back in January, the-app-formerly-known-as-Twitter user @lolt64 tweeted a cryptic line about "the frozen wastes of europa,” the earliest reference to the never-ending war on Jupiter’s icy moon.

A slew of bleak dispatches from weary, doomed soldiers entrenched on Europa’s ice fields snowballed (iceberged?) into a sprawling saga, yes-and-ing with fan art, vignettes, and memes under the hashtag #WarForever.

It’s not quite X’s answer to Goncharov: It turns out WarForever is some flavor of viral marketing for a tabletop RPG zine. But the internet ran with it anyway, with NASA playing the Scorcese of the stars.

In a digital hellworld increasingly dominated by AI slopification, data harvesting, and “content at scale,” projects like WarForever are a blessed reminder that creativity—actual, human creativity—perseveres.

Even on a frozen moon. Even here.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!)

- The Ellipsus Team xo

#ellipsus #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #creative writing #anti ai #writing community #fanfic #fanfiction #fiction #inkitt #us politics

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fratttymatty · 3 months ago

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The Scent of Rebirth

(All characters are 18+)

James Pritchard adjusted his glasses and tugged at the collar of his too-tight school shirt, already damp with nervous sweat. At eighteen, he had the physique of someone who had spent his childhood indoors, nose buried in fantasy novels and science textbooks. He was overweight, his rounded cheeks permanently flushed, and his thick brown hair always a little too greasy.

Today’s biology lesson was on body types—ectomorph, mesomorph, endomorph. A fascinating subject to James, but not to the other students in the class, a rowdy bunch of roadmen who had only turned up because they had nowhere better to be.

Mr. Patel, their weary teacher, pointed to an illustration of an overweight figure on the board. “This is an endomorph—characterized by higher body fat, a rounder build, and—”

“Bruv, they should just go gym, innit?”

Laughter erupted across the room. The comment came from Kyle, a broad-shouldered sixth-former in an untucked school shirt, a loosened black tie, and a Moncler gilet over his school blazer. His mates, a group of barely engaged, vape-smoking roadmen, smirked and nodded in agreement.

James slouched in his seat, cheeks burning. He felt their eyes on him. They didn’t have to say it. He was the endomorph in the room.

The day dragged on, and by the last period, James was waiting alone in an empty classroom. His friends—Tom and Aiden, two equally nerdy boys—had gone to grab something from the vending machine.

That’s when he heard footsteps.

The door swung open, and Kyle and his boys strolled in. James sat up straight, instantly wary.

“Oi, man’s gotta freshen up, yeah?” Kyle grinned, pulling out a can of Lynx Africa.

“Yeah, dis place stinks of nerd, fam,” chuckled another.

James frowned. “Uh… I was just waiting for—”

PSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Before he could react, the room was filled with thick, choking clouds of Lynx Africa. Can after can was unloaded into the air, the overwhelming, spicy scent clinging to his skin and clothes.

James coughed, eyes watering. His head swam. The room spun. He gripped the desk as a dizzy heat spread through his limbs.

Something was… changing.

James gasped, his voice cracking mid-breath. His stomach tightened, the excess weight melting away as if being burned off by the sheer force of Lynx Africa. His school shirt stretched, then loosened as his chest hardened, his arms thickening into lean, toned muscle.

His spine straightened, shoulders broadening, giving him a confident, dominant stance. His fingers tingled as they toughened, no longer the soft hands of someone who spent hours typing on a laptop.

His face sharpened—his jawline becoming chiselled, his baby fat vanishing. His thick, greasy hair shortened into a trim, textured fade, perfectly styled without effort.

His glasses slipped off his nose. He no longer needed them.

His mind ached as thoughts—intelligent, articulate thoughts—were scrubbed away, replaced by something simpler. Gone were the complex political debates he enjoyed. Instead, his head filled with vague opinions about “immigrants taking over” and “how the left ruined this country.”

His voice deepened, acquiring the rough, lazy cadence of a roadman.

His clothes shifted—his baggy, tucked-in white school shirt became tight and fitted, the sleeves rolled up to show his new toned arms. His school blazer transformed into a black designer puffer, worn over his shoulders instead of properly. His once-neat tie was loosened, and his polished shoes morphed into black Nike Air Forces.

James Pritchard was gone.

In his place sat Bradley, an 18-year-old roadman, lean and toned, with a dumbed-down mind and an arrogant smirk.

The door swung open.

Tom and Aiden walked in, laughing—until they saw Bradley.

They froze.

“James?” Tom stammered, eyes wide.

Bradley frowned. “Bruv, who the fuck is James?” He leaned back in his chair, looking at them like they were a pair of wastemen.

Aiden swallowed. “It’s you, mate. You just—”

Bradley scoffed. “Nah, I dunno what you man are on about. Man don’t know no nerdy James, yeah?”

His voice was filled with swagger, his old polite, nervous tone erased completely.

Kyle and his boys re-entered, grinning. Kyle clapped Bradley on the back. “Oi, my guy lookin’ fresh, you know. Man finally levels up.”

Bradley smirked. “You done know, bruv. These neeks tryna chat shit, yeah?”

Kyle sneered at Tom and Aiden. “Oi, bun these bruddas, fam. Man don’t need no nerds in his life.”

Bradley laughed—a cocky, dismissive laugh. “Real talk.”

Tom’s face fell. “You’re really gone, aren’t you?”

But Bradley didn’t hear him. He had already turned his back, walking over to Kyle’s table. Someone passed him a vape, and without hesitation, he inhaled, exhaling a thick cloud of watermelon-flavoured smoke.

His old life? Forgotten.

Later that day, Bradley sat with Kyle and the mandem outside the school, leaning against the railings, his blazer half-off his shoulders. He took another drag of his vape, exhaling slowly.

“So what you sayin’, bruv?” one of them asked. “Man used to be one of dem lefty neeks, yeah?”

Bradley squinted. He had been a proud liberal, hadn’t he? But that all felt… cringe now. Weak. Pathetic.

“Nah, blud,” he scoffed. “Man clocked the truth. Lefties are soft, fam. Proper wastemen, letting this country get taken over.”

Kyle nodded approvingly. “Real talk, fam. Man’s gotta back Reform UK, innit. Can’t be lettin’ the government keep taking man’s money for them benefits lot.”

Bradley grinned. “Straight, bruv. And real talk? There’s bare foreigners everywhere now. Can’t even walk down my own road without hearin’ some mad language, fam. Man don’t even feel like man’s in England no more.”

The group laughed and nodded, passing the vape around.

He belonged here now.

A few days later, Bradley was posted up outside a chicken shop, surrounded by his new mandem, sharing a vape and talking about nonsense.

Then, she walked past.

Georgina.

The fittest chav in school. Platinum blonde hair, thick fake lashes, tight crop top (despite the uniform rules), and the most insane back Bradley had ever seen.

She noticed him.

“Oi, you Kyle’s boy now, yeah?” she said, eyeing him up and down.

Bradley licked his lips, grinning. “You done know.”

She smirked. “Yeah, you’re kinda fit now, you know.”

Bradley pulled her close, hands on her waist. “You already know you’re mine, innit?”

She giggled. “Obviously.”

As he leaned in for a kiss, the last fragments of James Pritchard were erased.

He was Bradley now. Forever.

#male tf #male tf story #gay to straight #smart to dumb #gym bro tf #scally tf

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luckyroll3 · 1 month ago

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Thank You, Daddy Chapter 1

Masterlist and Summary

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 7,496

The sleek black SUV limo glides to a stop on the curb like a shark in dark water, and your pulse quickens—not from nerves, but anticipation. Jisung never keeps you waiting; the door swings open before you can reach for the handle, and there he is, a boyish grin contradicting the wealth that surrounds him. His eyes light up when they land on you, taking in your coral-colored crop top and black skinny jeans, that familiar spark that makes this feel less like work and more like pleasure with a paycheck attached.

"You look fucking incredible," he says, voice dropping an octave as he pulls you inside, the door barely closing before his mouth claims yours.

His kiss tastes like mint and the expensive Japanese whiskey he favors; it’s familiar, intoxicating. Your fingers thread through his soft hair as you settle into his lap, the buttery leather seats creaking beneath your combined weight. Five years of knowing exactly how to touch each other has its benefits.

"Missed me?" you ask against his lips, already knowing the answer.

Jisung laughs, his hands finding the curve of your ass. "Always fishing for compliments."

"It's not fishing when I know I'll catch something."

The limo pulls away from the curb, privacy partition already raised; it’s another thing you appreciate about Jisung: his attention to details that matter. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt. “No bra. Just the way I like it,” he says before kissing your neck.

"So," you pull back slightly, "what's this mystery adventure you've been texting about all week?"

His eyes dance with mischief. "Remember when I asked what you did for fun as a kid?"

"And I told you I never really had time for—"

"For childish things," he finishes. "Yeah, you’ve mentioned. Well, today we're reclaiming your lost childhood. Prepare for sensory overload and possibly some bruised pride."

Twenty minutes later, you're staring at the entrance to Velocity Park, an adult playground disguised as a high-end entertainment complex. The place buzzes with energy—couples, groups of friends, corporate team-building exercises all mingling in a space designed to make adults forget their responsibilities.

"You're either very thoughtful or making a statement about my maturity level," you say, eyebrow raised.

Jisung grabs your hand, tugging you toward the entrance. "Can't it be both?"

Inside, he bypasses the line, a quick word with staff guiding you straight to the go-kart track. Not the kiddie version you'd expect—these are custom-built machines with surprising power. Your competitive nature flares instantly.

"I hope you're not a sore loser," you say, selecting a sleek black kart while Jisung opts for electric blue.

He snorts. "That's rich coming from someone who threw her cards at me when I beat her at strip poker last month."

"I was redistributing the deck. Totally different."

The attendant explains the controls, but you're barely listening, already plotting the precise moments you'll overtake him on the curves. When the light turns green, you slam the accelerator, the kart lurching forward with unexpected force.

Jisung's laugh carries over the roar of engines as he pulls alongside you. "Careful, killer—it's not just about speed!"

But it is, and you're good at it. The track blurs as you take each curve with increasing confidence, the rush of competing—of winning—flooding your system. Jisung stays close, occasionally pulling ahead before you reclaim the lead, the back-and-forth adding a delicious tension.

"On your left, slow poke!" you shout as you slide past him on a hairpin turn, the kart skidding dangerously close to the barrier.

"Jesus Christ," he calls back, voice pitching higher. "Did you drive getaway cars in another life?"

You throw your head back laughing, the wind whipping your hair into a frenzy. When was the last time you did something this pointless and perfect? Your clients usually want restaurants, hotels, theater boxes—controlled environments where they can showcase their wealth. This is raw, childish fun, and it lights you up from inside.

Three laps later, you cross the finish line a half-second before him, victorious and breathless.

"You cheated," he accuses when you climb out, legs wobbly with adrenaline.

"How exactly does one cheat at go-karts?"

"By looking so fucking hot that I couldn't concentrate." His hand finds the small of your back, warm through the thin material of your shirt. "Next challenge. Unless you're scared?"

The batting cages await, and here Jisung has the advantage. The mechanical pitcher whirs to life, sending balls flying at speeds that make you flinch.

"Here," he says, standing behind you, arms encircling your body as he positions your hands on the bat. "Elbow up. Eyes on the ball. Swing through, not at."

His chest presses against your back, his breath warm against your ear. The position is deliberately intimate, his hips aligned with yours, guiding your movement in a way that mimics other, more private rhythms. The bat feels foreign in your hands, but his confidence bleeds into you.

"Ready?" he murmurs, and you nod.

The first ball flies past untouched. The second you clip weakly. By the fifth, with Jisung's steady guidance, you connect solidly, sending the ball ricocheting off the back net with a satisfying clang.

"I did it!" You turn in his arms, face flushed with unexpected pride.

His eyes soften. "Quick learner. Always have been."

The comment hangs between you, loaded with five years of history—of learning his body, his preferences, the exact pressure that makes him groan your name. You've been a quick study in all the ways that matter to your livelihood, but Jisung has always appreciated the skill rather than taking it for granted.

"Your turn," you say, stepping aside. "Show me how it's done, big shot."

He takes the bat, shifting into a practiced stance. Three perfect hits later, he tosses you a wink. "Some of us had normal childhoods with Little League and pizza parties."

"Some of us had to grow up fast." The words slip out before you can filter them, more honest than you usually allow yourself to be with most of your clients.

Jisung's expression shifts, a flicker of something deeper before he masks it with another smile. "All the more reason to play now."

The arcade section of the park is a fever dream of neon and noise—classic cabinets mixed with modern racing simulators and virtual reality stations. Jisung feeds a ridiculous amount of money into a machine that converts cash to a playing card, then drags you to a two-player shooting game.

"Winner gets a kiss," he declares, aiming the plastic rifle to select his character.

"And what does the loser get?"

His grin turns wolfish. "A better kiss."

You lose the first round deliberately, earning a gentle press of lips that leaves you wanting. The second game—air hockey—you dominate, grabbing the front of his shirt afterward to deliver a kiss that lingers, your tongue pushing against his before retreating.

"Fuck," he breathes when you pull away. "Maybe I should let you win more often."

Game after game, you trade victories and kisses, each one growing more heated than the last. Between rounds, secrets spill easier—he tells you about a new acquisition his company is eyeing, you share a story about your first client that you've never told anyone else. It's the strange intimacy that comes from knowing this isn't love, this isn't forever, this is just an honest exchange of money and time that somehow, over the years, has cultivated genuine affection, and surprisingly, friendship.

By the time you both stumble back to the waiting limo, your lips are swollen and your body thrums with need. The door barely closes before Jisung is on you, his usually playful demeanor sharpened into something hungrier.

"Tell the driver to take the long way," you murmur against his mouth as his hands work at the button of your jeans. "We're not nearly done playing."

"Already did." His fingers slide beneath the waistband of your underwear, finding you wet and ready.

"Always thinking ahead."

Your jeans and underwear disappear in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter as he positions you on the seat, kneeling on the floor between your spread thighs. This intimacy—his mouth on you—is a privilege you grant to very few clients. But Jisung has earned your trust (and your real name), and more importantly, he knows exactly how to make you fall apart.

His tongue traces lazy circles around your clit, taunting rather than giving you what you need. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging impatiently.

"Someone's eager," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh, the vibration of his voice sending shivers up your spine.

"Someone's a tease," you counter, lifting your hips in silent demand.

He laughs, then relents, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressure. Your head falls back against the seat, a moan escaping before you can contain it. Jisung knows your body like a familiar instrument—when to go slow, when to speed up, when to slip two fingers inside you and curl them just so.

"Fuck, right there," you gasp as the tension builds, your thighs trembling on either side of his head.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, his eyes locked on your face as pleasure crests and breaks through you in waves. Before you've fully recovered, he's reaching for his wallet, extracting a condom while you watch through half-lidded eyes.

"Come here," he says, voice rough with want as he settles back on the seat, pants pushed down just enough to free his cock.

You straddle him, rolling the condom down his length before positioning him at your entrance. The first slow slide of him inside you pulls matching groans from both your throats. Your bodies find a rhythm as old as time, unhurried yet urgent, the privacy glass and tinted windows creating a cocoon of shared desire.

"You feel so fucking good," he murmurs, hands gripping your hips to guide your movements. "Always so good for me."

Words fall away as pleasure builds again, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with your joined movements. When you cum again, he follows seconds later, his face buried in your neck, breath hot against your skin.

Afterward, as you both straighten your clothes, a comfortable silence settles between you. This is why Jisung remains one of your favorite clients—the sex is never mechanical, never just a transaction. There's genuine connection in the way he looks at you, even knowing exactly what this is.

"So," you say, fixing your lipstick in a compact mirror, "same question as always. Why don't you have a girlfriend yet, Sungie? Most women would kill to date someone like you—fun, spontaneous, and definitely not lacking in certain departments." You raise an eyebrow suggestively.

It's a dance you've done before, this conversation. Part teasing, part genuine curiosity.

Jisung sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You know why. Every woman I meet, I'm wondering: is she laughing at my jokes because I'm funny, or because I'm worth eight figures? Does she want me, or what I can buy her?"

"I only want you for your money," you reply with a wink, the honesty refreshing after the usual games people play.

He laughs, pulling an envelope from his jacket and handing it to you. "But at least you're upfront about it. That's worth something."

The envelope feels heavy—more than your usual fee, which isn't surprising. Jisung always tips generously. You tuck it into your purse without counting; he's never shortchanged you.

The limo slows as it approaches the nightclub where you're meeting Eva. Jisung pulls you close for one last kiss, slow and sweet, at odds with the heated exchanges from minutes ago.

“Sungie, thank you so much for tonight. I had a blast,” you say before kissing him again.

"I'm glad. I’m out of town for a couple weeks," he says, forehead resting against yours. "Conference in Singapore. But I'll call when I'm back."

"You better," you reply, squeezing his hand before sliding toward the door. "Who else is going to let me kick their ass at go-karts?"

“Yes, that’s the story that we’ll go with; that I let you win,” he says with a grin.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Mr. Han,” you say with a wink as you slap his face playfully.

His laughter follows you out of the car, a warm sound that lingers even as the limo pulls away and you turn toward the pulsing lights of the club. For a moment, you allow yourself to feel something dangerously close to fondness before tucking it away behind your professional smile. After all, business is business, no matter how good the perks might be.

The club throbs with bass that crawls beneath your skin, a heartbeat you can taste in the back of your throat. Bodies move in the dim light like creatures underwater, slow-motion silhouettes against the strobing blues and purples. As you maneuver through the crowd, you take a peak in the envelope and smile at what you see. You shove it to the bottom of your purse and continue to move forward. You spot Eva at your usual corner booth—one perfectly manicured hand raised in greeting, the other wrapped around a martini glass that catches light like a diamond. Her smile, unlike the manufactured ones you both perfect for clients, is genuine, sharp with the promise of unfiltered conversation.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she calls over the music as you slide into the booth beside her. "And looking thoroughly fucked, I might add."

You laugh, running a hand through your hair that, despite your best efforts in the limo's mirror, still bears evidence of Jisung's fingers. "That obvious?"

"Only to me, darling." She signals the server with a graceful flick of her wrist. "Champagne for my friend. She's celebrating."

"Am I?" you ask, dropping your purse on the leather seat.

Eva's eyes, lined with perfect wings of black, crinkle at the corners. "Well, you're either celebrating getting laid or celebrating a generous client. Either way, bubbles are required."

The champagne arrives in flutes that sing when you clink them together. Eva's presence is always welcomed—seventeen years in the business has given her an unshakable confidence, a way of existing in spaces that suggests the world is lucky to have her in it.

"So," she leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level despite the music, "tell me about your adventure date. Was it the usual hotel suite and room service?"

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. "Go-karts."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Go-karts. And batting cages. And arcade games." You take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue. "Jisung decided I needed to reclaim my lost childhood or some shit."

Eva's laughter is rich, unrestrained. "That boy is truly one of a kind. Most of these men can barely imagine women enjoying anything beyond shopping and spa days."

"He's definitely not like the others." You trace a water ring on the table's surface. "He tipped me an extra three grand, too."

"For go-karts? What would he pay for actual work?"

You kick her shin lightly under the table. "Hey, those batting cages were serious business."

"I'm sure they were," Eva smirks. "Almost as serious as that app he built for you, hmm? The one that keeps all your clients neatly organized and your real identity and info protected?"

The app in question, AuVel, was Jisung's creation, designed for you many years ago after you'd mentioned the difficulties of managing client communications securely. A tech genius with too much time and money on his hands, he'd built you a custom platform where clients could contact you and send payments without ever accessing your personal information. He named it Aurum Velum, the latin for Gold Veil. You loved the name so much, you incorporated it as your official business name.

"It's a good system," you acknowledge. "Wish I could patent it and sell it to every girl in the business."

"You wouldn't need to work anymore if you did. You should talk to him about a partnership." Eva finishes her martini and sets the glass aside precisely. "Clients like Jisung don't come along often, you know. In almost two decades, I've had exactly one who treated me like a person first and a fantasy second."

"Tell me about it. Half the time with Jisung, I forget I'm on the clock." You pause, considering. "It's nice, but also—"

"Dangerous," Eva supplies, knowing you too well. "Start confusing the transaction with real connection, and that's when lines blur."

"Says the woman who married a client and then divorced him two years later."

"Exactly. Learn from my expensive mistakes." She taps her freshly refilled glass against yours. "But seriously, enjoy the Jisungs. They make all the assholes worth enduring."

Your phone buzzes against the table, the screen lighting up with a notification from AuVel. The interface is sleek and secure—one of the many reasons Jisung remains your favorite client. Eva's eyes flick to it, then back to you with raised eyebrows as she reads the name upside down.

"Christopher Bahng," she says, voice lilting with interest. "The new one? The finance guy?"

You nod, swiping to open the message. “Speaking of assholes…,” you mumble.

Christopher is a recent addition to your client roster—only seven sessions over the past few months, but memorable enough. A finance mogul with a reputation for getting exactly what he wants when he wants, he approaches sex the way he approaches business: with precision, control, and undeniable skill.

The message is characteristically detailed:

Friday, 8pm. Wear the black Louboutins, that Versace dress with the low back, and red lace underneath. And use the perfume I bought you, not the one you wore last time. I'll send a car. Plan to stay overnight.

You roll your eyes, unable to help yourself.

The message continues:

Don't make plans for Saturday morning. Last time you were in a rush. I don't like rushes. Remember, the payment structure we discussed. Double for overnights. I’ll also pay extra to cover your additional time on Saturday.

"Let me guess," Eva leans her chin on her hand, "he's telling you exactly what to wear, how to smell, and probably what to think?"

You slide the phone toward her so she can read for herself. "The man has opinions."

Eva's eyebrows climb higher with each line. "Demanding little thing, isn't he? Please tell me the 'payment structure' makes his attitude worth tolerating."

"Usually about five figures per date," you reply, taking another sip of champagne. "Plus gifts. Last time it was a Cartier watch, with diamonds."

Eva lets out a low whistle. "Okay, I withdraw my judgment. For that kind of money, he can have opinions."

"I draw the line at thinking for me, though. If he wasn't hot as hell and fucking fantastic in bed, I wouldn't bother," you say, retrieving your phone and typing a brief confirmation. "He’s like Jisung. He makes sure I cum every time. The control freak routine would be intolerable otherwise."

"And yet I sense a 'but' coming."

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. "There's something about him. The way he looks at me—like he's cataloging every reaction, every breath. Like he's solving a puzzle."

"Or identifying weaknesses," Eva says, voice gentler than her words.

"Maybe." You lock your phone, setting it aside. "Also, he wants me to call him 'daddy,' and it should be creepy but somehow isn't?"

Eva's laugh bursts out suddenly. "Oh honey, you've got a kink you didn't know about."

"Shut up," you mutter, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "It's just… the way he says it: 'Tell daddy what you need, baby girl,’” you mimic in Christopher’s voice. “It's not infantilizing; it's just... fucking hot."

"The controlling ones often are," Eva's expression sobers slightly. "That's what makes them dangerous. The good sex blinds you to the red flags."

You wave a dismissive hand. "I see all the flags. And I can handle Christopher Bahng. He's no different from any other wealthy man who thinks his money buys ownership. He just happens to be better at everything than most of them."

"Mmhmm." Eva doesn't sound convinced. "Just be careful with the possessive ones. They start wanting exclusivity, then they want to 'save you' from the work, then suddenly you're dependent on them and can't see the cage they've built."

You think of Christopher's intense gaze, the way his fingers wrap around your wrist when he guides you, firm but never bruising. The control in him recognizes something in you—a desire to surrender, but only on your terms.

"Is exclusivity really that bad? Besides," you say, deflecting from Eva's too-accurate assessment, "I've been thinking about scaling back anyway. The daily grind of rotating clients is getting exhausting."

Eva's eyes sharpen with interest. "Scaling back how?"

"Maybe finding one serious arrangement. Going back to sugar babying rather than escorting." You trace the rim of your glass with one finger. "One client who covers all the expenses. Simpler."

"Sugar babying is just escorting with extra steps and fewer protections," Eva says, not unkindly. "You know that, right? You're still trading companionship and sex for money, just with more emotional labor attached."

"But less administrative work," you counter. "No juggling schedules, no switching personas between three clients in one day. Just one man, one set of preferences to learn, one payment arrangement. That’s how I got into all of this anyway." You think back to your high school years, when you let men gift you things simply for being available to them; when your wealthy classmate’s dad was willing to ‘sponsor’ you simply for handjobs while he complained about his spoiled wife, his entitled kids, and his demanding boss.

Eva studies you, her gaze penetrating in the way that always makes you feel transparent. "You're not catching feelings for this Christopher, are you? Because that would be—"

"God, no," you interrupt, too quickly to be entirely convincing. "I barely know him. I've only seen him a handful of times."

"And he's already got you considering exclusivity."

"It's not about him specifically. It could just as easily be Jisung. He’d probably be up for it," you insist, though the image of Christopher's satisfied smile when you call him 'daddy' flashes unbidden in your mind. "It's about simplifying my life. I'm just tired." You sigh. “But not tired enough for a nine-to-five,” you add, the thought making you shudder.

Eva reaches across the table, her warm hand covering yours. "Listen to me. The Christophers of the world don't simplify anything. Men like that—men who need control, who give instructions down to the shade of your underwear—they complicate everything. They're not looking for a sugar baby; they're looking for a possession."

The word strikes uncomfortably close to how Christopher's hands feel on your body—claiming, marking, owning. But there's something else there too, a reverence that feels genuine.

"I know what I'm doing," you say, squeezing her hand before withdrawing. "And if Christopher, or any john, wants exclusivity, he'll have to make it worth my while."

"That's my girl," Eva's smile returns, though concern still lingers in her eyes. "Make them pay for every inch they take."

"Always do." You raise your glass in a toast. "To men who pay our bills without knowing our real names."

"And to women who know their worth," Eva adds, clinking her glass against yours.

The conversation shifts to other clients, other stories. Eva recounts a particularly amusing encounter recently with a nervous tech CEO who couldn't perform until she pretended to be impressed by his cryptocurrency investments. You share the latest update on a long-term client whose wife has grown suspicious and started following him. The night unfolds in comfortable rhythms of laughter and shared understanding that only comes from walking the same treacherous path.

But even as you lose yourself in conversation, your awareness keeps returning to the phone beside you, to Christopher's message waiting for a more detailed response. To the possibility of something simpler yet more complicated all at once. Eva's warning echoes, but so does the memory of Christopher's voice in your ear, the weight of his body pressing you into silk sheets, and the surprising thrill of surrender.

Maybe Eva is right to be concerned. But maybe, just maybe, you're ready for a different kind of arrangement—one with higher stakes and deeper rewards. After all, you've always been good at playing the game. The question is whether you're prepared for what happens when the rules change.

****

You step from the car onto Christopher Bahng's driveway, where even the gravel seems deliberately arranged—each stone in its proper place. The mansion rises before you, all clean lines and angular shadows in the falling dusk, windows glowing with amber light that doesn't quite reach the manicured grounds. Unlike Jisung's playful world of arcade lights and go-kart engines, Christopher's domain whispers of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself—of power that assumes obedience. You smooth your Versace dress (black, the back cut low; precisely as requested) and inhale slowly, the perfume he selected wrapping around you like an expensive collar.

The double doors swing open before you reach them, revealing a foyer of gleaming marble and minimalist furnishings. A crystal chandelier throws fractured light across the space, each piece catching and multiplying the glow into something almost supernatural. Your Louboutins click against the floor, the sound crisp and echoing.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence. Hi Noelle."

The voice using your alias comes from your left, where Hyunjin leans against a doorframe, his long body draped in tailored black pants and a simple white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His appearance is striking, beautiful in that unreal way, with long, silky dark hair framing his face. Unlike Christopher's rigid posture, Hyunjin always looks like he's seconds away from sliding to the floor, bones made of something more fluid than the rest of humanity.

"Hyunjin," you smile, genuine pleasure warming your voice. Though you've only met him a few times before, there's something immediately disarming about Christopher's right-hand man, a casual warmth that contrasts sharply with his boss' intensity. "Keeping the fortress secure?"

"Always." He pushes off from the door frame with lazy grace, approaching to kiss your cheek. He smells expensive but understated, like everything else in this house. "Chris is finishing up a call. He said, and I quote, 'Make sure she's comfortable but don't get too comfortable.'"

You laugh, shaking your head. "Subtle as ever."

"The man has never encountered a boundary he didn't want to test." Hyunjin's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Including mine. I was supposed to be in Tokyo tonight, but apparently some minor crisis required my immediate attention."

"And was there actually a crisis?" you ask curiously.

"‘Crisis’ is debatable. Especially when it was resolved with a conference call he could have handled blindfolded." Hyunjin shrugs, no real annoyance in his tone. "But he likes his pieces arranged just so. Speaking of which," he reaches out to adjust a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear, "Perfect. Now I can leave without being accused of neglecting my duties." You laugh.

He steps back, calling over his shoulder toward a closed door down the hall. "She's here, looking spectacular. I'm leaving before you find another imaginary emergency for me to handle. Goodnight, Chris!"

A muffled response follows, too low to make out, but Hyunjin seems to understand the words perfectly, from years of similar conversations you guess, and he just rolls his eyes and gives you a conspiratorial wink.

"Good luck," he murmurs. "He's been unusually intense today. Even for him. I think he’s a bit nervous."

Before you can ask what that means, Hyunjin is gone, the front door closing quietly behind him. You're left alone in the vast foyer, save for a maid, Angela you think her name is, who materializes from a side corridor.

"Mr. Bahng will be with you shortly," she says, voice professional and rehearsed. "He's asked that you wait in the blue room upstairs."

When she makes a motion to take your overnight bag, you pull it onto your shoulder. “Oh, that’s okay. I got it, Angela. Thank you though.” She nods appreciatively before turning and walking towards the back.

You follow Angela up a sweeping staircase, past artwork that probably costs more than most people's homes. The house feels both lived-in and museum-like—everything precisely placed but somehow sterile, lacking the casual disorder that marks a space as truly inhabited. Angela leads you to a bedroom done in shades of navy and silver, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights below.

"Can I bring you anything while you wait, Miss Noelle?" she asks, hovering by the door.

"No, thank you." You offer a smile she doesn't return before she slips away, closing the door silently behind her.

Alone, you take stock of the room—the same one Christopher brought you to on your previous engagements at his house. A California king bed dominates the space, its sheets so precisely tucked you could bounce a quarter off them. The furniture is minimal but exquisite, each piece looking custom-made and untouched by human hands.

You move to the full-length mirror in the corner, assessing your reflection. The dress hugs your curves exactly as it should, the backless design revealing a teasing expanse of skin. Your hair falls in soft waves, framing your face in a way that looks effortless but took forty minutes to achieve. You reapply your lipstick—deep red, matching the lace beneath your dress as instructed.

Christopher's attention to detail would be unnerving if it weren't so predictable. Every instruction serves a purpose in the scene he's constructing—you're just one element in his carefully orchestrated fantasy. The thought should bother you more than it does, but there's something freeing about the clarity of his desires. No guesswork, no shifting expectations. Just precise requirements with generous compensation.

The door opens without a knock, and there he is. Christopher Bahng in the flesh, exactly as commanding as you remember. He fills the doorway with presence rather than size, his tailored suit emphasizing the lean strength of his body. His hair is perfectly styled, dark waves combed back to reveal his forehead, broad nose, and the sharp angles of his face. But it's his eyes that hold you—intense, evaluating, missing nothing.

"You're punctual," he says, voice low and smooth as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "I appreciate that."

Not 'hello.' Not 'you look beautiful.' Just acknowledgement of compliance. And yet, a flicker of heat ignites within you at his approval.

"I aim to please," you reply, watching his reflection approach yours in the mirror.

He stops behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without touching. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, then deliberately travel down your body, assessing.

"The dress is perfect," he says after a moment, hands coming to rest lightly on your shoulders. "Turn around."

You do, facing him fully now. This close, you can smell his cologne—subtle, woody, expensive. His fingers trace the edge of your jawline, tilting your face up to his.

"And the perfume. Much better than last time." His thumb brushes your lower lip, smudging the freshly applied lipstick. "This shade suits you."

"Thank you, Daddy," you say, the words slipping out with practiced ease that still feels thrilling. A test, to see how quickly you can break his composure.

His pupils dilate slightly—the only tell in his otherwise controlled expression. "Good girl."

His mouth claims yours then, firm but not rough. Christopher doesn't kiss like he's starving; he kisses like he's savoring, each movement deliberate and commanding. His hands slide from your face down your neck, over your shoulders to your bare back, following the plunging line of your dress to where fabric meets skin at your lower spine.

"I had plans for dinner," he murmurs against your lips as he guides you backward toward the bed. "But I find I'm hungry for something else first."

His fingers find the hidden zipper of your dress, lowering it with agonizing slowness. The fabric loosens, slipping down your shoulders to pool at your feet. You stand before him in nothing but red lace underwear and the black Louboutins, exactly as he requested.

"You had me dress up just to undress me?" you ask amused, a hint of challenge in your voice. "We could have saved time if you'd just asked me to arrive naked."

A rare smile curves his lips, softening the sharpness of his features with the appearance of his dimples. "I enjoy the process. The anticipation." His fingers trace the edge of your lace bra. "Besides, you wear clothes beautifully. It would be a waste not to appreciate that before removing them."

There's something disarming about his honesty, about the genuine admiration in his gaze. Christopher might be controlling, but he's never made you feel like an object. More like a painting he wants to study from every angle, uncovering layers and details others might miss.

He guides you to the edge of the bed, the back of your knees hitting the mattress before you sit. With methodical precision, he removes his jacket, folding it neatly over a nearby chair before loosening his tie.

"Leave the shoes on," he instructs as his fingers work at his shirt buttons.

You lean back on your elbows, crossing one leg over the other to showcase your toned legs in the heels. "Anything else you'd like me to keep on, Daddy?"

His eyes darken at the deliberate provocation. "Just your attitude. I enjoy it more than you might think."

This is different from your previous encounters—there's a new tension in the air, an undercurrent you can't quite name. Christopher undresses with the same efficiency he approaches everything, revealing a body that speaks of disciplined workouts and careful maintenance. No tattoos, no unnecessary adornments. Just lean muscle and smooth skin that you already know tastes faintly of salt and expensive, imported soap.

When he's down to his boxer briefs, you uncross your legs. He approaches the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress between your legs. His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, along your inner thigh—a slow journey that leaves goosebumps in its wake.

"Lie back," he says, voice rougher now. "Let me look at you properly."

You comply, sinking into the impossibly soft bedding as he hovers above you. His fingers trace the edge of your lace panties, dipping beneath the fabric to find you already wet.

"So responsive," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Always so ready for me."

It would be easy to fake enthusiasm with Christopher—to manufacture the moans and sighs that most clients expect. But there's no need for pretense when his fingers circle your clit with expert precision, when his mouth leaves a trail of heat down your neck to your collarbone. Your reaction is genuine, body arching into his touch as pleasure builds.

He takes his time undressing you completely, removing the panties first, then the lace bra with careful hands before lavishing attention on your breasts. Every touch feels calculated to draw maximum response—he's studied your body the way he studies markets, identifying pressure points and vulnerabilities with ruthless accuracy.

"Tell daddy what you need," he says against your skin, teeth grazing your nipple just hard enough to make you gasp.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” you ask with a smirk.

“Technically.” His mouth engulfs your tit, sucking gently. “But I’d like to know, honestly, what you need today.” His mouth moves to the next breast.

"Mmm. You," you breathe, hands sliding into his hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement intentionally. "Inside me. Now."

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. "Demanding. I like that."

He reaches for a condom from the bedside drawer, rolling it on with practiced ease before positioning himself between your legs. The first push inside draws matching groans from both of you—the sensation of fullness, of perfect fit, never diminishes no matter how many times you've done this.

Christopher fucks the way he does everything else: controlled, precise. His rhythm is steady, his angle perfect, hitting exactly where you need him with each thrust. One hand grips your hip, the other braced beside your head, his eyes never leaving your face as he watches your pleasure build.

"Look at you, baby girl," he murmurs, voice strained with effort. "So perfect. Taking me so well."

The praise washes over you, unexpected heat blooming in your chest. There's something about the way Christopher sees you—not as a purchase or a fantasy, but as something worthy of his full attention—that hits differently than with other clients.

Your climax builds slowly, tension coiling tighter with each precise thrust. When it finally breaks, it's with an intensity that leaves you gasping, nails digging into the smooth skin of his back. He follows moments later, his controlled rhythm faltering as he presses deep inside you, a rare, unguarded expression crossing his face.

Afterward, he doesn't immediately pull away. Instead, he lowers himself to press a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth; tender gestures at odds with his usual cold efficiency. When he finally moves, it's with reluctance, his hand trailing along your side as if memorizing the curve of your waist.

The silence between you is comfortable as you both catch your breath. Christopher rises first, disappearing into the en-suite bathroom to dispose of the condom. When he returns, he brings a warm, damp towel, cleaning you with surprising gentleness before setting it aside.

"Stay there," he says, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before moving to a small bar in the corner of the room. "Water? Or something stronger?"

"Water is fine." You sit up, not bothering to cover yourself. Christopher has seen every inch of you already; modesty seems pointless. Particularly for an escort.

He returns with two glasses of water, handing one to you before sitting on the edge of the bed. His posture is relaxed but still controlled, like a predator at rest.

"I want to discuss something with you," he says after a moment, gaze direct as always.

"I gathered as much from Hyunjin's comment about you being intense today. And nervous?"

A slight frown crosses his face. "He talks too much."

"He cares about you," you counter, taking a sip of water. "It's nice. Having someone who looks out for you."

Christopher's expression softens marginally. "Yes. He's loyal, if annoyingly perceptive." He sets his glass down on the nightstand, turning to face you fully. "I've been thinking about our arrangement."

A flutter of apprehension mingles with curiosity in your chest. "Oh?"

"I want exclusivity," he says without preamble. "I want you available only to me, on my schedule, without the distraction of other clients."

The directness shouldn't surprise you—Christopher has never been one for beating around the bush—but the proposal still lands with unexpected weight. Exclusivity. The very thing you'd mentioned to Eva just days ago.

"That's a significant change," you say carefully, mind racing through implications. "And a significant loss of income for me."

"I would compensate you appropriately," he replies, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "A monthly allowance, covering your rent, expenses, and considerably more. Plus continued gifts, travel when I require it, and any reasonable requests you might have."

You study his face, searching for the catch. "And in return?"

"Your time. Your availability. Your exclusivity." His hand reaches out to trace your collarbone, a possessive gesture that sends involuntary shivers down your spine. "No more fitting me between other appointments. No more checking your phone during our time together. No more condoms. Just you and me, on my terms."

Eva's warning echoes in your mind: The controlling ones often want exclusivity, then they want to 'save you' from the work, then suddenly you're dependent on them and can't see the cage they've built.

And yet, there's something appealing about the simplicity of it. One client. One set of expectations. Financial security without the constant hustle of managing multiple relationships.

"I'd need to think about it," you say, watching his reaction carefully. "That's a significant commitment."

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or simply impatience. But he nods once, sharply. "Of course. Consider it carefully. I don't make such offers lightly."

You reach for your underwear, suddenly feeling the need to be dressed for this conversation. The red lace feels less like a costume and more like armor as you pull it on.

"Why me?" you ask, genuinely curious. "You could have anyone. There are plenty of women who would jump at this arrangement without a professional background."

Christopher watches you put your bra on with that same intense focus, like he's memorizing each movement. "I don't want just 'anyone.' I want you." His directness is both flattering and unnerving. "You challenge me. You don't simper or pretend. When you call me 'Daddy,' it's with a hint of mockery that I find... refreshing."

You can't help but laugh at that, some of the tension dissipating. "Most men don't appreciate being mocked in bed."

"I'm not most men." He rises, moving to retrieve your dress from where it puddles on the floor. Instead of handing it to you, he holds it open, waiting for you to step into it. "And you're not most women."

As you slip your arms through the dress, his hands linger at your waist, turning you to face the mirror as he zips you up. Your reflection shows a woman who looks collected, professional—but your eyes reveal the turmoil beneath. Part of you wants to accept immediately, to secure this arrangement that aligns so perfectly with what you told Eva you wanted. Another part hears her cautions like warning bells.

"I'll let you know," you say finally, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I need to consider logistics, expectations, details, rules."

His hands settle on your shoulders, a weight that feels both reassuring and constraining. "Of course. I respect thoroughness." He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, just below your ear. "But don't take too long. I'm not a patient man."

You turn in his arms, facing him directly. "And if I say no?"

"Then we continue as we have been, for as long as it remains mutually beneficial." No hesitation, no emotional manipulation. Just straightforward terms. "But I think you'll say yes."

"Confident, aren't you?"

The smile that curves his lips doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I recognize a good investment when I see one."

As you gather your purse and bag, preparing to leave despite his original request for you to stay overnight, you feel the weight of his proposal like a physical thing—a contract not yet signed but already changing the air between you. Christopher doesn't stop you from leaving early, merely watches as you check your appearance one last time in the mirror.

"Think about what you want, Noelle," he says as you reach the door. "Not what you think you should want, or what others tell you to want. What you want."

You pause, hand on the doorknob, struck by the unexpected insight. For all his control and precision, Christopher sees you—really sees you—in ways that make you feel both exposed and understood.

"I will," you promise, looking back at him one last time before stepping into the hallway, the heavy door closing behind you with a soft click that sounds strangely final. You walk down the stairs and out the door.

As the driver takes you home through the quiet city streets, you replay Christopher's offer in your mind, weighing options and consequences. Exclusive arrangement. Financial security. One client instead of many. Simplicity in exchange for increased dependence.

Eva would tell you to run. Jisung would probably say the same, in his gentle, concerned way.

But as the city lights blur outside your window, you can't help wondering if this is exactly what you've been looking for—a way to streamline your life without leaving the profession entirely. Christopher offers control, yes, but also clarity. Structure. Security.

A beep from your phone pulls you from your thoughts. It’s a notification for AuVel. You tap open the app to see that Christopher has transferred the full payment for your visit, despite you cutting the engagement short by fifteen hours. You send a message back:

Thank you, daddy. 😘

You place your phone back in your bag and your thoughts quickly turn back to Christopher’s proposal.

The question isn't whether you'll say yes or no. The question is how long you'll make him wait for your answer—and what terms you'll negotiate to ensure you don't lose yourself in the process.

Because if there's one thing you've learned in this business, it's that everything has a price. The trick is making sure you're the one setting it.

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makeitmakesomesense · 5 months ago

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A Long Time Coming

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 2.4K

A/N: This is from a heinous prompt from a heinous friend. It is silliness and then it is smut. It also uses a lovely prompt from @taylorswiftmicrofic for the 9th of January, which is 'jokes'.

Sometimes, when you were caught in a moment alone with Natasha, there was this spark.

Her tongue touching her teeth when she smiled her brightest. Her shoulder bumping yours in elevators. Her dry jokes as you made it through the hardest days.

There were other times too. Crumpled in the kitchen when the darkness got too much. Your hand at the small of her back. Her chin resting on your own shoulder as you gazed out at a world that would never be the same.

There was a spark. If you were honest, there were embers now. A gentle flickering in your lower stomach. A heat that burned gently.

A wanting.

It wasn’t on the table, not for either of you. Maybe five years ago, maybe before everything had fallen apart. Now your lives were about solving the world’s problems not your own.

Natasha was the bravest person in the world. She was efficient too. You’d barely wrapped your head around the possibility of time travel before Natasha had organised the task force to achieve it.

She was the bravest person in the world. That’s why no-one blinked when she volunteered first to save it.

She dressed in the futuristic white suit and stood in the designated place. She glanced at the others and then at you. Her tongue touched her teeth when she smiled wide, she gave you a thumbs up.

The complex machinery, that filled the room, hummed and sputtered.

And, then, Natasha disappeared.

The fallout took its time to be alarming.

The lights in the room flickered uncertainly for a few moments. You waited, trying not to think about Natasha being so far away, so out of time. You waited for Dr. Banner to press the button that would bring her back.

He pressed it at last. And then you watched his brow crease in confusion. He pressed it again. And again.

You started hyperventilating when it became clear.

So far away. So out of time.

Natasha was smaller than people realised. More fragile too.

Dr. Banner and Steve Rogers debated the technicalities of the situation for over an hour.

You paced the room, caught up with a need to search the world for someone you wouldn’t find.

Eventually, you heard them coming to a conclusion. It was her suit. The wires that crossed at the front of the chest, there must have been a fault.

You weren’t as brave as Natasha, you weren’t as efficient either. Still, you did your best. It took another hour for you to be suited up and ready for the hopefully simple mission. They were careful not to change any setting on the machine.

Theoretically Natasha had been sent back a decade to New York City. Theoretically that’s where you should be going too.

You were given a quick tutorial on removing the chest-plate from the suit and resetting the wires. If everything went to plan, it would be a simple rescue.

You didn’t bother pretending that it might be.

You stood in the centre of the room and listened to the machine begin to whir and hum. You closed your eyes and opened them somewhere new.

Green.

Your first and only thought as the colour overwhelmed you.

So much green.

Foliage like you’d never seen before. A sea of large fern plants that towered above you.

Definitely not New York City. You spun in a circle as you tried to assess your location. Maybe the rainforest? But surely the rainforest would have more rain and more forest?

Your eyes quickly scanned the landscape, a view of rolling hills that were covered in the strange vegetation that you could not place.

You heard a sudden noise to your left and startled.

Natasha Romanoff was barreling towards you. Dirt spattered her face. Her eyes were wide with uncharacteristic panic. Her bare arms were littered with scratches.

You blinked.

Her bare arms.

She wasn’t wearing her suit. She was barely wearing anything. Your throat tightened as you registered her sports bra and shorts. You didn’t have time to think before Natasha’s hands were gripping your arms.

Her heavy panting filled your ears as she leaned in.

‘Run.’ She said. ‘We have to run.’

You didn’t hesitate. Natasha’s grip on your hand was iron tight as she dragged you lithely through the undergrowth. You did everything you could to keep up and not fall over.

After a few minutes, Natasha finally slowed her pace. Her head swivelled around, ascertaining the safety of your new location.

Abruptly, she exhaled in relief. Then, she turned back to you and wrapped you in the tightest hug.

‘I’m so glad to see you.’ She muttered breathlessly against your shoulder.

You hugged her back, half relieved and half panicked.

‘Natasha.’ You started unsurely. ‘Where the hell are we? When are we?’

Natasha pulled back and held your face between her hands. You stared into her eyes, realising suddenly that her pupils were extremely dilated.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this.’ She said thoughtfully.

You braced your shoulders.

‘Just tell me. Get it over with.’

Natasha took your head and swivelled in 90 degrees. You stared in the direction she'd pointed you towards. You scanned the horizon and tried to understand what you were missing. Your heart leapt in horrible realisation. A giant tree, relatively far away. The tree seemed to be eating its own leaves. You blinked and tried to make sense of it. The tree moved slowly forwards.

Dinosaur.

Your mouth fell open in an ‘O’ shape.

You glanced back at Natasha. She was staring at your open mouth and wearing an expression you'd never seen before. You closed your mouth self consciously.

‘Oh my God.’ You choked out. ‘Oh my God.’

Natasha’s fingers dug slightly into your scalp.

‘I know.’ She breathed, her stare still intent on your lips. You stared at her in confusion. Her breathing was becoming rapid and shallow.

‘Natasha.’ You tried, wondering what kind of trauma could have occurred to make her this distracted. Her gaze glanced back to you. She chewed her lower lip and gave you a small smile.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where’s your suit?’ You asked slowly, feeling increasingly alarmed.

Natasha released your face as she waved her hand thoughtlessly in the air. Her cheeks were still flushed, even though you'd been standing still for several minutes.

‘Back where I landed.’

She gestured vaguely to her right.

‘Just next to the swamp.’ She paused with obvious disorientation then recollected her train of thought. She frowned. ‘It got all sticky.’

‘The suit?’ You checked, keeping your questions as simple as possible. ‘It got sticky from the swamp?’

Natasha shook her head. ‘No. It got sticky from this huge plant.’ Her hands echoed her words with a large gesture into the air.

‘Can you take me there?’ You prompted gently, holding her hand carefully in yours.

Natasha’s stare focused intensely on your joined hands. You squeezed her hand and asked the question again. Natasha’s eyes dragged themselves slowly up your body to meet your stare.

‘Yes.’ She said breathlessly, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. ‘But it makes me crazy.’

‘What does?’

‘The sticky stuff.’ She swallowed dryly. ‘That’s why I took it off.’

‘Crazy, like dizzy?’

Natasha nodded, a sudden look of panic in her eyes. ‘Yes.’ She lied badly. ‘Kind of.’

‘Kind of.’ You prompted gently, giving her hand another squeeze.

Natasha’s eyes darted wildly from your hands to your face, to your…chest.

‘Horny.’ She said breathlessly. ‘Kind of horny.’

Your mouth dropped into an ‘O’ again, and Natasha crossed her legs uncomfortably. She closed her eyes and took an unsteady breath. You promptly shut your mouth.

‘That must be… distracting.’

Natasha nodded slowly, and her eyes reopened with an obvious kind of longing in them.

You resolved to be decisive. To be professional. This was a mission. You tried to ignore the low burning heat that already lived in your stomach.

‘Well, we need you in the suit to get home.’ You told her seriously. ‘So let’s find it as fast as possible, and try to limit our exposure to whatever that sticky stuff is.’

Natasha nodded again, lips pressed tightly together. Her jaw ticked as her eyes wandered distractedly over your body again.

There was a concerningly loud crash in the distance.

‘Oh.’ Natasha murmured absentmindedly. ‘That’ll be the dinosaurs.’

Her free hand moved to your waist and you felt her nails dig into the firm fabric of the suit. Trying to tug you closer her.

You shook your head wordlessly and started leading her in the direction of the swamp and her missing suit.

Natasha walked obediently just behind you. You turned occasionally to check if you were still heading in the right direction. Every time she nodded, her stare never wavering from your ass.

You forced yourself to keep walking. You had to be the professional.

You noticed the foliage around you darken slightly, a sign of the nearby water source. You tried to keep your focus on the mission. On the very obvious and very real danger that you found yourself in.

You paused to determine your next path. Natasha's hands covered your ass and you pretended not to feel the light squeeze.

As you got closer to the swamp, Natasha started walking faster so she could be next to you. Her arm snaked around your waist again. You could feel the warmth radiating out from her. You could see it in her flushed cheeks. Every time you looked over at her, Natasha flushed harder.

Sometimes, you felt her hand wander downwards along your body. Carefully, you moved it back to your waist.

Eventually you came to a clearing. There were obvious signs that someone had been here before. Natasha’s eyes widened in recognition. After a moment, she pointed to the far corner of the clearing. There, you saw the previously-white suit discarded on top of a small boulder.

You swallowed nervously.

‘The suit needs a repair.’ You told Natasha shortly, her arm still eagerly around you. ‘I’m going to fix it before you put it on.’

You tried to let go of Natasha as you walked over to the suit. But she clung determinedly on. You didn’t bother fighting it, aware now that the best thing to do was get you both home as fast as possible.

When you reached the suit, you saw it was indeed coated in a sticky golden substance. You crouched down and grabbed a nearby twig, using it to scrape away most of the viscous liquid.

Then, you kept your focus steady, barely letting yourself breathe as you popped out the covering and repeated the repair instructions you’d been given by Dr. Banner. You tried not to worry about the stickiness that brushed against your fingertips.

You were putting the panel covering back onto the suit when it started.

An itching sensation across your body. An itching that soon became something else. A burning. Like a thousand sparks against your skin. Fireworks. You were burning. Wanting.

You were wanting.

Her.

You felt yourself shuddering. A sudden dryness in your throat as you tried to swallow. A sudden desperation. A cluttered mind.

‘Oh no.’ Natasha mumbled somewhere above you. 'Are you okay?'

You started panting. You couldn't remember words. All you could do was tug at her hand. The wanting was blinding.

Natasha crouched next to you. Your heart started pounding immediately.

You could feel the sparking electricity from her proximity. As if she was lightning and you were the perfect conductor.

‘Natasha.’ You murmured at last. You heard the obvious neediness in your voice. The wanting.

Natasha smiled widely as she took you in.

‘Oh, good.’ She half-moaned as she moved closer, filling up your vision and your world. You felt her hands tangling forcefully in your hair. You toppled backwards against the forest floor.

Somewhere deep down in the back of your mind, you wondered what kind of insects lived in the mud next to a Jurassic swamp.

Then, Natasha’s tongue ran along your neck and you forgot your own name. Her lips were on you eagerly. Her mouth was kissing and biting as she made her way to your mouth.

Natasha straddled your waist as her tongue entered your mouth. The kiss was long and slow. Then she pulled back, her arms reached over her head as she removed her sports bra hurriedly. You could feel her hips moving, as she tried to press herself against your body.

Automatically, your hand found its way between her legs.

Natasha groaned loudly as she enjoyed the immediate friction of your palm. She leaned forward, her arms resting on either side of you.

Your vision filled now with her breasts. They were bouncing as she moved. A heavy softness that made you tilt forward. Your tongue found her nipple, swirling eagerly over the sensitive area.

You felt the wetness through the fabric of her shorts. Your hand slipped under the material. She was soaking wet, coating your palm immediately.

You understood suddenly. Why she loathed her suit. Why she'd ripped it off. You felt your own hips buck desperately, hopelessly. You paused, trying to remember the way to take off the complicated garment.

Natasha’s hand tugged forcefully at your hair. Your attention flew back to her.

Her eyes shuttered closed with the nearness of her orgasm. Her hips bucked desperately against your bare hand.

‘No.’ She moaned selfishly, biting down hard on her lower lip as she continued to rock. ‘You can come later. Let me finish first.’

You obliged easily. Her breasts pressed themselves closer again and your attention returned to them. You kissed and licked and sucked. The heel of your hand pressed against her clit over and over. Your fingers moved inside her with the rocking of her hips.

Natasha cried out loudly when she came at last. Her eyes were squeezed themselves even more tightly shut.

You startled at the sudden sound, as reality crept briefly back. Then you laughed.

‘I thought that was a T-Rex.’ You told her stupidly.

Natasha smiled happily down at you. Her tongue touched her teeth. Her once braided hair was completely wild. Her breathing was shallow. Her body relaxed.

Her eyes were no longer dilated.

‘Mmm.’ She hummed in pleased thought, her hand trailing down your suit. ‘We should go somewhere with a bed. So we can do that again.’

Natasha was no longer the bravest person in the world.

You were.

You waited 97 million years for an orgasm.

Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

#natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow smut #black widow x reader

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