#big fucking dumpy

[comat0se]

I love könig

[big1ron]

Okay, pack it up boys. I’m never gonna draw anything as good as this ever again.

[bandcampsnoop]

1/12/25.

Thank God for the search function on this blog. I wrote a complete entry for Street Sweeper's excellent 7" "Don't Wait". As I was about to post, I checked to see if I'd posted about their first 7" and...hello, I'd posted about the 7" in late November 2024. Just call me Mr. Short Term Memory.

So, still in the mood for some good old-fashioned power pop/punk I came across The Dumpies newish LP, "Gay Boredom", released via Dirt Cult Records. The Dumpies were originally from Austin, Texas, but have since relocated to Astoria, Oregon. They recorded this LP with help from "guidance counselor", Tim Kerr (Big Boys).

This LP literally careens between punk, hardcore, and power pop. For quick proof listen to tracks 10 and 11 ("Hot Wash" to "Gay Boredom"). It reminds me of the sounds of TURBOSLEAZE and sometimes Fucked Up. And if you didn't know better, you'd think these were teenagers or maybe college students based on the sophomoric lyrics and topics. And while, I couldn't listen to this everyday (or even every week) it definitely scratched the itch I needed scratching today.

[nyasmodei]

takemitchi’s ass saved him from the void of an eternal mental oblivion.

[livecrow]

Woe is the plight of a "big and tall" sub/bottom/omega.

You're invisible prey; lumbering megafauna who's natural predator's are all but extinct.

You'd swear you're bigger than almost everyone around you. Both wider and taller. It must be something in the water—in public you tower. Maybe some of the men reach your eye level.

Now, you wouldn't actually mind a smaller partner. You'd absolutely happily bend over for them! It's just—they don't even try to approach you, don't even give you a second glance—

You're pretty sure a wolf will at least look at a moose with some interest, even if he knew his eyes were too big for his stomach. But it's as if no one sees you that way. Or at all.

All of it leaves you feeling dejected and dumpy. Completely undesirable to everyone.

It's almost worse when you aren't just invisible. When you accidentally startle someone and they look up at you for half a second like they've stumbled across a fucking kaiju.

One day though, you bump into someone who doesn't flinch. For once, you have to look up.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. An unfamiliar sense of alarm tickles something base and primal in the back of your mind as you stare up at the shit-brickhouse and his large friends sharing some smokes and blocking the sidewalk. Apex predators leering down at you.

"Someone's in a 'urry. Where y' off to, sweet'eart?"

[crocuta1]

I think Marina would be a lynx with big stupid dumpy paws and Pearl a bobcat because I think it’s funny………………

It is very funny indeed

I drew them with their dumb baby, too. I hope you don't mind 🫰🥰🤞

Bonus calf1sh 🫶

Fun fact! Striped hyenas are known to scavenge the most nasty fucking carcasses imaginable 😋

Thought it would be a funny parallel to Acht being a shit cook.

[butchersboobs]

Twist

A Billy Butcher pov fic.

Tissues at the ready...

NSFW below the cut - MDNI

Words: 1,771

PART TWO

Tags: @babyfri3dric3 @dumpy-little-nobody

_____

It's a bloody miracle - supermarket's dead, for once. No screamin' kids, no pensioners 'avin’ a barney over the last tin o'custard. Just me, me basket, and a list o'shite I can’t be arsed t'buy. Bread. Milk. Whiskey. The usual bollocks.

I’m by the biscuits, tossin’ up between 'obnobs and bourbons when I see ya. Strollin' down the aisle, clear as day, pushin’ a trolley like you just stepped out the life we 'ad together and into some domestic fuckin’ fantasy.

And you ain't alone. There’s a kid wiv yer. A boy, ‘bout three, maybe four. Dark 'air, big eyes, and I swear to Christ - e’s a bloody photocopy of me.

Me blood goes cold. Can’t move, can’t breathe - I just stand there like some prize twat, starin’.

You clock me. Yer face does this wide-eyed panic fing, like a fox cornered by a pack o'dogs. “Billy,” ya say, gobsmacked.

I nod atcha, casual-like, even though me 'eart’s bangin’ like a fuckin’ drum. I glance at the kid, then back at you. "Who's this little bloke, then?"

You 'esitate - a bit too long, if ya ask me - then put yer 'and on 'is shoulder, all protective. Like you’re expectin’ me t'kick off. "This is Oliver," you say. "Oliver - say hello to Mummy's... old friend."

Old friend, my arse.

I crouch down, meet the kid’s eyes. E’s lookin’ at me like he’s sizin' me up, and bugger me, it's like me own bloody face is starin’ back at me. "Alright, Oliver?" I say. "I’m Billy. Nice t'meet ya, mate."

The kid nods, all shy-like, and grabs 'old of yer leg. And before I can ask another bleedin’ question, yer mutterin’ some excuse about bein’ in an 'urry, and you 'n the kid bugger off sharpish

But it's too late to run now, love. I know full well that li'il lad is mine.

I fuckin' know.

-----

I coulda left it there. Shoulda, really. But you know me - can’t leave well enough alone, can I?

So I drop me basket right there, leave some poor sod to restock the 'obnobs, and I follow ya. I keep me distance, mind. Stay outta sight. Ain’t tryin’ to scare ya - just... I dunno. Just wanna know where you're takin’ 'im.

Ya lead me to this little 'ouse on the edge o'town. Curtains drawn, toys littered in the garden. You get the kid inside, shut the door, and that’s that.

I stand there for a bit, feelin’ like a right cunt. Should I knock? Walk away? What the fuck ya s'posed t'say to a woman who walked out on ya years ago wivout bovverin' to tell ya she was up the duff? Or that she'd dropped yer sprog?

-----

Didn’t sleep a bloody wink that night, did I. Nah. Tossin’, turnin’, replayin’ the 'ole fing in me 'ead. 

Oliver’s face, your panic. That gut-punch of realisin’ I got a kid. My kid. Couldn’t shake it.

By the time the sun came up though, I’d made me decision.

I’m back at yer door before I’ve even 'ad me morning cuppa, knockin’ loud enough to wake the dead.

You answer in yer dressing gown, 'air a mess, lookin’ like ya just rolled outta bed. “Billy,” ya say, pissed off. “How the fuck did you find me?”

I shove me hands in me pockets, tryna look casual. “We need to talk.”

You sigh, step aside, and let me in. The 'ouse is nice enough - small, cosy. There’s toys everywhere: blocks, cars, some dinosaur wiv one leg missin'. But no sign of Oliver.

“Oliver’s mine, ain’t he?” I say - no point pissin' about, is there.

You stiffen. “Billy—”

“Don’t bovver tryna lie to me. I seen 'im. E’s me all over. Ain’t no denying it.”

Yer shoulders sag, and ya look at the floor. “Yes,” you finally fuckin' admit. “He’s yours.”

The room tilts. I grab the back of the sofa to steady meself. “Bloody'ell.”

I should be angry. Furious. But all I feel is this weird, 'eavy mix o'pride and terror. I’ve got a son. A son.

“Why didn’t ya fuckin' tell me?” I ask, me voice low.

“Because you’re you, Billy."

That stings, but I can’t argue. You ain't wrong. My life’s a fuckin' mess, and it’s no place for a kid. Told meself that a thousand times since I met 'im yesterday. But the need to see 'im again just won't fuck off.

“Look, I can't just walk away, alright - not wivout... I dunno. Seeing 'im. Properly, I mean.”

“Billy, I don’t—”

“I ain't asking for much,” I cut in “I just... I just wanna meet 'im properly. That’s all.”

Then a little voice pipes up.

“Mummy?”

We both turn. Oliver’s standin’ in the doorway in 'is pyjamas, rubbin’ 'is eyes.

You soften instantly. “It’s okay, baby. Go back to bed.”

But 'e don’t. 'E just stands there, lookin’ at me.

“'Ello again, Ollie,” I say, crouchin’ down to 'is level. “Sorry if we woke ya., mate”

He don’t say anyfin, just keeps starin’ at me wiv those big brown eyes.

You sigh, running yer 'and through yer hair. “Fine,” you whisper “You can see him. For a little while. But he doesn’t know who you are, Billy. He’s too young to understand.”

I nod. “Fair enough.”

-----

I never thought I’d be 'ere. Never thought I’d be playin’ bloody games wiv a kid. I mean, I’ve been in worse places, yeah, but this… this is summink else.

Oliver’s sittin’ on the floor, this scrappy little toy truck in his 'ands, lookin' up at me like I’m some sorta mystery he’s tryna solve. Me - Billy Butcher - the last person a kid like 'im should be dealin' with.

“So, you like trucks, ay?” I ask, squattin' down beside 'im, tryna make me voice sound less like a bloody crook. Can’t be talkin’ all gruff and growlin' at the poor lad, can I?

Oliver looks up, eyes big as saucers, 'is little 'ands gripping the truck like it’s 'is best mate. “Yeah! It goes vroom vroom!” 'e says, 'is voice 'igh-pitched, full of excitement.

I blink at 'im, a bit taken aback. Kid's got more energy than a bloody power station.

I chuckle, leanin' back on me 'eels. "Yeah, I can see that. Goes fast, does it?" I’ve no idea why I’m askin'. I couldn’t care less about toy bloody trucks, but somethin’ about the way 'e says it, so eager, like it's the most important fing in the world—fuckin'ell, it almost makes me wanna play along.

“Yeah!” he nods so 'ard, I’m 'alf expectin’ 'is little 'ead to fall off. “And when it goes fast, it boom boom!” He slams the truck down on the ground, makin’ it bounce.

“Boom boom, ay?” I laugh, a proper one this time, catchin’ myself off guard. Ain't 'eard a sound like that in years. Can’t even remember the last time I genuinely laughed.

The kid grins, lookin’ up at me wiv that hopeful look, like 'e’s waitin’ for me to join in on the fun. I’ve never been good at playin’ games wiv kids, 'specially not after what 'appened with me own bloody family. But 'ere I am, messin' about with some toy truck, tryna figure out 'ow t'not screw this up.

"Alright then," I say, takin’ the truck from 'is 'ands. "Show me how it's done, mate."

Oliver giggles, 'is little face scrunched up in concentration as he starts tappin’ 'is 'ands on the floor, making engine noises. Vroom, vroom, boom boom!

I can't 'elp but smile. It’s awkward as fuck, but I’m damn well tryin'. Maybe I’m not so bad at this after all. Don’t matter that I don’t know the first fing about toys, or that I ain't got a clue what the 'ell I’m doin’. What matters is the look on the kid’s face, the way 'is eyes light up every time I play along.

"Oi, kid, I fink your truck’s got more power than mine," I tease, pushin’ the toy truck across the floor with a bit too much enthusiasm, makin' it slide all the way to the other side of the room.

Oliver looks at me with wide eyes, 'is mouth open in awe. “Really?”

I give'im a little smirk. "Yeah. Faster than a bloody Formula One car, that is. Your truck's a bit of a monster."

E’s noddin’, 'is mop of black hair bouncin’ wiv every movement. “It is! It's the fastest in the world!” 'is words tumble out like he’s tryna convince me. 'E really believes it. And that’s somethin’, innit? Kid’s got imagination, that’s for sure.

“Right, right,” I mutter, noddin’ along, but then I get a bloody idea. "Tell you what, Oliver. How ‘bout you race your truck against my truck? Let’s see oo’s faster."

I rummage through me pockets, pullin’ out me old lighter. It ain’t much, but it’s a novelty car one, wiv wheels, so I push it across the floor wiv a cheeky grin. "It’s not as flashy as yours, but I reckon it’s got a bit o'speed in it."

Oliver’s eyes go wide, and before I know it, 'e’s on his knees, eagerly makin’ little engine noises again. "Ready, set, go!"

We both push our 'trucks' across the floor, and I can’t 'elp but laugh as e’s all serious about it. Kid’s givin' it his all, makin’ these wild noises, and I’m just pushin’ a bloody lighter, tryna make 'im fink I’m into it as much as 'e is.

But then, just as we’re about to finish the race, 'e lets out a loud yell and scoops up both trucks, clutchin' 'em to 'is chest like 'e’s won the Grand bloody Prix. “I win! I win!”

I raise me 'ands in defeat, laughin' despite meself. "Yeah, yeah, you’re the fastest, kid. I give up. You beat me."

E beams up at me, so proud of 'imself that 'e can’t even sit still. “I’m the best racer ever!”

I can’t stop smilin’ at 'im, watchin' 'im prance about like a little king. For a second, just a second, I forget I'm me. Forget what a fuckin' mess me life is. I’m just… 'ere. Wiv 'im. Wiv Oliver. My boy.

“Yeah, mate, you are,” I say, me voice quieter than usual, a little softer. "You’re a bloody star, you are."

And that’s the fing, innit? There’s summink about this little lad that gets t'me, summink I can’t shake. I know I said I just wanted to meet 'im, but I’ll be damned if I can just let 'im go now.

That kid deserves a far better man than me for a dad.

But for 'im, I’ll bloody try to be that better man.

PART TWO

[queenendless]

Chubby Goodness

A/n: Chubby fat Geto does something to me now, I swear. I have a soft spot for Geto cause of S2 of course so that helps. Another spur of the moment piece, yas indeed.

Chubby!Sub!Geto x Dom!GN!Reader. SFW and 🔞 content inside.

NO REPOSTING, COPYING, EDITING. Like, reblog and follow if you enjoy. Thnx u!

Kneading the fatty plushness of his belly flaps had you ogling his velvety mushy skin. Your eyes welled up with sparkling wonder at how he looks so freaking cute. Caressing and playing with his face cheeks made seeing his bashful blushing face all worth it.

Brushing his back length inky strands got you spotting his pink cheeked smiling self twiddling his sleeve covered hands in the mirrors reflection while waiting for you to finish compelled you to braid his locks like a Rapunzel do before taking his face in your hands to lather lipstick marks all over his beet red self; borrowing the makeup from his stash.

Watching his robed, socked, sandal wearing-self waddling here and there throughout his temple with adoration. Seeing Mimiko and Nanako cuddling either side of Geto as they lounge and nibble on sweets as Geto's lips and cheeks are smeared with sugary goodness tempted you to lick off such said goodness. And you did. To the twins amusement and to his flushed embarrassment.

Whether dressed in his robes, regular clothes, or even cross dressing, seeing his radiance stretch out his attire to the point where skin peaked out had you pining hard. Skimpy tops and shorts especially just to ogle his back rolls and big fat dumpy jiggling as his hefty hips swayed to and fro.

And the lingerie. FUCK the lingerie. Definitely the see through, bra and thong combo. The fact he willingly lets you dolly him up and you get to watch while seated down as he swayed, sashayed and spun about while modeling got your heart racing and your core pulsating. Wiggling his plump giant ass in your face gets you. Every. TIME! Yep, your phat angel is getting railed for this.

Stripping him of his clothing left him rosy cheeked and shy as his tubby glory laid bare beneath you. Fondling his pecs turned breasts always had him moaning like the sensitive, needy man that he has become. Stroking his hanging jugs and sucking on those utters just to watch with lidded eyes at his squeezed eyed, mewling expression. Peppering bite marks and bruised sucks all over his drooled layered mounds and nipples brought a sharp toothed smile to your face.

Nuzzling your face into that smooth bulging tum tum made him jiggle with giggles. Wringing your paws into his jelly belly had him laughing and shaking his meaty arms. Raspberry blowing in his roundness had his tubby thighs nearly hitting you in the process to get you off, kicking to accentuate his high-pitched squealing. And so, straddling his stretch marked hips, you pinched and wriggling into those plump thighs and calves had him cackling unhinged. Yet you knew deep down he enjoyed these ler and lee bouts amiss the sex as much as you do.

Finally satiating your tickle need for now, you spun around to properly ride him. It always brought you two to tears of unbridled amor. Your hands clawed into his stretch marked hips for support as his meaty hands hook into your hips. Seeing that sweat sheen shine to your beloved Suguru's round swelling beauty made you gushing to his endowed relief. His throbbing burning staff always filled you to the brim in your gooey tight grip. Bopping up and down his shaft had him cumming at least a dozen times in you as you came all over his abdomen.

You always doted on your chubby hubby, pulling out of him, and rolling him onto his plush cum coated belly, as his sausage fingers and toes curl into the tainted sheets while you ate him out between his ginormous stretch marked peaches. His cacophony of swears and carnal whines had you teething and marking every inch of those hills. Seeing his heaving red cheeked face had you brushing aside the strands stuck to his face, being his big spoon, following his already exhausted self in deep sleep.

Giving him butterfly kisses in the morning gets him tiredly smiling as it stirs him awake. Prepping the bathwaters for a gentle warmth to contrast the cool early sunrise, you helped him into the massive tub, watching him settle in lax enjoyment, before joining him. The next half hour left you two pruny but melded into one as you cuddled your round cutie baby.

Most of all, your smug smirk always grows whenever you cross paths with that certain sorcerer, eyeing Gojo's strewn lipped expression at you being the one carrying his ex bestie turned your chubby cultist lover in your literal cursed fueled arms yourself. Not him. Him waving and teasingly calling out Satoru in that light elated tone only made you huff in envy before bolting you two away, leaving your curse user allies and sorcerer foes in your dust, as every time your Sugu reacts to your one and only competition ergo Toru, you feel the need to remind your man who he belongs to. He knew what he was doing. Just for this exact end result. You two stayed in your shared private room in the temple the rest of the day.

Conclusion? A chubby Suguru Geto is a whole new kind of addiction. One you could never forget.

[jllux]

hello my lovelies <3

its been A WHILE haha, but i’d like to share all the lovely things i’ve manifested in my absence as a motivational present ¿

here’s the list lets go:

- i had my heart broken by this absolute dickhead of a man, and i wrote down a list of qualities i’d want in my future partner. i was on facetime with my best-friends in the whole world and we kept adding to the list. even if it seemed unrealistic i added it. then two months later, i was studying at the library and i had my meet cute moment. we moved from the libary since it was shutting down to a cafe and didnt study one bit HAHA, we just talked for hours. it was just me, him, the slice of chocolate cake we bought so we could sit in, and no phone service. anyways we’ve been dating since 2023, and we go to the same uni haha (not even planned). nonetheless he matched everything i wrote on that list.

- i moved out for university! i ended up getting rejected from the unis in my city because OF ONE FUCKING GRADE (this haunts me forever). so i called clearing and ended up at one of the most dreamy, hogwarts like? universities ever. I’m not going to say too much on that for safety reasons but i’m glad i didn’t get into that uni. my life has changed so much, i live in an apartment for second year. it’s genuinely the best thing ever and i remember this being something i wanted so badly for so long. my father (per usual) was very against this, and of course he was, if i was him i would think the same. id you can go to university nearby and stay with me then do it!!! but it wasn’t an option for me given the circumstances. BUT i got what i wanted in the end so :), and our relationship is still very awesome even though i live so far now.

- okay next thing is to do with religion, i come from a muslim family, but i’m not too religious. but that means my father is very big on me dressing modestly, and wearing hijab. thats never been something that i wanted to do or wear. i kept affirming that no matter what he would respect my decision. at the start of 2023, i just stopped wearing it to sixthform and all-together. genuinely one of the most terrifying things i have ever done because my school wasn’t the most open to it either (i lived in a very immigrant muslim area lol). but with time, everything takes time. they got over it. i got over caring, and my father and i had a talk about it and i told him that i can’t keep wearing something i don’t want to wear. something i never had a say in wearing. okay i don’t want to get too trauma dumpy on you guys but yeah we came to a understanding. this hasn’t affected our relationship at all either and i’m glad.

- i manifested one of my best-friends, i had a really dark patch at the end of first year and start of second year, where i was just so consumed by this feeling of being an imposter. i was in my boyfriends friend-group, but they had already established a group way before me, and so it was really awkward for me to kinda squeeze my way in. and dont get me wrong i did have my own friends, but nobody close. everything felt so superficial? especially at university, you’ll have people befriend you and leave once they find the next best thing, or you’ll have someone cling to you and treat you as their 'bestie' for 2 weeks and then never speak to them again. so pathetic. i wrote in my journal some affirmations about attracting good friends haha. then during one of our lectures i joined one of my friends for a smoke break, and this girl lets call her, belle. she came up to us and asked if we were friends with someone she knew and we were like yeah! and then well the rest is history. i thought she was so pretentious when i first met her, like 'she’s this rich girl and we probably have nothing in common'. but we hung out more, i met her boyfriend too, and now both our boyfriends are bestfriends?? met her mother, she’s the kindest sweetest, most quirky person i know HAHA. she’s incredibly gorgeous, and at first glance you would never know how much of a nerd she is, aka huge gamer. + she’s made me into such a better person and i really appreciate her. i’m so glad i have her in this cruel world 😞🙏god i could write essays about our friendship.

- i got to display some sketches in an art gallery in London!! i keep the label with my name and get all giddy every time i see it. art means the world to me and this was just so surreal. i have this video my bf took of people just talking about my art together (i cry every-time). i had people contact me with projects VERY EXCITING THINGS!!!

i’ve had such an insane year and it’s just gotten so amazing, younger me would just look at this in disbelief.

regardless of all i’ve achieved and accomplished, it did come with struggle. oh so much struggle god, i kinda went through hell and back last year bc of crazy insane stuff i cant really repeat, but i’m glad i get a year of rest, relaxation, and just happiness!! i now am going to get ready for dinner with my boyfriend :)

anyways love u <3 feel free to ask any questions!

[freelancearsonist]

all that we see or seem

➔ Dieter Bravo x AFAB!Reader

➔ 5.7k words

➔ You moved to Hollywood in hopes of chasing your dreams; you get a lot more than you bargained for from your new boss, Dieter Bravo.

➔ Rated MA // dark fic, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used) and generally able-bodied, age gap (unspecified, reader is younger than dieter), vampire!dieter, blood/both consensual and non-consensual blood drinking, knife use, slight self-harm, gore of the mouth variety, pet names, takes place in 1983 bc i’m a sucker for changing settings

➔ this was requested from this prompt list by the very lovely @sp00kymulderr!! happy birthday darling, sorry this took so long but i hope it's worth the wait <3 thank you so much to @missredherring for this AMAZING header graphic ily 🖤

Los Angeles is a far cry from the little town you grew up in. It’s a seemingly endless maze, with more possibilities than you ever could’ve dreamed. It’s a little daunting, really. You step off your plane with your suitcase in hand, and you feel like the world is in the palms of your hands.

The harsh reality comes crashing in without warning.

LA is expensive, especially on your own. As the money you’d saved up to get you started dwindles much quicker than expected, your dreams only get further and further out of reach. Life always finds a way to fuck you over, and the city of angels does it quicker than anywhere else. The glitzy neon nightclubs and the glamor of Hollywood swiftly become an omen of doom rather than a beacon of hope. You’re in over your head, but it’s too late to back out now.

Auditions get put on the backburner. You work yourself to the bone as a server in a dumpy little diner, but it’s still barely enough to cover your basic expenses.

You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to sleep. The cycle repeats itself so quickly that your days all merge together into one, long, neverending nightmare.

The light at the end of the tunnel appears shortly before the first anniversary of your move. You’re scanning through the paper during your meal break when you see a help wanted ad. It’s normally the type of thing you would ignore, but a few things about it draw you in. The part that really catches your eye is the large, bold letters that proclaim “work closely with one of the biggest names in hollywood!” It seems too good to be true, and certainly something you’re not qualified for. But it could be a start–a way to get your foot through the door of the industry that brought you out here in the first place. Really, what’s the harm in trying?

You go to the library, type up your resume, and mail it in to the address listed in the ad. Realistically, you know that there must be hundreds of other applicants and you probably won’t get so much as a rejection letter back; but the needling little ‘what if’ in the back of your mind gives you a boost of hope that you’ve lived without for an achingly long time.

You get better than a letter–a broad, handsome man shows up at the diner late one night asking for you three days after you drop your resume into the local mail slot at the post office. Janine, the shaggy-haired waitress you work with almost every shift and have sort of become friends with, nudges you excitedly while you’re handing a ticket back to the kitchen.

“Honey, do you know who that is?” She nods her head over her shoulder towards a table in the corner of her section and you try to look over as nonchalantly as possible.

Of course you know who that is. His face is everywhere in this stupid town–magazine covers, billboards, movie theaters. Even with sunglasses obscuring the dark brown eyes that have made thousands swoon, you recognize Dieter Bravo. He’s bigger than Hasselhoff and Swayze combined.

“He’s asking for you,” Janine whispers. “By name. You know him?”

“Not yet,” you answer truthfully. You know without a doubt that he’s here because of your resume and that your entire world is about to change.

You’ve seen him on the big screen before and now you can definitively say that it doesn’t do him justice. He’s more handsome than any man has a right to be. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black trousers, an ensemble that stands out in the brightness of 1983 but yet perfectly complements the tanned tone of his skin. His shoulders could fill a doorway and his smile might actually melt you into a puddle. You can’t help but notice–with a hint of trepidation–that his canines are the sharpest you’ve ever seen, although that thought is quickly pushed from your mind when he greets you by name.

“Your resume is impressive.”

“No it’s not,” you respond with a little laugh before you can stop yourself, then you have to refrain from banging your head into the wall. What a great start to an interview.

But he laughs, and you can’t help feeling you’ve done something right. You’d do a hell of a lot worse just to hear that gorgeously deep, hearty chuckle again.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase. You said all the right things. You’ve got exactly what I’m looking for as an assistant.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is much too good to be true.

“You’re not from LA,” he states factually. “What brought you here?”

You consider lying–coming up with some story that’s less pathetic than the truth. He’s appreciated your honesty thus far, though, and you don’t want to break a streak. “I wanted to act, but… it’s hard to get started when you don’t have any connections. So I’ve just been kind of… getting by.”

He nods and gives you a look over–assessing, you think. “We all have to start somewhere. But this isn’t an easy job.”

There’s something unreadable in his voice, but you choose to ignore it because you want nothing more than a chance to impress him. It’s not about ‘making it’ anymore; it’s about proving to Dieter Bravo that you’re worth taking a chance on.

“Neither is this,” you reply with a vague wave at the diner around you. “If I’m not covered in fryer grease at the end of the day, it’s a good job to me.”

He chuckles again and it washes over you like fresh water after years of drought. You want more of him–more of his charm, more of his warmth.

“When can you start?”

You ask for two weeks to leave your diner gig on good terms, and he’s gracious enough to accommodate you. As the days tick past, the anticipation ramps up and time seems to move slower. You’ve never been so excited for a new job. Normally, your gut twists with anticipation and your mind swirls with every little minute detail that could go wrong–but not now. No, now you’re just excited. The possibilities of Hollywood finally seem to be within your reach again, and it all starts with this job.

You learn a lot about Dieter within five minutes of starting on your first day. For one, he’s incredibly personable. He greets you himself and vows to show you the ropes. There’s no third party to teach you everything you need to know, it’s just him. Just the two of you. You appreciate that immensely, because you’ll be serving him directly as his assistant. There’s no better person to learn from when it comes to his desires and routines than the man himself.

Two, he wears many different masks. It’s a little spooky, the way his demeanor changes depending on who he’s dealing with. He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’ve ever spoken to, then turn to a producer and be a complete hardass all in the name of getting things done. He knows exactly what persona he needs to wear for each person he interacts with–it’s all very calculated. You suppose all actors have to be capable of that; the mark of a good thespian is being instantly able to pretend you’re someone you’re not.

Still, it’s a little chilling. If you didn’t see it in some form or another with every person you meet on set, you’d be a little concerned. Dieter just makes it look like adaptation–fitting into his surroundings as a means of staying afloat. He’s been in this industry for a long time, he knows what works; and, subsequently, what doesn’t.

As far as the job goes, it’s a nice change of pace from what you’ve become accustomed to. You spend nights on set with him, fetching his coffee order or running little errands while he’s busy shooting. The hours aren’t unreasonable, and it pays double what the diner did. Now that you’re not struggling to get by financially, you have the free time you need to start pursuing your dreams again.

You have only Dieter to answer to, which is a definite learning curve. Directors, producers, and even other actors chase after your favors, but Dieter tells them unequivocally to fuck off. You’re his–it’s a heady feeling each time he  reasserts it. It makes for easy work when you’re not being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously. He asks for what he needs when he’s around and he gives you a list of tasks to complete when he’s not. He’s a little eccentric–he tells you he can only work after dark because his eyes are sensitive–but it’s nice, falling into a routine after so long of working unconventional hours at a job where no two days are the same.

Still, as days turn into weeks by his side, you wonder exactly what version of Dieter he’s presenting to you. Which face is the most authentic? You want to believe he’s himself with you, but you’re not quite naive enough to convince yourself of that. The thing that bothers you the most is that you want him to feel comfortable enough to drop the facades around you. You want to get to know the real Dieter Bravo, underneath all the masks. But you also swore to yourself, when you accepted this job, that you would be nothing but professional–and wanting to get to know him so intimately is definitely a step beyond just being his employee.

To his credit, he’s strictly professional–even if you wish he wasn’t at times. There’s a lot of rumors and gossip about him, about his hedonism and the life he supposedly leads at night, but you don’t see that facet of him. With you, he’s friendly, kind, and respectful. He’s the perfect gentleman–and that’s how you know that you’re not getting a full glimpse of the real him. There’s too much contradiction between the rumors and the Dieter that you interact with. 

No matter how straight-laced you try to be, you can’t help wondering what it’ll take to get a look at the real Dieter Bravo.

You think he starts to peek through when Dieter asks if you would be willing to work longer hours and be more of a personal assistant than a production assistant. You know him inside and out, he tells you, and it would be a pain in the ass to teach a whole new person how to deal with his errands. He even offers you a sizable raise when you pretend to be contemplating it, like you weren’t bursting at the seams to say yes before he even finished asking. 

The sad–maybe even pathetic–truth of the matter is that you’re falling for him. Every facet of his charm, from his darkly passionate eyes to his easy humor, have you completely bewitched and ready to ignore the way your hair stands on end each time his gaze meets yours. You’ll take any small fraction of him that you can get.

He eases you into your additional duties, at least; that much can be said in his favor. He starts you out with small tasks, like ordering his groceries and picking up his dry cleaning. Dieter’s so kind and patient as he explains how he likes everything done–he’s particular, but not unreasonable. He even gives you a grand tour of his home so you can see exactly where and how he likes everything done–it’s like finally getting that real glimpse of him that you’ve been hoping for.

His Sherman Oaks mansion looks like something straight out of a Bram Stoker novel on the outside, yet the inside is a testament to the warm side of his personality that you’re more familiar with. It’s decorated in shades of orange and red, with patterns that are a little out of date but still manage to feel intentional. It gives the impression of someone who was more comfortable and sure of himself in the 70’s, or at least someone who hasn’t quite adjusted to the new trends that came with the turn of the decade. The walls are covered with art–most of it signed with his familiar “DB” in the bottom right hand corner. It’s neat, but not so neat that it feels staged. It fits the Dieter Bravo that you know perfectly, and it even starts to feel like home to you when you start spending more time there with him.

There’s never anyone else around when you’re there. For someone who has a reputation for throwing the liveliest parties in all of Hollywood, he doesn’t actually do a lot of partying. Not when you’re around, at least. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide that aspect of himself from you. If he has to host, he sends you home early or lets you know in advance that you’re getting a paid night off. You’re almost disappointed–parties have never really been your thing, sure, but you feel like you need to experience at least one of his.

Plus, people are starting to talk. You hear it on set first; his co-stars whispering about how he’s gone soft, how he’s gotten boring. Even the tabloids are starting to wonder if they’ve seen the last infamous Dieter Bravo party, which were once highly coveted and exclusive events. The few times he’s hosted lately have been small, quiet affairs–definitely not the big, star-studded shebangs that he’s gained a reputation for.

A rumor even starts circulating that he’s finally decided to settle down with a nice girl, which makes your stomach twist with a little green monster that shouldn’t be there. He’s your employer, you reason. That’s all. No matter how friendly he is, no matter how much he flirts with you, no matter how much he compliments your perfect cup of coffee, that’s all he is. Your boss. And yet, despite your constant self-assertion, your brain just can’t seem to accept it. You know you shouldn’t want anything more than that, and yet you just can’t seem to stop yourself from hoping.

“What’s going on with you?”

You’re in the midst of trying to sort through the files in his upstairs home office so you can find out when his insurance needs to be renewed when you hear the voice, loud and clear due to the open floor plan downstairs. Sound travels like crazy up the double-wide staircase with Dieter’s office door right at the top. You couldn’t shut it out even if you wanted to–and you don’t. God help you, you’re a little nosy and a little curious.

“Nothing.” That’s Dieter’s voice, but you don’t recognize the other.

“Bullshit. You’re not yourself.” It’s a deep, rich tone that you’ve never heard before and it immediately has your interest hooked. Dieter doesn’t get many visitors, much less such purposeful ones. Most people like to schmooze him, but evidently not this unidentified man.

“I’m trying to be different,” Dieter explains half-heartedly. “It’s time I cleaned up a bit.”

“No. Cleaning up your act is nothing more than a good way to get yourself caught. Things happen in the party climate, that’s how you fit in. Things don’t just happen to nice rich actors.”

Caught? Caught doing what, exactly? You creep closer to the open door on light feet, curiosity peaked.

Dieter sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m tired.”

“So what are you going to do? Just give up? Waste away after… how long?”

“Maybe I should,” Dieter retorts–there’s grit in his tone now, maybe even bitterness. “Maybe I never should’ve taken the deal in the first place. You don’t see how fucked up this all is?”

“So, what? You’ve gotten everything you could’ve possibly wanted, and now you’re tired of playing the game? Pathetic.” There’s a sneer in the tone of this unidentified speaker and you don’t like it. You want to jump to Dieter’s defense, but something tells you this is a conversation that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.

“Whatever, man,” Dieter scoffs dismissively.

There’s noise downstairs now–a slight thud and what sounds like Dieter grunting as if the wind has been knocked out of him. 

“What changed?”

“Fuck off,” Dieter spits.

“What. Changed?”

“You weren’t fucking honest with me.”

“Bullshit,” the stranger growls back. “You knew exactly what you were getting into.”

“No, you said everything I wanted, that was the deal. Remember?” It’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if Dieter’s pacing. He does that, when he starts to get stressed. “I’m still alone, though.”

“That’s your own fault,” the stranger replies–voice a little softer now. “I didn’t say I would hand you your dreams on a silver platter. You make your own destiny. Surely it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten that little qualifier.”

“I can’t bring someone else into this shit and you know it,” Dieter replies. The venom is gone from his voice now–he just sounds done. Exhausted and spent.

“You can, but you won’t.” There’s a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Start acting like yourself again before you raise too much suspicion.”

“Fine,” Dieter sighs heavily. 

There’s a few long moments of silence, and then you hear the heavy solid oak front door shut. Presumably the guest has gone, and while you’re eager to sneak down and see if you can catch a glimpse of who it might’ve been, it’s far too risky with Dieter down there. Something tells you that he should never find out about the way you just eavesdropped on that conversation. You don’t know who he was talking to, or what kind of deal they were discussing–you just know that it’s serious, and definitely above your paygrade.

“Did you find that paperwork?”

You didn’t hear Dieter come upstairs–his sudden question from right behind you makes you jump and whirl around to look at him. You fight to keep your calm as you catch your breath; the last thing you want to do is clue him in that you overheard his conversation with his unknown guest.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” you answer after a thick gulp.

“You’re a doll,” he proclaims with a wide smile. How easily he picks up the face he wears with you after a conversation that clearly upset him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you hum with a smile. “This entire room is a nightmare. It’s a miracle you ever find anything. You need to get, like… some filing cabinets. At the very least.”

“I’ll, uhh… get right on that,” he says in a way that makes you sure he definitely won’t get right on it.

Despite the nerves still thrumming through your veins, you laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re a doll,” he repeats with his trademark grin. “Oh! Hey, uhh… you have tomorrow off. Paid, obviously.”

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it. 

He seems surprised–you don’t normally ask questions, especially about paid vacation days. “Work stuff I gotta take care of. No big deal.”

“Okay,” you answer with a slight frown. “Sure I can’t help?”

He actually does seem to be contemplating it for a moment–his eyes scan over your body, and it’s like he’s considering you more than the actual offer. “No, honey, I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” You take a short breath, then head towards the door–this was the last task on your list for the night. “Anything else you need before I head out?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head as he follows you down the stairs. “No. Thanks, sweetheart.”

You feel heat fluttering underneath your skin at the pet name–he uses them often and they never fail to make your heart pick up pace. It’s like he can tell, because his eyes linger on your lips for a moment before trailing down to the pulse point on the left side of your neck. You wonder for a second if he can actually see it beating, but you quickly push that ridiculous thought away.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you tomorrow?”

His eyes are still trained on your neck like he’s completely zoned out or something. You watch as his tongue slowly glides over his bottom lip, trance-like; it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers after a long moment–he’s standing so close now, you didn’t even notice him closing in. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay.” You want nothing more than to grab him and pull him in, to kiss him like your life depends upon it. He sounded so upset and every bone in your body is screaming to comfort him. The way he’s looking at you right now, you don’t think he’d mind at all. 

Instead you take a deep breath, grab your bag from the bench next to the door, and bid him goodnight.

Dieter doesn’t seem to realize that you’re always working, whether you’re on the clock or not. Even on ‘off’ days, you get loads of calls for scheduling requests and other tasks. Your saving grace is your trusty day planner—it holds both of your schedules, all neatly color-coded for maximum efficiency.

The worst thing you could’ve done on a weekend leading up to awards season is leave it in Dieter’s home office—and yet, as you frantically dig through your tote bag and your desk, that seems to be exactly what you’ve done.

You know Dieter’s got whatever event he’s hosting at home, but you can’t keep taking calls and scribbling notes on napkins without your schedule in front of you. The last thing you want to do is overbook him at a time where every single interview counts.

With a heavy sigh, you dial Dieter’s home number. It rings for what seems like eternity, and just as you’re about to hang up an unfamiliar voice answers.

“Hello?”

With a sigh of relief, you ask, “Hi, is Dieter there?”

“He’s busy.” The voice is high and sweet, yet her tone says she couldn’t be more irritated.

“Okay… umm, it’s kind of important.”

The stranger sighs dramatically. “I can take a message.”

“I just… I left something there, and I need to come get it as soon as possible. But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

This time when she speaks, her tone is considerably more friendly. “Oh! Yeah, come on over. The more the merrier!”

You can’t help your intrigue, although you really don’t want to intrude without Dieter’s say-so. “Are you sure? I could always come tomorrow, I guess.”

“No no, come! It’s a party, everyone’s welcome!” Then the line goes dead without any further discussion.

You consider redialing in the hopes of speaking and clearing your visit with Dieter, but you doubt you’ll actually get through to him–and really, what harm would a quick visit do? You know exactly where you left it, on the desk in his office. It’ll be five minutes tops, a quick in and out. He might never even know that you’d been there.

You shake off the curious sense of foreboding that overtakes your mind as you grab your keys and lock your apartment door behind you.

It’s a twenty minute ride to Dieter’s house–a lot of time to spend thinking. At the forefront of your mind is that peculiar conversation you overheard last night; you’re not entirely sure why, really. Whoever that man was sounded almost as if he was in some kind of position of power over Dieter, and you don’t have even an educated guess at who that could possibly be. Dieter’s his own boss and he doesn’t take bullying–you’ve never heard someone get away with bossing him around like that before. He’s constantly in some weird form of pissing match with the directors and producers of whatever film he’s working on; he’s never seemed to be good at taking orders, even when he’s supposed to. You’ve heard many a rant about how much he values the ‘freedom of expression’. It all serves to make the mysterious visitor more confusing. Who does Dieter have to answer to?

The cab pulls up in front of his gated home before you’re able to find a plausible answer. You instruct the driver to keep the meter running since you’ll only be a minute before you step out into the crisp late-January air.

The grounds are a lot quieter than you expect them to be as the guard on duty opens the gate and closes it behind you. One thing Dieter’s famous for is noise–his parties are always reported as loud and exciting affairs akin to the fraternities in his favorite movie Animal House. There's no noise at all today, though, and it makes you curious. Is it really a party? Or was the stranger who answered the phone maybe his only guest? If the latter is the case, why would she want you to join in?

There’s a pale man in a cheap-looking suit waiting just inside the door, a tray of filled wine glasses in his gloved hands. “Take one,” he instructs, his eyes distant like he’s looking through you rather than at you.

“Oh, no thank you, I just need to–”

“Take one,” he repeats. “Master’s orders.”

Master? Of course Dieter would be into that. 

The wine is a deep red, probably that expensive vintage shit that he’s always raving about. You prefer the grocery store stuff yourself, not just because it’s all you can afford. A drink never hurts, though, and you could certainly use something to take the edge off–because that tingling sense of foreboding has only gotten stronger since your arrival.

You take a glass and swirl its currant-colored liquid around. It seems more viscous than any wine you’ve had before–probably a mark of its age, but that’s just guesswork on your part. You take a small sip, then nearly gag. It’s like drinking a pile of melted pennies. You swallow it down with a grimace anyway since you don’t want to make a scene of spitting it out in front of the server. It leaves a metallic taste in your mouth that you’re eager to wash out–thankfully, the kitchen is on your route to the stairs. You quickly deposit the glass on a table once you’re out of the server’s eyesight, then head down the hall in a desperate search for water.

Once you’re out of the foyer, there are people everywhere. Very subdued people, at that–draped over furniture like throw blankets, some even laying on the floor. You consider checking one’s pulse until he twitches and lets out a muffled groan. Clearly high on something, you’re just not sure what. You nearly trip over one person and they actually hiss at you like some kind of feral cat. Your skin starts to crawl with every step you take. Even more important than your discomfort, though, is finding Dieter. What if he’s like this, too? Do you need to call someone?

You notice a dull ache starting in your gums as you make it to the kitchen–thankfully you’re familiar with his home, and you have a glass of water in your hands within no time. It seems that no matter how much you drink, though, that coppery-bloody taste never leaves your mouth. What the hell was that stuff?

There’s a short-haired blonde woman propped up against the wall underneath the mounted phone; she reaches out a lazy hand in some sort of greeting. She looks vaguely familiar, like someone you might’ve seen on the set of one of Dieter’s films.

“You made it!” She says with a lazy smile. She must be the woman you spoke to earlier, although you’re not sure how she can identify you.

“Yeah. Where’s Dieter?” The longer you’re here, the more worried you become. Something isn’t right, and your skin is prickling with apprehension.

“Upstairs,” she murmurs, then her eyes flutter shut and she slumps a little further down. She’s visibly breathing, at least. 

For a moment, you consider picking up the phone and ringing the police. Would that cause more harm than good? Dieter must be aware of what’s going on here–you know you should talk to him before you do anything.

Your mission to find your planner momentarily forgotten, you make your way through the living room towards the stairs.

You check the office at the top first–there’s a few bodies zonked out on the couch, but none of them are Dieter. With trepidation in your very soul, you make your way down the hall. Each room is more of the same–people in varying states of unrest, no sign of the man you’re looking for. Most of them have red-stained lips and you eye more than one smashed glass along your journey. Your own mouth is starting to get alarmingly sore, but you ignore it in favor of finding Dieter.

Each step you take drives your worries deeper into your skull. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s knocked out like all of his guests, or hurt, or something worse?

This is the first time you’ve breached the bubble of his bedroom. None of your work has ever involved this room, and while you’re a naturally nosey type of person, there’s something deeply personal and sacred about the space someone sleeps in. 

Ignoring the steady throbbing in your gums, you knock once before pushing open the door.

Dieter’s alone in his room, sprawled out like a starfish in a sea of rumpled sheets at the center of his massive bed. Something akin to a groan of horror escapes your throat as you see the state he’s in. He’s paler than a corpse and drenched in sweat, chest barely rising and falling with breath.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place. Your entire body breaks out in a cold sweat as you notice the knife in his right hand and the deep gash in the crook of his left arm, right where an IV would normally be set. You can smell the blood draining from him, you can even taste it in the air–or maybe that’s just the lingering taste of whatever you drank downstairs.

Your stomach churns violently with the sudden realization of what you’ve done, of what you’ve drank.

“Dieter!” You manage to choke out while your brain tries to remember how to send the signals required for your body to fucking move. 

He lifts his head shakily, brown eyes widening after a long moment of trying to recognize the face he’s looking at. “No no no,” he whispers hoarsely, “you’re not supposed t-to be here. You’re.. y-you’re supposed to be a-at home.”

A sharp, shattering pain in your top gum snaps your brain back into action. In a flash you’re crawling across a seemingly endless desert of mattress and it feels like you’ll never reach him. Everything is moving so slowly–each movement seems to take a hundred times the effort it should.

You spit out a mouthful of blood as the pain heightens, barely registering the two upper canines that go with it.

“What the fuck have you done?” You sob, uselessly pawing at his slashed left arm. It’s a precise cut straight across the artery–your hands are sticky and soaked with red the moment you touch him. Pressure, your brain screams at you. Put pressure on the wound.

“A real artist must suffer,” he mumbles weakly–then, even quieter, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You’re dying.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s higher, breathier. 

“You drank it, d-didn’t you?” He asks, ignoring your statement. His distant eyes are trained on the sharp fangs that have pushed your canines out. “Fuck. Fuck! You were n-never supposed to…”

“Shut up, shut up,” you plead. Every shaky breath seems to cost him years. “How do I fix this? How do I fix you?”

“Thirsty,” he mumbles. There’s water on the sideboard, your brain reminds you. You don’t even remember bringing the glass with you, much less setting it down. Everything is so fuzzy. Your arm doesn’t move nearly as fast as it should when you reach for the glass, and Dieter’s hand weakly comes up to stop you.

“Not water,” he croaks. “Need… need…”

He can’t seem to form the words required to tell you what he needs. He doesn’t have to, though. You know.

“You’re not dying on me, Bravo.” You take the knife from his slack right hand before he can stop you and grit your sore teeth together as you slash it across your palm.

“N-no, don’t…” But he doesn’t resist as you hold your bleeding palm to his mouth. His empty eyes flash back to life with the first taste, and then he takes your hand in his own and drinks greedily. You watch with nothing short of disbelief as the cut on his arm seals itself right before your eyes.

“You were supposed to stay away from this,” he murmurs as his tongue sweeps across your palm. “Why the fuck are you here, baby?”

You don’t even remember anymore. Everything is hazy, everything hurts. It’s a chore just to keep your eyes open.

“Damn it,” he growls–pushing your hand away from his blood-smeared mouth seems to take all his willpower. “I never wanted this for you.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur as you slump down against his sheets. They’re so soft and light, and you want to cocoon yourself in them for the rest of time. “It’s just a dream.”

“Why’d you have to come save me? Huh?” His voice sounds so far away that you’re not even sure he’s really speaking. 

“I love you.” It’s okay to say that, because he’ll never actually find out. It’s just a dream, after all; you’ll wake up in the morning confused but totally okay.

“You were never supposed to,” his voice echoes from some plain of existence far, far away. “Damn it honey, stay awake just a minute longer.”

You try, but your eyes are so heavy. He sighs heavily, as if he knows it’s useless.

“Promise you’ll still love me when you wake up,” he pleads through the tunnel that separates you.

Nodding saps the last of your strength, so you let your eyes flutter closed. “Okay.”

You feel his lips against yours and his coppery kiss nearly brings you back from the verge of sleep. In the end, though, your throbbing head wins. Sleep takes hold quickly despite your feeble resistance. 

How strange it is to fall asleep in a dream.

➔ beta: @schnarfer and @futuraa-free thank you my lovelies <3

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[missvelvetsstuff]

No Benefits

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Reader and Bucky are best friends until a drunken hook up. Bucky wants a friends with benefits situation because he doesn't feel ready for a relationship but reader knows that will lead to a broken heart.

Then Sharon Carter comes to work with them.

Notes: Steve and Tony are around but retired, everything else is mostly canon

Chapter 8

Warnings: swearing, angst, references to sex

The compound was tense the week after Cookie left. Tony was still pissed that she was gone and he couldn't get his favorite cookies. On top of that, fixing the Avengers gym was a major undertaking thanks to the holographic projectors that were used for team training simulations. Tony stood and watched as Bucky did most of the clean up before the tech team went in to replace everything he had destroyed.

Everyone was walking on eggshells as they waited for Nick Fury to return from off world. Of course he already knew what happened but was looking forward to bitching out the people who pushed her to leave. He was due sometime this week.

Sharon tried to get close to Bucky but he wanted to wallow by himself. He also shunned Nat who tried to distract him with her Widow seduction techniques. Anytime they were in the same room with Bucky, they were trying to get his attention. They would flirt, wear sexy and revealing outfits, act helpless so they could turn to him to open a jar or reach a higher shelf or something equally dumb. Bucky didn't really see through their efforts like the rest of the team did, he just didn't care what either of them said or did.

One morning Nat slid up to Bucky and started rubbing his arm as he drank his coffee. He looked at the hand on his arm then picked it up and pushed it away from him like it was diseased. Sharon stepped in and tried to get between him and Nat but he rebuffed her as well. It ended in a fight in the common room, both women ended up in medical, Sharon had a broken nose while Nat had cracked ribs and both had various scratches and bruises.

Bucky had just turned away from them and leaned on the counter to finish his coffee, seemingly oblivious to the women fighting right behind him.

Tony had enough and had Friday lock both women in their own rooms until Fury returned and decided what to do with them. He snapped at Bucky "I'm getting really sick of your little harem with their attempts to seduce you and fighting with each other. You need to find a way to convince them you aren't interested."

Bucky shrugged "I don't know what you want me to do, Stark. I don't speak to either of them, except to tell them to leave me alone and I don't do anything to encourage them. I don't want either of them and I keep telling them but they won't stop." He sighed "I just want Cookie."

The morning after Cookie went to the Harlan Thrombey book launch, Bucky was sitting next to Steve, both eating the omelettes Sam made for them, when Nat entered the room "Gee Barnes, looks like your precious Cookie has moved on already."

Bucky sighed and shook his head but didn't say anything.

Nat took that as a sign to keep going "She ended up in the gossip pages, seen leaving a book release party with Boston's most eligible, and notorious, bachelor." She smirked when she heard Bucky's breath catch "Ransom Drysdale has a different debutante, model or actress on his arm every week but this new woman is a mystery." She quoted the article she was reading on her phone. "There's a bunch of pictures of him with other women. Cookie was definitely a step down for this guy."

She snapped at Bucky "Why are you pining for some dumpy little analyst when I'm right here?"

Bucky could feel his control waning he turned and snarled at her "I don't fucking want you! Leave me alone. What the fuck are you doing out of your room?"

Nat shrugged "I have my ways"

Tony skidded to a stop, out of breath "There you are, Romanoff. Do I need to put you in a holding cell? The big guys room? Stop trying to stir up more trouble and leave Barnes alone!"

Nat scoffed "Fine, I'll go." She rubbed her shoulder against Bucky and purred "You know where to find me."

Bucky pulled away from her, then looked over at Tony in shock, he never imagined Tony would stand up for him. He softly spoke "Thank you, Tony."

Tony nodded "I think we need to have Romanoff and Carter checked by medical again."

He looked at Bucky and smirked "You're not hideous but they have a level of obsession with you that doesn't seem natural. I want to be sure they are both completely clear of that serums influence before we even consider putting them back out in the field."

Bucky nodded, thinking "It's interesting that I'm fine and we haven't had any problems with Yelena, maybe she'll know something more about that serum and the 'cure'."

Tony hummed "Well, you have the super soldier juice and they mentioned having to dose you repeatedly but yeah, maybe Yelena can shed some light. Friday, where is Miss Belova?"

"She's in her quarters, boss. She hasn't left since returning from kidnapping Cookie."

Tony nodded at Bucky "I'll let you know if I find anything. If Romanoff bothers you, tell Friday and we'll put her in a holding cell until Fury returns."

After talking to Yelena and consulting with Bruce and Dr Cho, And a trip to Antonia's holding cell, Tony discovered that Antonia had used an updated version of the serum after Yelena released all of the widows. The cure worked but only partially, and it seemed that the orders that Sharon and Natasha had been given were still floating around in their heads, making them act out. Yelena had voluntarily locked herself in her room after all the drama with Antonia, as she took being controlled again very hard and didn't trust herself.

Tony called the team to move Nat and Sharon to holding cells since Nat had escaped her room once but when they went to find the women Sharon was still in her room but Natasha was nowhere to be found.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That same morning, outside of Boston...Cookie woke up, closing her eyes as quickly as she opened them. Too bright, the room was all windows. She groaned as she became more aware, she felt some new aches in her body, most noticeably between her legs. She also felt an arm around her waist and that she had no clothing on.

A warm body behind her moaned "Relax. It's early and Sunday." Pulling her closer.

Cookie turned to look at him, in the early morning light and with his messy bedhead, she realized the man looked a lot like Steve Rogers. The thought made her giggle, until he turned her so she was facing him and pulled her close until she felt his morning erection pressed up against her "I know you're not laughing at me, sweetheart." He started kissing down her neck and grinding up against her until they were caught up in each other again.

A few hours later Cookie felt her stomach grumble "Ransom" she whispered with no response "Ransom."

She pushed on his shoulder and he groaned "nooo"

She started tracing down his side until he choked back a laugh and grabbed her hands "What is it, Cookie? I'm tryna sleep here."

"Ransom! I'm hungry so you need to feed me or I need to go home and get some food."

Ransom started pushing up against her "I've got something to feed you, right-"

Cookie elbowed him in the ribs "Really Ransom? What are you, 12? I need some food." She sat up "I should get home, I've got chores to do"

Ransom scoffed "Chores? That's what maids are for."

Cookie got up and found her clothes "Yeah, well not all of us have trust funds so we can afford to hire help."

He sat up and watched as she dressed.

Once she was somewhat respectable looking, for a walk of shame, Cookie turned to Ransom, who had started playing with his phone once she was dressed. After leaning down to give him a kiss she stood to leave "Thanks, Ran, I needed that. It was fun. Maybe I'll see you around."

Ransom looked up "Do you need a ride or something?"

Cookie smiled "No, my uber is almost here, I'm good."

He leered at her "I don't do relationships, baby, but you have my number if you wanna do it again."

She giggled "Yeah, sure. I'm going to wait out front for my car, so I'll see you."

When Cookie arrived home she took a long hot shower and went over her memories of the last 24 hours. She certainly never expected to meet Ransom Drysdale and spend the night with him. His reputation was justified, the man had a wicked tongue and impressive stamina for someone with no enhancements. He definitely satisfied but wasn't someone to get caught up with, as his reputation also warned. She wasn't in Boston to find a new man anyhow, she was getting over one. He didn't compare to Bucky but she tried not to think about him, everything was too confusing and messy.

Cookie sighed, she missed him and the friendship they had before Sharon showed up to ruin everything. Even though she knew it wasn't really Sharon's fault, Cookie couldn't help the anger that tried to bubble up. She pushed it back down as she dried her hair and went downstairs to find something to eat.

Cookie didn't feel up for cooking so settled for a bowl of cereal, sat at the dining room table and picked her phone up only to be hit with dozens of notifications. She felt her stomach drop, apparently Ransom was big gossip and the new unknown woman he left the book launch with was Boston's biggest mystery. Some of her coworkers were asking if it was her while Annie just tagged her with a winky emoji. Maria Hill texted a question mark and 'call me'.

Cookie's head fell into her hands, she knew she wasn't in any trouble but hadn't expected her little fling to get so much outside attention. This was a potential complication that she didn't need. At least she knew Ransom was on the same page and didn't expect anything more from her.

She jumped when her phone rang but was relieved to see it was Sam.

"Hey babygirl, sounds like you're having some fun in Boston. Don't forget us little people while you're hanging with the world famous writer and his family."

Cookie laughed "Please, it was one party. I'm still the nerdy intel analyst you know and love."

"Well I hope so. You didn't hear it from me but Robocop is turning green."

Cookie scoffed "Right, he has them to keep him occupied."

"Yeah, they are fighting over him and he's ignoring them. It's almost entertaining, at least until I had to help pull them apart. I got scratched in the face, those ladies are ruthless."

Cookie laughed "Poor, poor, Sammy. Beat up by those mean ol girls. I'm sorry I'm not there to stitch you up."

"Pffft, wasn't all that. Just annoying." Sam whined "I miss you, when are you coming home?"

Cookie sighed "This is my home for now. I miss you too Sammy but the compound was just too much. You should come here, there's lots of history."

They ended the call with Sam promising to visit when he could get away after Cookie told him she would make his favorite cookies.

After they hung up, Cookie started going through her mail. A plain white envelope with the compound as the return address caught her eye. The simple block writing made her heart race as she realized it was Bucky's writing. It was the first time he'd tried to reach out to her since the night they spent together and she was afraid he was finally rejecting her friendship outright instead of just ignoring her. Being ignored had hurt but there had been some hope, however foolish it might have been, especially after learning that he had been drugged, but if he told her he didn't want her in this letter that would really be it.

Cookie's mind came up with all sorts of awful things he could say and what his words could do to her and she felt a panic attack crawling up her spine. She dropped the letter like it was on fire and backed away without opening it. She wasn't ready to read what Bucky had to say yet and left it on the table as she started her laundry and straightened up her townhouse.

@erelierraceala @capswife @ozwriterchick @cjand10 @wintrsoldrluvr @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @browneyedgrli @greatenthusiasttidalwave @hhiggs @dontworryboutitsweetheart-blog @behindmygreyeyes @pattiemac1 @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @calwitch @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @ordelixx @blackhawkfanatic @casey1-2007 @scott-loki-barnes @selella @hiireadstuff @winterschildren8

Every time she walked past the table she could see it out of the corner of her eye. It seemed to grow and catch her attention no matter where she went in the house but she just couldn't bring herself to open it yet.

Chapter 9

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

-i am drowning, there is no sign of land-

Zhi zhi and zhi zhi again went the wooden shuttles of Lü Zhi's loom. The shadow of her husband appeared in the doorway. Lü Zhi watched his muddy reflection in her bronze dressing-table mirror, but pretended to take no notice.  The specter faltered, retreated a few steps, and then finally its owner seemed to rally his courage and it advanced forward again. 

“Wife, I am home!” Liu Bang said heartily, strolling into the room with his chest puffed up and his chin jutting out. If he could not feel confident, he should endeavor to look it. As Master Sun said; ‘all warfare is based on deception.’ In that regard, martial and marital matters had a lot in common.

“Good evening, Husband,” Lü Zhi replied coolly, without deigning to raise her eyes from her weaving; “I trust Husband is well.” 

“Same old, same old,” Liu Bang said with a wave of his hand. He looked around for a seating platform but found none. In spite of the richness of the large room with its polished elm walls and high ceilings, it was still as bare as the day he brought it, which rendered it as austere as a monastery. Aside from the bed and dressing table, there was no other furnishings except the loom and Lü Zhi herself kneeling on a plain straw mat. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lü Zhi continued without the slightest change in inflection, “because it has been half a month since Husband has set foot in the same house as his wife and children. He is always being called away on important business, it makes me worried that all of this hard work might be ruining his health.”   

Liu Bang stood there awkwardly in front of her, feeling like an unlucky scout reporting bad news to his general. It was becoming increasingly apparent that the bareness of the room was not so much as thrift as it was a pointed message. Nonetheless, his smile was all teeth and charm as he cooed, "my wife is too caring. I'm sorry for making her worry," outwardly he appeared at ease, but his eyes were filled with grim determination as he stared down at this plain, dumpy woman. It was the life-and-death focus of a man trying to find a coiled cobra in a big pile of rope. “But enough about me! How’s the new house treating you, darling? You settling in alright? Shit, who woulda thought Old Liu from Pei County would ever be able to afford a place this flash? Every room is a fucking maze, it must take a whole incense-stick just to get from the bed to the dresser–and look at you, my poor little woman’s gotten so skinny from all that walking, haha!"

“The house is very fine,” Lü Zhi pulled a thread taunt and snapped it with her teeth. “I am so fortunate to have a benevolent husband who is generous to all his women." 

The unspoken name of Liu Bang's old mistress, now an official concubine whose proof of purchase had been stamped by Liu Bang's own magisterial seal hung in the air like an unpleasant smell. Like that whore's cheap perfume, clinging to my husband and finding its way into my bed, Lü Zhi thought to herself, as she moved the shuttles back and forth with slightly more force than necessary. Damn, this was going to ruin the weft. The proper thing for a woman to do in this situation was to be happy and gracious. To rejoice in her husband's newfound happiness and the fact he would finally have male heirs to pass on the family line. Proper was a shackle around her ankle, crippling her. Proper was a noose around her neck, tightening with every passing year as her fertility dwindled. She had given her youth and beauty to this man and look at what being proper had earned her. 

“That’s good, that’s good," Liu Bang said. "Y'know what they say, 'if there is peace in the home, there shall be peace on earth,'" her husband had the mouth of a born gambler, Lü Zhi once remarked to her sister that you could break both his kneecaps and he’d still prattle on as smoothly as spilled oil. His only tell was that he repeated himself when he was nervous. 

There was a moment of silence as Liu Bang looked around the room, as if to admire the non-existent decor. "It's good that you're settled," he said again. 

"If Husband has something on his mind, he should say it," Lü Zhi looked up at him and smiled with such sweetness it made every hair on Liu Bang's arm stand on end. "There should be no secrets between a man and his wife." 

"Well," Liu Bang rubbed his bearded chin. “I wasn't going to mention it, but since you asked I might as well. I heard you had one of our girls whipped this morning. The new one named Xiao Tiao.” 

“Whipped and dismissed,” Lü Zhi answered, flicking away a speck of dust with her nails, “I have no use for incompetent servants.” 

“A hard lesson is a good lesson!” Liu Bang replied placatingly, “I’m sure she’ll be all the wiser for it now. That being said, wouldn’t you prefer to keep her around and reap the fruits of your labours? I mean, she is only ten years old, that’s plenty of time to learn.” 

Lü Zhi’s sidelong look could not be described as glacial–even glaciers were known to occasionally melt. "Husband is a duke now and a leader of men. He should focus on the affairs of state and not concern himself with a woman's household duties. Such things are beneath him." 

"Oh, you're right as always, I suppose." Liu Bang agreed, “I shouldn’t meddle. My wife always runs my household so well and does the–what’cha call it?–fiscally responsible thing to save me a whole bunch of money. I’m so blessed to have her. That being said, I am a tiny, little bit curious to know what Xiao Tiao did that was so terrible.” 

“That brat is idle, insolent and has an ill-favoured look about her,” Lü Zhi snapped, “what other reason do I need?” It would be simpler and faster to frame Xiao Tiao for theft, but that could just as easily backfire on Lü Zhi. Either Liu Bang wouldn’t believe it and end up resenting his wife–or he would believe it and be impressed by that brat’s gall. He was exactly that type of shameless, contrary-minded scoundrel to respect a good con when he saw it. 

“Now, that’s scarcely a proper reason!” Liu Bang had the guts to chuckle. There was a steely glint in his eyes now. It was the look of a blade that had seen an opening and was eager to thrust into it. "Wife, if I didn’t know any better it would sound like you’re jealous of that ugly little thing."

Lü Zhi’s head shot up. Liu Bang, for all his apparent guilelessness, had struck surprisingly close to home. She had let her temper get the better of her and forgotten the second most important fact about Liu Bang; gamblers did not fold even if they held a bad hand. They would cling onto it until they were cleaned out or their luck turned.

“I will not dignify that with a reply,” she hissed venomously, “the very notion insults me.” 

“C’mon Wife, you should know better than to think your husband could be interested in something like that,” Liu Bang said in an insufferably cajoling voice, and there was that god-forsaken smile again, his fox’s smile. “I picked her up from the side of the road because I felt sorry for her. You might as well get mad at a little tame sparrow or rabbit. I only brought her here because I thought she’d make a good handmaid for my daughter. It’s high time she had one, being a proper little lady and whatnot. Look, the decision is yours since you’re the mistress of the house. If she’s too stupid for housework then put her outside and make her chop firewood. Hell, she can sleep with the firewood too, if that makes you happy. You’ve already whipped her bloody, why not set a virtuous example and let bygones be bygones? I’ve already spent so much on her food and board, it wouldn’t be fiscally responsible to kick her out now! Let Husband get his money’s worth at least.”

It must be said that even in the depths of her anger, Lü Zhi did not believe Liu Bang had any desire for that skinny, black-skinned wrench. In all honesty, she would have hated that mangy stray less if Liu Bang had intended to make her into a concubine. That was understandable, at least–men were led by their pricks, why should her husband be any different?

But the truth was that although Liu Bang held a great deal of affection for the brat, that affection was fatherly and it made Lü Zhi absolutely sick to her stomach. Her husband was always tugging Xiao Tiao’s braids and sneaking her treats from his sleeve when he thought Lü Zhi’s back was turned.

He was more of a father to her than he had ever been with his own flesh-and-blood daughter. The lawful product of their union. This orphan girl he picked up during his last campaign was foul-mouthed, hard-scrabble and canny, exactly the three qualities Liu Bang loved best because they reminded him of himself.

His own daughter had been raised to be proper, highly marriageable lady, a picture-perfect example of the old adage, 'a talentless woman is virtuous.' Unlike her mother, who had been tutored on a level that was almost equal to a boy–more than equal, if that boy happened to be Liu Xiao’er– the girl had only ever been taught to weave, be demure, and say nothing of value. Both husband and wife had been adamant about it, because it was the proper thing to do. Liu Bang both prized and detested his daughter for it. He would boast about her virtue and complain about how frivolous and empty-headed she was in the same breath. She was a piece of decoration he couldn’t wait to sell off. Perishable goods with expensive upkeep and an expiration date. He certainly wouldn’t be caught dead walking through the flower garden with her, deliberately shortening his stride to keep careful pace with a pair of smaller legs. He couldn’t bend his head low in order to hear her speak, nodding and smiling at her words, his expression attentive and approving. 

notes:

welcome to the 210 BC Horrible Person Olympics, lets have a round of applause for the defending champions of the mixed doubles; Lü Zhi and Liu Bang!

opening sentence onomatopoeia is a reference to the ballard of hua mulan. uhh something something twisted mirror of a dutiful woman sacrificing herself to uphold the patriarch and patriarchy

Xiao Tiao is written as 小粜, Tiao meaning broomstick.

Liu Bang liking competitive, rough-and-tumble people was partially inspired by the historical records. Liu Bang favoured Consort Qi's son, Liu Ruyi over Lü Zhi's son Liu Ying because Liu Ying was too nice and gentle. Also, y'know, his taste in women in general.

uhhh i may have fuged the timelines a little here. Liu Ying is born in 210 and Liu Bang's big glowup takes places in 211. bear with me.

[mcytblrconfessions]

Sneeg's humor being largely "fart poop your mom wicked dicks big dumpy" is fucking great but oh my god it's infectious and only my friends/fellow Freaks probably find it funny. Also I love that despite that being half his vocabulary on stream, he's the sexiest voice any non-English speaker's chat has ever heard. It's happened at least twice now.

[sistercara]

its honestly transphobic that estrogen didnt give me a big dumpy and absurdly thick grabbable hips fucking scam

[forcemascexperiments]

I always let out a little chuckle when I see your pfp. It looks so dejected and resigned to it's woeful fate of having an absolute DUMPY.

Hehehuhu

I always imagine him going "yeah, I have a big butt 😔 yeah, it jiggles when I run up the stairs 😔😔 so what? 😒😔 not even gonna fuck it? Wouldn't be surprised."

[khaleesa]

141. “Tell me what you want.”

You have no idea how tempted I was to write a 90s AU for this one with Chrissy listening to the Spice Girls. I hope this is a better alternative! Unbetaed, so as to surprise you. 💗

~*~

What a Girl Wants

"Okay, Cunningham," Eddie called from the hallway, "how do you wanna--?" 

The question died as he halted in his tracks just inside the open bedroom door. One hand fumbled for the door frame because he suddenly felt weak in the knees, like the muscles and tendons and bones and shit had turned to goo, unable to support his weight. He couldn't breathe, his heart slamming around too fast in his chest for his lungs to work. His face felt really hot, too. Jesus Christ, was he about to fucking swoon? 

Well I do declare, could somebody please pass the smelling salts? Because Chrissy Cunningham was in his bedroom, perched at the end of his bed, wearing a nightgown.

Nightshirt? It was more like a really huge blue t-shirt that fell to her knees. Each of the elbow length sleeves was encircled with broad white stripes--like a football jersey. (Unfortunately, Eddie knew more than he wanted to about football; Wayne didn't allow the TV to be set to anything else on Sunday afternoons, even though he mostly napped through games.) A big, white number 7 was screen printed across the front of Chrissy's nightshirt, between the two perky humps of her boobs. 

She, uh, wasn't wearing a bra. Eddie didn't need a high school diploma to know that. Those nips didn't lie. 

His face was so. hot. It was all he could do not to fan himself with his free hand. But that would freak her out, right? He dropped his gaze to her feet. The thick, slouchy tube socks made her strong, slender legs look even shaplier. Shit, this was not helping. 

"Eddie?" 

His eyes snapped back up to Chrissy's face. Her skin was pink and glowing from her shower, makeup scrubbed off, and her hair, still a little damp, fell over her shoulders in waves that glowed sunset gold in the lamplight. Holy hell, she was gorgeous. And alive. And staying with him. Because, apparently, she felt safer and happier in a dumpy Forest Hills trailer than in her parents' big swanky house in Loch Nora. 

Apparently, she liked him. 

Eddie swallowed and croaked, like he'd slipped back in time to puberty, "Uh, yeah, Chrissy?"

"What were you saying?"

What was he saying? Hell if he knew. He'd be lucky to remember his own goddamn name with those big blue-gray eyes of her gazing up at him from his bed. 

(Eddie. His name was Eddie. Short for Edward James Munson.)

And he also remembered what he'd come in here to say. 

"Oh. Yeah." He slapped the door frame and stepped fully into the bedroom. "I was just gonna ask about, you know, uh…" His hand went up to scrunch his hair in back. "...sleeping arrangements." 

Chrissy's eyes got even bigger. "Sleeping arrangements?" she squeaked. 

"Yeah, like…" Eddie jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I can take the couch." 

"I can take the couch!" Chrissy hopped to her feet, more eagerly than Eddie would've hoped for--but this was, after all, why he'd brought it up. 

Trying not to sound as crestfallen as he felt, he asked, "Uh, what kind of shitty host do you think I am, making a guest sleep on the couch?" 

Not that he hadn't made guests sleep on the couch--on the rare occasion he had them. But usually that was just the guys crashing after too many beers and too much weed. No one who required red carpet treatment.

"And what kind of crappy guest do you think I am, making the host give up his bed?" Chrissy retorted. "You're taller than me, Eddie, you'll get a sore neck if you sleep on the couch."

"The lady is as benevolent as she is beautiful, but I won't allow it." He went on, over Chrissy's protest, "Uncle Wayne gets home, at like, three a.m. You'd only get a couple hours' sleep." 

"Oh." Chrissy's brow furrowed, and her full lips pursed. Just when Eddie thought she was going to concede, she said, "But that means you won't get enough sleep, either."

"Well." He wracked his brain for an argument, but he had nothing. "That's true." 

For a moment they stared at each other, Chrissy's eyes wide and imploring, lips parted as if words were about to leap off her tongue, then she huffed out a sigh and glanced toward the closet door. 

"Do you have any extra blankets?" she asked. "I can make a little pallet on the floor here, and you can sleep on the bed."

"Or I can sleep on the floor, while you take the bed. 

Eddie pictured himself curled up against the end of the mattress--a loyal pooch at his mistress' feet. Or a guard dog. Yeah, that seemed about right. But Chrissy's face looked like she disagreed.

Now it was Eddie who sighed, holding out his hands, palms up.  "Please, Princess, I'm trying to be a gentleman here. Can you just let--Wait." He shook his head as his brain stumbled backward to the last thing she'd said, then blinked at her, comprehension dawning. "You mean you're cool with me sleeping in the same room as you?"

Was that a blush creeping across her cheeks as she nodded, not quite meeting his eye and catching her bottom lip between her teeth? (He wished those were his teeth sinking into that sweet, supple flesh.)

"I didn't think you wanted to sleep in the same room as me," Chrissy said, in the surprised hush that had gotten under his skin that day in the woods where all this began. "You were so insistent about the couch." 

Well who'd a thunk chivalry would bite Eddie in the ass? "I only meant I would if you wanted me to."

"I don't want you to."

"And you don't want to sleep on the couch." 

Chrissy looked down. Eddie could see the curl of her long golden lashes against the delicate, faintly purplish skin below her eyes. "Not really. No." 

"Do you want to sleep on the floor?" 

Chrissy's fingers picked at the fabric of her nightshirt. "Well…no."

"That's two votes in favor of Chrissy not sleeping on this cesspit of a floor." 

Her gaze darted up to his, before immediately dropping back to her hands. "I don't want you to either."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and Eddie once again felt hot and mushy, like he was boiling from the inside and would just melt at Chrissy's feet. But while he thought he might have an idea of what she was trying to say, it was just too absofuckinglutely bananas to believe. It was probably just what he hoped she was trying to say. He didn't want to jump to any conclusions and make this more awkward than it already was. 

Still, they were getting nowhere by beating around the bush. (He should not think about bushes.)

Eddie blurted out, "Well, where do you want me to sleep?"

Now there was no denying that Chrissy was blushing as she stared steadfastly down at her feet, which were curling into the carpet. 

"Chrissy. Tell me what you want." 

This time, when she raised her eyes to meet his, her gaze held. She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and said in the steady tone that had won her the position of Head Cheerleader--and that had told Vecna to go to hell, "I want you to sleep in the bed. With me. But…" Here, she faltered a little. "But only if…you want to sleep in the bed. With me." 

Eddie basically did swoon then, flopping backward onto the bed. Over Chrissy's laughter, he said, "Sweetheart! That's what I've wanted this whole freaking time! But I didn't, uh, want to make assumptions. I make a big enough ass of myself without their help." 

He reached out, and Chrissy placed her hand in his as she knelt beside him on the mattress. "I didn't want you to think I'm…I don't know…fast?" 

"Hmm…" Eddie rolled onto his side and drew her hand to his lips, pressing a smacking kiss to the back of it. "We've been hanging out for less than a week, and here you are asking me to sleep with you. There are those who might call that fast." 

Although Chrissy's cheeks flushed again, her grip tightened on his hand as she lowered herself onto her side facing him.

"Last week felt awfully long to me," she said.

Eddie scuffed his thumb across the ridges of her knuckles. "Yeah. It sure as fuck did." 

Yet it had brought them to now. He wasn't sure how much time passed with them lying hand-in-hand, face-to-face in his bed, but it was long enough that Chrissy started to yawn. Eddie leaned in to kiss her drooping eyelids. 

"I swear, I'll be a gentleman," he murmured, still conscious that there were still aspects of their sleeping arrangement that they hadn't worked out. Such as, what did she want him to wear to bed? And was she okay with cuddling? Big spoon or little spoon? "I don't expect you to…You know." 

It was Eddie who bit down on his lower lip. Chrissy tilted her head and pressed her lips to it. 

"What if I expect you to…You know?" she asked.

Eddie's heart was beating so hard he was pretty sure it had collapsed a lung. His head swam. This was like being high. Better. "You wouldn't happen to have any smelling salts on you, would you, Miss?" 

Chrissy giggled. 'What?"

"It's a good thing I'm already lying down, is all I'm saying." Eddie shifted on his pillow to meet her eye. "Just tell me what you want, Chrissy, and I'll do it. Anything."

"Right now," Chrissy said, pressing herself against his chest and tucking her head under his chin, "I want you to put your arms around me." 

So Eddie did. 

150 Random Writing Prompts