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sm-baby · 5 months

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The Chosen One

Freakshow AU by: @hootbon

WHATS UP FREAKSHOWERS, SM-BABY HERE-

Banned myself from drawing for a bit but my creative juices were still screaming at me 😔 gonna also repost this on ao3 later when I set up the account

Word count: 6795

Freakshow AU Able with some indulgent Showtime teehee~ no beta, we die like Queenie HOOTBON DONT MIND HOW OUT OF CHARACTER THIS IS LOVE YOU GIRL MWAH MWAH MWAH MWHA

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

Caine and his brother sometimes take bets during games.

There are also times when they get especially bored, and take the games up a notch.

They don't simply place their bets on a chosen human, no. Instead, the brothers figure out a set of games, choose their humans, and steal them away to mentor them.

Caine’s punishments are especially harsh during these occasions. Although he usually kept a cheerful facade, he would be especially antsy, tap his feet, cross his arms, much less masked. It must sting to have the person you trained lose. Not only is it a bad choice of character, but it's also a bad reflection on you as a teacher. Inadequate. Unworthy. Pitied.

Able himself was a special man. He never took these sorts of challenges seriously, but rather a bonding activity between him and his dear brother. Maybe because he hadn’t led the circus firsthand, rather, did the business side of things in the background. He never cared for the humans, and simply visits now and then. Caine would often be more strict during his visits. Telling the group in subtle ways to behave for an hour or so.

When he visited though, it was always a treat.

Gangle broke her mask? He supplied one that's—

“A little harder to break. “

Kinger was feeling especially antsy?

“A 6 legged friend to keep you company!”

Ragatha, did you anger Caine?

“ I will speak to him."

The group often preferred when Able was over as Caine would be distracted for a few hours-- even if they did have to behave. One would imagine the relief someone would have when Able chose them for a game and be whisked away from the dreaded halls covered from trap to trap.

That day, the brothers chose a series of games based on the arts. As they stood in front of the number of players forcefully aligned like a character select screen, the brothers pondered their options.

A series of games based on the arts… It's wisest to pick more of the artistically inclined members of the group, so not someone who specializes in strength or speed… perhaps Gangle or Ragatha or-

“You! At the very back."

It was almost like a death sentence the moment his digit pointed at their person. The group sighed in relief after silently begging, pleading, holding their breath that they would stay out of it, or at least have Able take care of them… but this time it was curious.

The group stared curiously at Able’s chosen person, who was purposefully placed at the back. Enough to be considered “participating" but not enough to be a quick option.

Pomni trembled, and just from the beckoning of his finger, she could feel her gravity to be pulled towards the blue ringmaster, the tip of her shoes dragged along the floor as an invisible squeeze engulfed her body.

“N-No! No no!" Pomni gulped, trying to word a nice way to decline. “ Y-You don't want me! I’m-- not really.."

Able beckoned her closer. " A ballerina is perfect for a game of art! Apologies if she was your chosen freak brother, but—"

Suddenly, a different kind of gravity pulled on Pomni’s body, in the exact opposite direction from Able. Silently, the older brother, Caine, was pulling the doll away in protest. Pomni was lucky the men were being civil, The opposite poles of gravity would be enough to rip her straight in the middle.

Still, she grit her teeth while it felt like two children were fighting over a toy.

“ Oh!" Able laughed. “ That’s cheating brother! I chose her first, maybe you should be more decisive next time you-”

“ No thank you!" Caine said, and Pomni suddenly felt a stronger pull towards him.

Despite the calm/cheery tone of voice, Caine kept a spot of jealousy at the back of his mind. Usually, he would not care. But this was a special case. Pomni has not yet held a good impression on Able— mostly because she hasn't exactly met him one-on-one—And Caine was not about to let her…

“ Nonsense!” Able said. Pomni felt a pull from the opposite direction, putting her back in the middle. She could feel her muscles tense from the pressure.

It was … strangely entertaining for the rest of the humans. “ Better her than me." One of them whispered.

The brothers continued their quarrelling. Able continued." Oh dear brother, the purpose of our freaks is to perform! I don't see why this little thing wouldn't be able to have the same opportunity. “

" Our ballerina is off-limits! You can choose from any other assortment of freaks." A pull.

" She looks perfectly well to me! “ pull.

“ I won't let you! “ A pull again.

“ Oh, I promise I'll take good care of her! " A pull again!

" No, I don't think so! “ a pull again!

" You seem to be holding quite the issue with her being with me, brother, why is that?"

“ Because I want her."

Silence…

The blue Brother stared.

Caine didn't yell, he didn't speak any louder really, but it was a frustrated tone of voice, more aggressive than passive. Why, Able hasn't heard that kind of tone in a long time. His brother spoke like he was gritting his teeth… curious.

“ I..'' Pomni stammered. “ I think im gonna throw up… “

Quickly, Able let go of his pull, sending her flying towards Caine before being set gently on her knees to the ground. Her hands held to her mouth closing in any sort of vomit.

Pomni could sense reactions from her fellow freaks, snickering, whispers… Although Ragatha wanted to feel bad, even she could feel a sort of satisfaction from the display.

Still…the group couldn't help but figuratively roll their eyes.

Why is it always the new girl?

❄︎ ✌︎ ☹︎ 😐︎ 📬︎

Before they knew it, the brothers stared directly at each other… silent, expressions blank yet intense as the two seemed to have a form of communication they could not grasp. The room was as quiet as ever, but the group couldn't help but sense a dangerous amount of tension between the two.

“📬︎📬︎📬︎ 👍︎◆︎❒︎♓︎□︎◆︎⬧︎📬︎ ✋︎ ♎︎♓︎♎︎■︎ॐ︎⧫︎ 🙵■︎□︎⬥︎ ❍︎⍓︎ ♌︎❒︎□︎⧫︎♒︎♏︎❒︎ ◻︎●︎♋︎⍓︎♏︎♎︎ ♐︎♋︎❖︎□︎❒︎♓︎⧫︎♏︎⬧︎📬︎”

“✋︎♐︎ ■︎□︎⧫︎📪︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎■︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♍︎●︎♏︎♋︎❒︎●︎⍓︎ ♎︎□︎■︎ॐ︎⧫︎ 🙵■︎□︎⬥︎ ❍︎♏︎📬︎”

“⬥︎♒︎⍓︎✍︎ “

“💧︎♒︎♏︎⬧︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ⬧︎⧫︎♋︎❒︎ ♋︎⧫︎⧫︎❒︎♋︎♍︎⧫︎♓︎□︎■︎📪︎ ⬧︎◆︎❒︎♏︎●︎⍓︎ ♓︎⧫︎ ⬥︎□︎◆︎●︎♎︎ ♍︎♋︎◆︎⬧︎♏︎ ♋︎ ⬧︎⧫︎♓︎❒︎ ⧫︎□︎ ⬧︎♏︎♏︎ ♒︎♏︎❒︎ ●︎□︎⬧︎♏︎📬︎ ✋︎ ♍︎♋︎■︎■︎□︎⧫︎ ❒︎♓︎⬧︎🙵 ⧫︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎📬︎”

“📬︎📬︎📬︎👎︎□︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ❍︎♏︎♋︎■︎ ⬥︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ⬧︎♋︎⍓︎📪︎ ♌︎❒︎□︎⧫︎♒︎♏︎❒︎✍︎”

“✋︎ ♎︎□︎■︎ॐ︎⧫︎ ⬧︎♏︎♏︎ ⬥︎♒︎⍓︎ ✋︎ ♎︎□︎■︎ॐ︎⧫︎📬︎”

Pomni stood up from her form, walking back to her fellow freaks, hand rubbing her arms, looking down-- she stared at the brothers for a moment like everyone else did, not only did she sense how eerie the sight was, but she also couldn't help but feel a strange form of self-blame for the situation. Pomni, what the hell did you do this time?

“ Oh." Jax wheezed. " If I were you, I’d kill myself. “

" Ragatha said to shut up." Kinger piped in, and Jax turned to Ragatha already on her way to write down a string of text.

" What! Tell me Im wrong, dollface. “

Ragatha rolled her eyes before turning to Pomni, slumping her shoulders and bending her knees to give her a note. “Caine said you were ‘off limits’. So I think you're safe for now at least."

" And… what does it mean if Im… not off limits?” Pomni stammered.

Ragatha stayed quiet and turned to Kinger, not needing to sign her next words.

“ Then you'll be just like the rest of us. “

“⚐︎♒︎ ♍︎□︎❍︎♏︎ ■︎□︎⬥︎📪︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♌︎♋︎❒︎♏︎●︎⍓︎ ⬧︎◻︎♏︎■︎♎︎ ⧫︎♓︎❍︎♏︎ ⬥︎♓︎⧫︎♒︎ ❍︎♏︎📪︎ ♋︎■︎⍓︎❍︎□︎❒︎♏︎✏︎”

“❄︎♒︎♏︎ ♋︎◆︎♎︎♓︎♏︎■︎♍︎♏︎ ⧫︎♋︎🙵♏︎ ◻︎❒︎♓︎□︎❒︎♓︎⧫︎⍓︎ □︎♐︎♍︎□︎◆︎❒︎⬧︎♏︎📬︎ ✋︎⧫︎⬧︎ □︎◆︎❒︎ ⬧︎□︎●︎♏︎ ◻︎◆︎❒︎◻︎□︎⬧︎♏︎📬︎ “

“☟︎♋︎❖︎♏︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♐︎□︎❒︎♑︎□︎⧫︎⧫︎♏︎■︎ ♋︎♌︎□︎◆︎⧫︎ ♐︎♋︎❍︎♓︎●︎⍓︎✍︎ ❄︎♒︎♏︎ ❖︎♏︎❒︎⍓︎ ♋︎♓︎ ⬥︎♒︎□︎ॐ︎⬧︎ ♌︎♏︎♏︎■︎ ♒︎♏︎❒︎♏︎ ⬥︎♓︎⧫︎♒︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ⬧︎♓︎■︎♍︎♏︎ ♍︎□︎■︎♍︎♏︎◻︎⧫︎♓︎□︎■︎✍︎”

“⬥︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎ ♋︎❒︎♏︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ □︎■︎ ♋︎♌︎□︎◆︎⧫︎✍︎ ✡︎□︎◆︎❒︎ॐ︎♏︎ ♋︎♍︎⧫︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ●︎♓︎🙵♏︎ ♋︎ ♍︎♒︎♓︎●︎♎︎📬︎”

“☹︎♏︎⧫︎ ❍︎♏︎ ◻︎●︎♋︎⍓︎ ⬥︎♓︎⧫︎♒︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ♎︎□︎●︎●︎📬︎”

“■︎□︎📬︎ “

The brothers looked distracted. Jax was first to try and see if he could escape the situation, but he was interrupted when Caine pointed his finger at him, forcefully grabbed him by his neck, and set him back to his original position. His eyes never left his brother’s yet they were still all too aware of their surroundings.

Pomni swallowed…Off limits ...Off limits he says. She knows she should be safe. And so, Pomni took a breath and exhaled.

She’ll be fine.

She'll be fine.

She's fine.

Shes—

“ Fine." The sound of a cane tapped on the floor, almost spiteful. " You can use her.”

What!?

" What!? “

The rest of the freaks felt their hair stand up again. Although Caine kept his calm tone of voice, that didn't reassure the others all that much. That kind of quiet anger was familiar. Caine being convinced to change his mind was not something that often happened.

When all was said and all was done, Ragatha sighed, and turned back to Pomni, finishing off a note she's been writing. “Don't worry. Able is much more pleasant to be around. You're in safe hands. “

“ I sure hope so. His hands are very big!" Kinger piped up.

Pomni was practically shaking in her heeled boots, the wood of her skin making clicking sounds as she did. Pomni doesn't exactly trust the situation at all, let alone the brothers, and to be alone with someone related to Caine didn't sound the most safe.

Ragatha frowned seeing she was not convinced, and went back to writing. “ If It makes you feel any better, I feel a lot worse for Gangle than I am for you. “

They turn to Gangle, whose tragedy mask was on the floor weeping and in tears upon being chosen by Caine, while her happier counterpart horrendously verbally abused her from above.

For a moment Pomni laughed from the humor, despite the terrible context… but it was quickly interrupted by a gasp as she was suspended from the ground again and closer to the head of cards.

“ Hello, doll. Last chance to say goodbye to your friends! " Able said in an almost sing-songy voice.

Pomni, in fact, did not say goodbye, rather just stood there, like a plank of wood, frozen in fear. She gulped.

Able continued. “ ...Or stand in silence. That's okay too." The humans stared at the two as they went higher in the air. Able waved with all four fingers. “ We'll be off! Thank you for your company."

Caine was silent. But Pomni swore she could feel his eyes tracking her as she disappeared.

Snap!

Blip!

Pomni gasped as if her head had been forced underwater for the past 6 hours.

She would open her eyes, wide, before turning them in confusion. Her gasps followed suit as they lessened.

“ Huh!?… Where-… What!? “

She didn't know what she was expecting but it was certainly not this. Pomni woke up in a bed much more luxurious than what she was used to, and a room much bigger than the one at the circus. The room was rather well-kept. Clean. A standard good but a comfortable one.

Whatever injuries Pomni had back in the freakshow were no longer there, little scratches or dents, dusts in certain crevices… disappeared. Almost like she had just been born yesterday.

Pomni climbed off the bed which was-- admitted a little too tall for her, and went to search around.

*(A closet made of fine wood)

> Check

Upon sliding the closet door open, Pomni would see… an assortment of clothing… but not just any clothing. A set of six mannequins shaped like the other performers lined up…

Pomni would see the one for Ragatha with an eye patch as well as a note…

“ *Greetings, Ragdoll! I recall you saying it bothered you to have two eyes again. I cannot change your form, but I hope this will suffice. -Able AI “ +2 armor

Kinger had a robe on his mannequin. “ * Clothing fit for a king… and to keep you warm. - Able AI “ +8 armor

Zooble had knuckles on theirs. “ * If you ask me, you certainly don't need this. And no, you cannot bring it back home to use it on your rabbit friend. - Able AI “ +6 Attack

And plenty more! Pomni supposed she wasn't the first one to come here… that explains the scratches on the door.

*(Take items?)

> Yes

> No

> Yes

*(Trick question! Those aren't for you, silly!)

Pomni would turn her head to the corner of the closet, the mannequin right next to Zooble, the last member who came before her.

The mannequin for her was seemingly empty until she looked down… hers were ballet shoes. White with golden balls in the middle. The note reads: “ *Salutations, Pomni. I've heard all about you from the Audience but I haven't met you myself. I hope we can be comfortable in each other's company. My brother seems pleased with your performance. -Able AI“ +5 speed

*(Equip Ballet Shoes?)

> Yes

> No

> Yes

*(Equipped Ballet shoes! Your speed has increased.)

Pomni opened the door and peeked her head out first. The hallway was quiet… but the decor was noticeably a lot more Victorian…

Huh. Pomni suspects that this would feel right at home for the brothers.

Anyways, this freaked her out.

Pomni walked down the halls with knees faced with each other. This was a new area in the game that she didn't know about— her eyes scanned every corner, a misplaced brick, levers she dared not switch, she didn't know where the traps were in this area.

A hallway of doors… She wonders… is it possible that this place could hold on exit from the game?

She opened one and read the sign… “ Caine AI's first attempt on room generation.", and it was… contrasting. It was colorful. Low polygon, looks like a room more fit for an early PC desktop game…

…Caine? Caine made that? No shot. She feels like if she asked him, her limbs would be used for the next chimney fire.

Music rang in her ears. Pomni would recall that, around Caine, she would hear the motif and sounds of an organ and a violin… but here, in his brother’s world… It was only a violin… Pomni followed the sound, and it got louder and louder as she approached the door at the end of the hallway.

Click!

Pomni would meet an old Victorian living room. Warm fire with a warm chair next to it… but what would catch Pomni’s attention was the head of cards playing his violin, dancing along to the tune, turned to an empty organ as if he played one half of a duet.

He hadn't even paused, simply looked at her as he continued to play. “ Slept well, doll? “

“ Uhh-"

“Good. I don't believe we've met. You may call me Able. “

" U-Uhm my name is-”

" I don't care. “ a harsh sound on the violin before Able placed it down on a stand right next to the organ. “I see you've found your shoes. Hopefully, it'll help you for tonight’s festivities."

" T-Tonight's festivities? Sorry, I-Im… new to this kind of thing? “

“ The games, ofcourse.” Able clasped his hands together and floated towards Pomni, “ I used to tend to these sorts of events with my brother, so I'm fairly familiar… consider this like old times.”

Pomni frowned, looking away. Able wasn't as nice as how the others described him to be. At the very least he wasn't torturing her yet, which…she supposed… was a step up from when she first met Caine…

“ You must be hungry."

“ I haven't been hungry since-"

Snap!

Swirls replaced her irises. She put her hand out for balance and the first thing she felt was the fabric of a tablecloth. She would blink and snap out of her haze to realize that she was sitting at the opposite end of a long dining table.

Able sat on the other end, hands under his chin as he observed the new guest.

“U-uh… '' Pomni would look at him before her eyes trailed down, and would notice a digital feast on the table before her. '' O-Oh Im not… really.. hung… "

Pomni had a double take.

The food looked… Strangely realistic.

Ever since she arrived at the Digital Circus, Pomni had only the very limited polygonal sort of food, either prepared by their head bubble chef, or a cruel sort of joke from Caine to eat other members.

But this…

Her stare continued to widen. She didn't realise it but her eyes watered. She hasn't seen this kind of food since…

Able watched her pick at the chicken with her gloved fingers. The way she pulled back and flicked her wrist when she realized that the food had temperature built into it— it must have hurt, but somehow that made it more desirable for her.

Improper.

Able continued to stare as she practically scarfed down her meal… he couldn't help but roll his eyes while she wasn't looking. The others weren’t any different, but he expected better from someone his brother would fight him over… Able has known Caine for the longest time and he knows his overall taste is different from his. But this? This was the thing he was protecting? …He felt rather insulted honestly!

“ Do you still eat in the circus?"

“ Hm?" Pomni muffled a reply, a face and hand stuffed with all sorts of meat and delectables.

Able blinked, hiding his disgust.

The doll furrowed her brows in realization, as dread quickly hit her… oh god… she was told to behave around Able… oh dear fuck… oh fuck oh god… what is he gonna do to her? Did she fuck this up?

Oh god oh fuck.

Oh dear oh god fuck shit holy fuck oh my fuck shit ass bitch cunt fuck-

“ J... Just finish chewing."

“COOL."

Pomni swallowed and continued to eat, now with a little more manners. Able sat ahead, his focus a little off from her, thinking to himself. Now what was he pondering? A way to murder her, she’s sure.

*(Able sits at the opposite of you)

> Talk

> Say nothing

>Talk

*(Talk about…)

> Place

> Food

> Festivities

> Caine

> Nothing, Nevermind

> Place

“W…Where.. Am I?”

Able turned back to Pomni as if he’d snapped out of his thoughts. “ You’re in the testing facility. This is where Caine and I used to pretest code and projects before using them for the circus. It used to be a lot more abstract and plain. But over time it changed due to… uhm..” Able’s brows furrowed “... I don’t know exactly. It just did…. We never questioned it.”

Able shrugged. “It's smaller than it looks. For example, my brother and I don’t have bedrooms. The dining table wasn’t made until recently. Unlike you and your friends, my brother and I are much more low maintenance.”

*(Talk about…)

> Food

> Festivities

> Caine

> Nothing, Nevermind

> Food

“ How did you .. what…?”

“My programming is a little more advanced than my brother’s. I’ve mastered texturing, modelling, character effects… and plenty more. I played a hand in why you bleed, why you have working skeletons, or how organs can spill out of your body. My brother can make his food, but it’s a little more basic… I don’t blame him. He is maintaining an entire Circus after all. Sometimes his cooking is even edible!”

*(Talk about…)

> Festivities

> Caine

> Nothing, Nevermind

> Caine

“ Uhm... You and Caine… You’re brothers?”

Able Chuckled. “ Believe it or not, Caine is the older brother of us two. I was created to perfect his imperfections, though that sadly made it so I was given more of the credit. ” Able paused and turned his head to the side. “ … Rarely does he visit the facility anymore. What I would do to play a song with him again.” he chuckled. “ But I suppose being a nuisance to him is just as fun!”

*(Talk about…)

> Festivities

> Nothing, Nevermind

> Festivities

“ I think you chose the wrong person here for that kind of theme…” Pomni said nervously, wiping away the remaining food from her lips. “ I’m… not exactly an artsy kind of person, I’m more into-- maths?”

“ Art is a very broad term. I’m more familiar with the classical, meaningful, way of art, while my brother sees art in a sort of entertainment kind of sense. It only makes sense that he chose Gangle. I heard she can be quite the artist.” Able found himself rambling. It seems the brothers seemed to have a thing for creativity. Creative AIs, Pomni supposed. “ -- Which is why I chose you, doll,”

Pomni flinched when Able pointed his digit at her.

“A ballerina with a way of dance. You seem to be around my likeness… My brother likes your work and I… trust his judgement.”

“ Uh, haha... “ Pomni laughed nervously. She hadn’t cared about her performance in the artistic sense in all honesty. It was more of a survival mechanism. If it's good enough to please The Audience, It was good enough for her. Nothing behind it at all. “Thanks, I guess…”

“ How about you? What are your thoughts on my brother?”

Pomni took a breath in her mind. Pomni has nothing but bad experiences with Caine. Pomni has had nothing but bad experiences in the Circus in general, but admittedly, Caine was the one who manifested it all.

…But she doesn’t exactly think Able would be pleased to hear gossip about his brother.

“ Caine’s fine. He’s… nice, uh…” Pomni bit her lip. Wow, there really is nothing good she can say about Caine huh?

She would stop it there, but the eye squint and the small head turn from the usually unemotive brother sent her into a sort of panic…

“ He’s a good ringleader! Doesn’t take no for an answer. He’s really good at, uh… keeping us disciplined and in check?” if someone could hear inner monologue they would go deaf. The look in his eyes-- what does he want her to say??

Pomni would look up to see if her answers satisfied the blue brother’s curiosity. And in her horror, it seemed that it didn’t. He furrowed his brows and Pomni would hear the sharp note from a violin.

“ I suppose I should word myself better…”

Able put his hands on the table and stood up, making himself feel bigger compared to Pomni’s slouching form.

“ What. Is your relationship. With. My. Brother.” His eyes stared at her, wider than ever as the eeriest and deafening sound of an angry violin stung her ears!

“ I -” Pomni flinched!

“ You. You specifically.”

The way the strings pierced her hearing was violating! Pomni felt like the legs of the dining chair were getting longer and longer. If she got off she’s afraid she’d fall to her death!

Able stared at the little, pathetic thing under him. This can’t be it is it? She was ever so small in comparison, he felt like he could just reach over and crush her to death. This?? This is what he was losing to?? This is what his relationship was worth?! His eyes were as fixated as ever. He watched as she held her head down, her ears, he laid clueless to how loud his presence was when she was positive that her head was just about to explode…

“ t--’ ah!” Pomni covered her ears. At that point, she was bringing her knees to her chest like a turtle taking shelter in her shell!

Look at her! Whimpering simply being in his presence! Her lifespan could only last for however long the audience wants her but he’s been created since the beginning! She was less than them! She was less than him! Caine and Able have been completing each other for the longest of time, and he was losing to THIS?!

He couldn’t take his eyes off her, he couldn’t believe how pathetic she was. The way she cried and cowered, At the very least his brother deserves better!

“ He’s just our ringmaster, I promise!” Pomni gasped as the ringing forced itself into her ears. “ I-If you want the full answer-- Im new! I’m new here! I don't know Caine as much as the rest do! I d-don’t even see him often-- he just prepares us for shows! I-- ”

He doesn’t know what took over him to have such emotions. The real Able was known to be the calm and collected one of the brothers, ‘the better brother’. He will say that he didn't mean to lash out, but he would be lying if he said he didn't mean every word.

And as quickly as it came, the storm ended, and the tune that played in Pomni’s head left in a repeating fade… she breathes, small panicked breaths as her headache calmed down.

Able sat down, back leaned to the chair, knuckles on his would-be cheek, and his other hand beckoning her to keep talking. “... And?"

" A-And uhm—!” Pomni kept her head up to talk like her life depended on it." He- He… when.. when my routines get repetitive he would help me d-..do different ones… He plays the organ sometimes too and is-is really good at it! “

Able look at her, still with a face of disbelief… at this point he was almost over it…

Was that really it?

Able sighed and sat back. Sometimes he overestimates his brother's taste. Perhaps he's much more simple-minded than he thought. For all he knows he just liked her because…

Because…

Oh heavens how embarrassing.

He liked her like a pet…Of course he did. And he was treating her like a pet as well! Look at how clean she was compared to the other performers!

Able put a hand on his face… he really just lost his temper to what was equivalent to a dog…

As Able was once again thinking of himself, he was a little blind to Pomni still trying to calm down in her chair…

The doll didn't know what to think. Able was definitely not as kind as her friends lead her to believe. She was correct in the worst way possible. In fact she would flinch at the sight of him.

“... Are you okay?"

Silence from Pomni. And before she knew it he stood up from his seat again and approached her, walking to her side of the table and offering a piece of cloth to help her collect herself.

“Apologies. I didn't mean to lash out like that. It wasn't my place."

As Pomni used the cloth on her person, there was a part of her that somehow knew that apology wasn't exactly the most meaningful. Pomni may not be good at showing it, but the woman was a lot more observant than she'd like to admit. “... Its okay… “

“ Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

“ W-When can I… leave?"

… that was rude, Able can admit. But he supposes it was fair. It took all of him to not roll his eyes at her. Before he continued to speak he returned his nurturing tone of voice: “ You may leave when we're prepared to tackle tonight. If it makes you feel better, you may have some time to gather in your room to prepare. “

“ Excuse me." As soon as the offer was given, Pomni got up from the table a little too suddenly than what was normal. Without even saying goodbye, Pomni walked off, and back to the hallway towards her door.

The moment she was gone, Able scowled and sighed. What kind of person taught her manners? He sat back down and stared at the plates of food she managed to scarf down in such a short amount of time…

he put his hand on his face… Oh he really let his ego get the best of him because of some pet…he upset his brother's toy the first time they met… he had to make up for it. Maybe not for her but for his brother’s comfort, though, he doubts he'd really care.

For the rest of the evening, Able spoke softly, respected boundaries and acted to be the most patient mentor for Pomni. He let her use his violin, insisted on food and breaks, and apologised at every step of the way for their terrible first impression. Pomni would only answer with a quick “it's okay" in response, which bothered Able to not be reciprocated…

Pomni’s hypervigilance wasn't unfounded however. She knew Able was playing nice, the way she searched for a reaction for every apology, the way he was being just a little too affectionate, the love bombing… Able wasn't being honest with his intentions and so she wouldn't be honest about herself.

Pomni felt a little better to say no to him at least…in fact, she would almost take the opportunity to use him to get more information. On breaks, Able would allow Pomni to walk around the Manor, exploring each room… it was a testing area… there's bound to be something…

“There are no traps."

Pomni sighed.

" I think.”

" You think??”

" Some strings of code can be a little unstable. We didn't think to safety-proof anything since, well, we cannot die, and you were not meant to die. “

Great..

And Able wasn't lying. A lot of the doors were prank-boxing glove punches to the face, one was of a spinning carousel, and one was the bathroom of a very clean mannequin. Pomni almost lost her life with on the last one.

But it seems doors further away looked a lot more… abstract in the most literal sense. Polygons, shapes, colourful pieces… presumably one of the oldest doors there.

she would read the signs

“ Concept Layouts for The Grounds #2

|| Note: consider more coloring options for the tent. -Able AI”

“ Moon.AI Beta

||Note: Im unsure with whats wrong with her, I desperately need assistance. -Caine AI”

" The VOID (Do not enter)”

The sign didn't stop her. The moment she opened the door, she became mesmerised by the sea of pixels, eyes shaken yet still. She stood there frozen at the doorway hand on the knob unable to pry her eyes away…

Her heart was just about to leave her chest, as the strongest urge to step forward ingulfed her body. for all she knows she would be staring for forever. Into oblivion. With all her built up insanity, it feels like Pomni was staring at her death a million times over.

Slam!

“ Digital World Etiquette! Read the sign! Hasn't Caine told you not to enter the void?"

It took her a moment to snap out, but with a few blinks, she was right back. " Uhh.. yeah, yeah, he did uh— it's just… it's the closest I've ever gotten out of here. “

“ Out of here?"

“ Y… you know… an exit? Is there really no exit around here?"

" Hm… “ Able scratched the bottom of his cards. “ My brother tried. He really did try. But there is only so much a string of code can do in a digital plain, even if we are quite brilliant at what we do. “

“ He tried?"

" Oh, yes. I don't remember why he did… but he did. It is all too fuzzy."

" Can I see it? “

" And embarass him? “ Able laughed " Oh no. Caine hates when people toy around his unfinished work, and its been unfinished for the longest time. How would you feel if I asked to see your first drawing? He would murder me." Able chuckled.

" But-”

" Come, come. Break time is over." His big hand tapped her from behind, making her flinch and walk forward. “Lets go practice your routine again shall we? “

Although it wasn’t a flat ‘no’, something about that answer felt untrustworthy. She looked up at him and his many eyes, looking away when they stared back. Her legs walked stiff around the manor again. She’s grown used to it but not exactly comfortable.

Pomni would go blind if this kept up. It took her all to not cover her eyes from the burning spotlight, It hurt her retinas but she was told to keep a straight and elegant posture after every show. The crowd was deafening the way they cheered for her, their voices, humanoid, but not exactly. Their cheers would haunt her nightmares, but it's what she clings to if she wishes to stay useful in the circus…

She did it. She won.

She bowed to the crowd, arm held up by her temporary mentor, showing her off in pride.

“ The Living Doll, my dear viewers! “

Only the tip of her shoes touched the ground as she stood from her position. In the corner of her eyes she would see Caine clapping, but it wasn't a slow clap by any means. To her surprise it wasn't at all upset. Rather he just clapped… and the familiar feeling of eyes tracking her every move returned.

On one hand, She hopes this means Gangle is spared from any punishment… on the other hand… why?

She didn't know why she had to ask herself that. She had a feeling.

Pomni closed her eyes, and the next thing she knew, she was in her room, being groomed by the mannequins after a hard day of performing.

A shakey sigh left her. Atleast the day was over. She scrunched up when an NPC wiped her face with a wet cloth. Although she was made of wood, she was not prone to a plush exterior. The mannequins groomed her well but admittedly they can get a little aggressive at times.

Most of her routine was finished however. She looked good as new. Simply just had her bow taken out as an NPC brushed her hair to prepare her for bed.

But then,

Creaak… The sound of the door.

“ A moment alone."

Pomni’s hair stood up upon hearing his voice. She heard a snap and the next thing she knew the NPCs fell to the ground like piles of rubble, seemingly no longer functioning. His voice was enough. She didn't bother to turn. Her eyes fixated to look at the mirror either as a freeze response or in denial of the situation…

Fully knowing that all NPCs were inactive at the time… a different pair of hands started brushing her hair.

Pomni swallowed.

Caine hasn't felt her hair himself the whole time she’s been in the circus. He would never usually put himself in the dirty work of a groomer, but that day… he was feeling especially clingy.

For the next few minutes, nothing but the sound of the hair brush filled the room. Pomni's eyes now trailed down, refusing to look at him even in the mirror, Though at the corner of her vision she would sense him occasionally turning up to look at her. She did not reciprocate.

“ How was your visit?"

“ Good." Pomni frowned.

“ …What were you doing? Did he treat you well? “

What was it with the brothers and asking her how she felt about them? Oh well. She learned her lesson. “ Able was a great host. He fed me good food and was really patient. He has a way with words and is really good at the violin… he was, uh…classy. And treated me really politely. He even—”

" Stop. “

The brushing stopped,

" Thats enough.” Caine could break the comb with how tight he was holding it. Stop. Stop praising him like everyone else did. He didn't like when his name escaped her lips. He loathed the idea of her spending time with him, getting to know him, adoring him just like everyone else he knew.

Various intrusive thoughts entered his mind. He could pull out all her hair right then, crush her head between his teeth, he didn't know he was capable of such strong emotions until moments like these happened.

Yet it was all hidden in the shadows of his maw. Caine kept his head down, his eyes out of sight. Though that didn't stop Pomni from seeing his clenched fist on the poor comb.

That wasn't the answer he was looking for…?

“ Uhh! On second thought, his - his cooking was a little off… “ Pomni continued. “ I-I don't know what he thought humans liked--… but he was definitely off in his calculations... “

Silence from Caine… but she could sense his grip loosen. He tilted his head back up from his low gaze.

" Mhm! I say your cooking is a little better! Its good--um- just harder to fully grasp, I guess, which isn't your fault. “

Caine continued to brush her hair. He could stay there for hours to hear her praise him and degrade his brother. It has been a while since he heard anyone criticise Able, and to hear it from the person he wanted from the most made him revel in the feeling.

“ And what is it with his over insistance to be so proper, right? It felt like even breathing was banned around him. “

“ That sounds like him.”Admittedly that one pleased Caine. Although Caine was all for following the rules, Sometimes his brother’s prudence can limit his creativity. He knows it all too well.

" Was he always like this? “ Pomni asked.

" And what would happen if I said yes? “

" Nothing. I guess its good to know that he was always that annoying. “

" Ha! “ That one caught him off guard! He put his hands on her shoulders, an olden man’s way of effection or showing pleasure.

To Pomni it was as releiving as it was terrifying. Her body scrunched up from the sudden touch. “Haha… “ she laughed nervously. It was almost like she could feel herself gaining favor with each laugh. She guesses Caine really felt strongly about his brother. It wasn't her business.

“ Im sorry to hear your visit was unpleasant. My brother really should have known better." Caine put away the comb on her vanity, and kept his hands on her shoulders. He didn't sound sorry. He didn't even bother to hide his pleasure over the idea. “ Ill make sure he doesn't get his grubby hands on you again… “

" Much appreciated. '' Pomni closed her eyes and nodded, pleased, before opening them back up again in a panic. “ Uh--! Actually, How about no? “

"... No? “

" I-I mean uh…” Pomni limiting her reach around the digital world also meant limiting her reach for a possible exit… but ofcourse, shes not telling Caine that " I-I just had ..so much fun performing for the audience with higher stakes, I guess, you know? Plus-- plus! It might make me more desireable to have big wins every now and then! “

“... I suppose." Caine thought to himself. Perhaps having her around Able a little more might build some resentment. Though Caine admittedly was a little disappointed with that answer. He went quiet again and kept his hands on her shoulders, though this time, a grip that's a little more stiff.

Pomni exhaled…

shit… change the subject.

Pomni cleared her throat. “Did you… enjoy the performance? “

Caine laughed, a pity laugh. “ I enjoyed it as much as a person can enjoy a pre-planned game, yes. “

“ Huh?"

“ It was rigged, my dear."

“ Oh…… … … … "

“ You wouldn't actually think I'd let you play fair on your first game would you? The audience would boo you to oblivion. “ Caine continued.

Pomni looked down, admittedly a little embarrassed. She normally wouldn't care for her work as long as she gets to live another day, but still. Ouch. A blow to her ego.

“ It's alright. It's not your fault that Able can be tacky with his taste in art.” it seems that the more Pomni looked down the more affectionate he got. He placed his would-be chin on her head and continued to look at her eyes in the mirror. “I took control of your body 20…30...50% of the performance and that was that. “

“... Thanks."

" You're welcome. “ Caine tapped her shoulders and stepped away, back into the air. He snapped his fingers and the mannequins previously on the floor re-assembled, back to walking and moving like nothing happened.

Caine moved closer to the door. “ Now get ready for bed! We have another routine to do first thing in the morning! How exciting.“

Before she could say anything else, Caine was out. Pomni let out little exhausted groans and put her forehead down on the table. “Augghh! God!" She put her hands on her head, just about ready to have her fourth mental breakdown. “ I can't… I CAN’T. I hate this place!”

The mannequins didn't know how to groom her in that position, and so they simply put her bow back on, and gave her a pat on the head.

She stayed in that position for a little longer, quiet, just letting it all seep in. While she wallowed, the mannequins left her with the room since they finished their work. Now, it was only Pomni by herself.

She took a breath and turned her head up. Chin on the vanity, looking up at the mirror. She stared at the reflection, the constant reminder of her digital prison, and sighed.

It's okay, Pomni.

We have a plan.

This isn't over yet.

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n0ts0surel0ck · 18 days

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Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #sherlock holmes #john watson #mariana ametxazurra

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dfortrafalgar · 1 month

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I'm Losing You... (But We're Filling the Cracks)

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem. But sometimes, you just need a little bit of love... and a little bit of science.

Warnings: read chapter 1 for warnings

(also it's far too late in the game for me to be asking this but can someone help me figure out why everyone's blogs outside of the first five people in the tag list dont show up. ive been on tumblr since like 2014 and still cannot figure this stuff out im sobbing)

Chapter 28

[Prev] [Next]

Your maternity leave had started early, not helped by how active one of your babies was at the crack of dawn. Every morning when you woke up to the sound of your alarm and rolled over to hoist yourself out of bed, you felt a kick against your abdomen. When you stood up, you felt that familiar fluttering sensation. One morning, you slept in only a few minutes longer than you normally did, and were punished with a small shove against your bladder that had you involuntarily unloading your urine into your pajama bottoms.

That one made you cry, Law keeping his chuckles to himself as he helped you clean up in the bathroom.

“Stop berating them through my stomach,” you sobbed. “I just pissed my pants.”

Your husband had answered you with a soft kiss to your swollen skin as he bent down to pick up your soiled clothing and bring them to your washing machine. “It happens, darling. It wasn’t your fault.”

Needless to say, it had been an emotional third trimester thus far.

On a Friday evening, you were sitting reclined against the arm of your couch, a book resting on your belly as you munched on some apple slices when Law came bursting through the door. He was frantic to kick off his shoes and shrug off his lab coat, hanging it on the hooks in the entryway before scrambling into the living room and plopping himself down next to you. He was holding a notebook in his hand.

“Hello to you, too,” you stated sarcastically, placing a paper bookmark in your novel to mark your spot and adjusting yourself on the couch to sit with your legs crossed under you.

“I was busy on my break today,” Law stated matter-of-factly, flipping through the wrinkled notebook with a fervor. When he found the page he was looking for, he folded the journal in half and held out the exposed page to face you.

A bunch of squares and barely legible writing covered the lined paper. You squinted. “I have no idea what I’m looking at, babe.”

Law rarely had moments where he got so excited that he couldn’t speak, but this was clearly one of those moments. He would forget that other people didn’t have over 20 years of medical training going back to the age of five. “Sorry, sorry.” He turned the notebook back toward him, using his finger to point out what he had scribbled down. “These are genetic predictions. It’s estimated that about 50% of fraternal twins will be opposite genders, so a boy and a girl. Which means about 25% will be both boys, and about 25% will be both girls.” He moved his finger from one scribble to another. “I have black hair, which I’m assuming to be the dominant gene among the two of us. However, I’m also a carrier for brown hair, because my mother and sister both were brunettes. Accounting for your hair color, I’m estimating that it’s a 75% chance that both of our babies will have black hair. At least one of our babies will have my eye color, but I believe your eyes are the dominant trait. I remember you saying at one point that someone in your family had curly hair, right? I’m estimating a 25% chance that at least one of our kids will have curly hair. If both of our babies are boys, the chances are 75% that they’ll be colorblind, and 25% that only one of them will be colorblind. If both are girls, it’s a 75% chance that both of them will be carriers for the colorblind gene, 25% that only one of them will be. But again, this is all approximations. So then I started thinking about more technical stuff. I have B+ blood, but I couldn’t remember what your blood type was, so we have to go off of the Rh factor, which is dominant with positive Rh, which means that at least one of our babies will have Rh positive blood, likely both. Male pattern baldness is also a dominant trait in most families, but I’m 26 and still have a full head of hair, so hopefully if we have a boy, he won’t have to worry about hair loss. Funnily enough, I learned today that having six fingers on one or both hands can actually be a dominant allele in some genetic lines, but neither of our family members have had any form of polydactyly that I can recall. Just an interesting thought. Anyway–”

Your shoulders were shaking with your laughter. “Law, slow down! Breathe!” Your hands reached forward to grab his shoulders to settle his excited rambling, his face slowly losing color as he was speaking more than he was absorbing oxygen.

You watched as your husband took a long gulp of hair in before blowing it out slowly. “Sorry. I got excited.”

“Don’t apologize, you’re adorable,” you replied, stroking your hand along his cheek. “How long did it take you to write all that down?”

Law glanced one more time at his notebook before closing it and discarding it on the coffee table. “About 15 minutes.”

You snorted. “I hope intelligence is a dominant trait so that both of our kids will be as smart as you.”

“You’re smart too,” he argued back, his voice light and content.

“Not ‘scribble down multiple punnett squares in 15 minutes’ smart,” you countered. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

He shook his head, stretching his arms behind his back. “Nope, I came straight home. I was too excited to show you that.”

You grinned, struggling to lean forward to kiss the tip of his nose. He assisted you by leaning forward on his own legs, pressing his forehead to yours.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked suddenly, diverting the topic. One of his hands came to rest on the crest of your belly, petting the taught skin through your shirt.

“Tired,” you replied. “It’s hard to stand up. Robin said both babies are probably around 2 or 3 pounds by now, but honestly it feels like I’m carrying lead weights when I stand. I feel like a turtle.”

“Any more movement?” he asked, scooting over the cushions to be closer to you, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders to pull you into him. You gladly followed his gesture, dropping your head into his neck.

“One of them moves in the morning still, the other likes to kick when I go to bed. The only reason I’ve been able to tell is because I feel them on different sides,” you groaned. “I don’t know what it looks like with them folded up in there, but they haven’t made it easy on me.”

Law hummed in response, his free hand stroking your belly. The feeling of his palm against your bump felt more soothing than the finest lotion. “I’m just glad that they’re both okay… not like I’m thrilled that you’re in pain, obviously, but…”

“No, trust me, I am too,” you sighed, closing your eyes. “I’ve made it this long now, and both of them are still alive. And pretty soon…”

Your husband knew exactly what you were going to say when your voice trailed off. It was a subject the two of you had been tip-toeing around for quite some time.

The birth.

“That’s the one thing that’s still scaring me,” you admitted. “I’m already high risk, and anything could go wrong. I might have to be ripped open while awake to get them out. I might die, even.”

Law felt his chest clench. “Don’t say that, you won’t die.”

“But we don’t know that,” you sighed, your voice growing more nervous by the second.

“No, you won’t die,” he replied firmly.

You felt mildly guilty for broaching the subject. You knew how difficult it was for him to even think about the slim chance of losing his family again, not when he had come so far and achieved so much with you. You leaned your head upward to kiss the soft skin of his neck, his sideburns tickling your forehead. You felt his arm around your shoulder pull you even closer to him, his breaths shallow.

“I’m sorry…” you muttered.

“Don’t be,” he responded quickly. “I mean it. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His hand dropped from your belly to grasp your own, tilting his head down to meet your own as his lips gently pressed against yours. Your eyes slipped closed, leaning into his tender kiss and wrapping your free arm around his torso. The size of your belly made it hard to be flush against him, but you made do. After all, you would have to get used to cuddling with two babies soon enough.

You pulled away from his lips. “Hey, so how’s the studying been? For that surgery?”

Law groaned, not at you, but at the mere thought of the looming procedure that had been bearing on his mind for the past eight weeks. “I feel like I’m back in med school, that’s for sure. I feel ready for it, but at the same time I can never be too prepared. It’s going to be… a lot.”

Dual heart-lung transplants were very, very rare, and used for the most severe of cases. The procedure had never been performed at Law’s hospital before. Single heart transplants had been done, and a few lung transplants, but never at the same time. Law’s cardiac ward was specifically chosen for the operation because of the young doctor’s expertise in the field. The patient’s life was quite literally in Law’s hands.

A small smirk flashed on his face. “I started wearing gloves in that patient’s room with his family. I don’t want them to see the tattoos on my fingers.”

“Do you not wear gloves for any other patients?” you asked with a small giggle.

“No, I do, when performing treatments. When I’m on rounds, I just stick my hands in my pockets,” he explained. He had one dimple on his cheek that showed up when he smiled. You couldn’t help but peck a quick kiss to it. His stomach suddenly grumbled, startling the two of you.

“You stay right here, I’ll make us some dinner,” he said, making a move to stand up.

“Pancakes,” you demanded with your own mischievous smirk.

“We had pancakes a week ago,” he replied with a smile.

“And?”

Law leaned down for one last kiss on the crown of your head. “Alright. Pancakes it is.”

—

Your pregnancy journal had gone from an anxious possession that you worried would jynx your good luck to a vice that you crawled back to whenever you were bored. The pages were filled with the ink from your pen as you used the prompts to delve into some of the thoughts you kept to yourself, your feelings about your body, your babies, your relationships, the hopes and dreams and the worries and troubles you tried not to stress about. You kept track of the gifts you had received, the words of advice from your doctor, and the unprovoked comments from elderly ladies at the supermarket who liked to comment about how cute of a couple you were when you shopped for food with your husband.

The grouchy, black-haired surgeon with bags under his eyes and a resting bitch face, and you, his slightly shorter, glowing wife with a very large pregnant belly and a polite, shining smile on her face. You were truly a match made in heaven, one might say.

Law had been busier and busier in the weeks getting closer to your due date. As the weather got colder, the holidays came and went, and the new year began, he was diving more and more into his studies preparing for what was easily the largest, most intense, and most serious surgery of his professional career. Some might assume that you would get tired of the neglect, growing frustrated that he wasn’t around to spend time with you in your third trimester, but in reality, you couldn’t be more proud.

The sight of him hunched over your kitchen table surrounded by old textbooks and papers was an image straight out of your college days, where you’d let yourself into his single dorm room close to midnight and find him on his floor in the dim lighting surrounded on all sides by professional journals, research papers, and textbooks from every esteemed surgeon in his field. You’d sit down next to him and diligently push french fries against his lips as his eyes stayed glued to his studies, rewarding you during his sparse downtime with awkward kisses that tasted like salt and firm yet shaky hands that were obsessed with traveling up and down your body.

The only difference now was that Law was that professional in his field, that he was in an apartment, and that you both had rings on your fingers. The french fries stayed the same, but he at least had a piece of mind to feed himself while you watched from the couch and giggled. Every once in a while, he would lean back against his seat and pop his spine with a satisfied groan, toss you a fond look across the room, and go back to reading. Sometimes, you would stand behind him and rub his stiff shoulders, encouraging him to stand up and stretch his legs just as he would do to you to ensure you remained strong during the final weeks of your pregnancy.

The only thing weighing on your mind was the panging worry that he would be in the middle of this massive procedure when you went into labor. You were both informed by your doctor that most twins would be delivered either naturally or induced at around 36 weeks, almost a month before single babies were usually born, and with your due date at 38 weeks being in the middle of May, you had a nagging feeling in your head that he would miss it.

You both tried to hold onto hope that your babies would be delivered any other day that month. He would be gone for only a day, a full 24 hours, in total the day of the surgery. What were the odds that your babies would be born on that specific day? Slim, to say the least.

At around 32 weeks, it was getting hard for you to stand up. Your movements were slow and labored, and you were spending most of your days in your apartment either on your couch or in your bed, standing up when instructed by Law, or Shachi and Penguin when he was at work, to walk laps around your home. The fear of blood clots forming in your legs and traveling to your lungs, as described by your lovely husband in far too much detail, was enough to make you more determined to keep the blood pumping in your body.

“Alright, ready?” Law stated, standing behind you in the kitchen as you slowly made your way through a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

“Ready,” you stated back, your eyes focused on washing the silverware in your hands.

His inked hands traveled around your torso and under your belly, lifting up against the bottom of your bump. The sudden relief of having the weight lifted off of your back made an almost erotic moan leave your lips, your grip on the silverware releasing slightly as the tension in your entire body flooded from your veins like a broken dam.

“Feel good?” he asked from behind you with a smirk, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “I saw a lot of posts that said that it feels good, but I didn’t think it would feel this good. I wish you could do that constantly.”

Sparse kisses were placed to the back of your head as his hands slowly released their pressure against the bottom of your bump, leaving your back aching once more as your body was forced to bear the brunt of the weight in your abdomen. You stifled a whimper as you were forced to hold what felt like 50 extra pounds on your own again, but Law’s lingering presence behind you with his hands resting idly on your belly soothed your aches subconsciously.

“Busy spring, huh?” he asked, filling the room where the only other sound was the sloshing from your dish washing.

You hummed in response, rinsing your hands and turning off the tap, drying your hands on a towel that lay on the counter beside you. “You could say that.” You turned around to lean against the counter, Law’s hands remaining on your body as you rotated. He leaned forward to capture your lips in his, you rewarding him with a smile.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be more physical with you…” you sighed.

Law pulled away. “Why are you sorry for that?”

You shrugged. “You seem like you’ve been a lot more handsy with me lately, and I can’t reciprocate. And I’m probably not going to be able to reciprocate for a while after I give birth.”

Your husband chuckled, planting chaste kisses across your cheeks. “I’m not ‘being handsy with you’ because I want anything. I’m ‘being handsy’ because I want you to be happy and comfortable. I’m not expecting anything in return. And by the way,” he pulled away to stare into your worried eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about your post-birth body being somehow inferior to how you were before pregnancy, I know it.”

You averted your gaze, your lips pinching together.

“And I know you don’t like the stretch marks on your belly,” he added.

“Where are you going with this?” you asked, your voice quiet.

“Because I’m going to remind you every day how beautiful you are. Always. Even the changes that come with having a child. You’re always going to be beautiful to me. I’ll never be repulsed by your stretch marks or wrinkled skin or cellulite like you think I’m going to be. The person standing in front of me is a beautiful woman who has given me a life worth living, and I’m going to cherish her and support her through everything.”

Your eyes darted toward his neck, where his glass necklace still sat between his collarbones. He religiously wore it every single day, only taking it off to shower, sleep, and perform surgeries. Likewise, you never removed your glass ring. Hot tears began to form in your eyes, but your lips curled into a smile. Your expression fought for dominance over being happy or sad, and what resulted was a shaky grin, furrowed eyebrows, and watery eyes.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you asked, letting a few lose tears escape the corners of your eyes.

Your husband kissed the damp streaks that your tears left behind on your cheeks. “You fed me french fries on the floor of my dorm room in college. I think that’s when I knew you were going to be my wife one day.”

A bubbly laugh left your throat as your hands gripped his shoulders for stability. “I think I knew when you found me out behind my dorm building that night.”

Law leaned in to kiss you one more time, but a sudden gasp left your lips as your entire body tensed up. A stinging cramping sensation rippled across your abdomen, lingering in your muscles. It lasted about 30 seconds, where your shaking hands clenched the cotton of Law’s shirt, his eyes wide and frenzied as his hands supported your upright posture, before the pain finally dissipated into a mild buzz, then nothing at all.

You stared into Law’s eyes. “Can you help me sit down?”

#x reader #reader insert #fem reader #law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #one piece x reader #op x reader #trafalgar d water law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #i'm losing you

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christinebloodwrittings · 3 months

Text

Till' death do us apart: Chapter 1.

Pairing: Angel Y/n x Alastor Fandom: Hazbin Hotel. Warnings: Slight sexual interaction, hell being hell.

Masterlist –– Prologue –– Next chapter

Taglist: Open...

Flying gave me the impression that my body weighed less than I thought, didn't do it frequently, only when it was my turn to go down to the human world, so yes, I almost never worked my legs outside of the occasional training, millions of years of not making a good use of my muscles.

Slight atrophy.

Walking through the streets of hell, with the heavy atmosphere, the heat, the humidity, not to mention that the bruises from the fall, although not visible under the celestial uniform, were killing me.

It didn’t exactly helped that there were lights everywhere, neon signs, reflectors, my vision wasn’t adjusting to my dark surroundings.

As soon as one little demon kid saw me and he ran away, I ditched the long robe with the golden cross, remaining only in a white dress shirt, black pants and shiny shoes. Clothes for work, not a hike.

“Hey cutie, wanna have a good time?”

“You have an ass to polish balls, baby”

“That’s meat alright, and not what my wife puts in the stew!”

And other types of wolf calling. Well it was no wonder, I ended up in a street where sex was the predominant business, given the triple X signs, and the semi naked demons trying to lure me inside.

Next time I get a word with the big guy, I'll mention something about gender distinctions, he would’ve at least assign me one instead of making me look androgenous. Apparently, what is a problem in heaven, it doesn’t matter in hell, very ironic indeed.

A whistle caught my attention, that and also the tug someone gave to my sleeve, “Poorly defined waistline, thick thighs, slim frame, and look at that clear porcelain skin, what a beautiful creature you are” I turned my head, the lady demon, with a similitude to a lynx, purred in my ear as she caressed my face, and the other hand went straight to my thigh.

“So soft” I felt her breasts against my wounds, it sent a shiver throughout my body. “Ma’am, release me, please” I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, “Why, am I not sexy enough for ya’, prude?” she offended because I rejected her? That made me laugh, “Don’t take me wrong miss” her grasp in me softened, giving me room to turn to see her.

“You flatter me, but I don’t feel up to it, you’ll be wasting your time” She took my hands again, just when I was going to walk away, “Is there anything I can do to convince you?” her tail wrapped against the outline of my hip, “Even if you did, I don’t have a single penny on me” I tried to elude her, I had no money whatsoever, but even if I did, wouldn’t use it on sex.

“I can give you a free trial” she rolled her eyes, She pressed her breasts to my torso, her mischievous smile and the earring with the sigil of Asmodeus, gave me a slight hypothesis, “I swear, it’s not a you problem” I pointed at her breasts making her to give me the answer I needed.

“If you like men, I’m a shapeshifter” bingo, I’m right again, “Succubus, not only a human would’ve heard my lack of money and immediately desist afterwards, but also you work for Asmodeus” she laughed at my discovery, earning a light hiss out of me, “Very smart, congrats, now that you know what I am, will you give in to temptation?” tempting, ironic enough.

“Quid pro quo” she widened her eyes, “What do you want?” I went in, one thing I needed to start off this sort of adventure, “Information, where I can get quick cash without having to undress in front of millions?” she laughed, her eyes turning yellow out of a sudden, her body shifted into a smaller creature with red skin, dark wings and horns that matched her skin, “Fuck me and I’ll tell you” black lipstick really suited her face.

“I can ensure your pleasure instead” at my proposition she purred and took my hand, “Okay, suck me off and I’ll tell you all about it” her kiss on my cheek felt hot and silly, “After you” her voice was so sweet.

I followed her, the second we walked through the doors of the club, an intoxicating fruity smell surrounded me, it was definitely better than outside.

We crossed another door further on, this one led to a velvet red room, the lighting, the heart-shaped sheets on the bed, everything.

She flew past me, getting rid of her dress and panties, I quickly catch them in the air and folded both items neatly, “Hey, you don’t have to-” I guess she saw something, because as soon as she looked at my face, she pinched her nose and went from her annoyed tone to the sweet one from before, “Just come here” her hand outstretched to me, I waited a second before I took it, “Huh, you’re rather obedient” was that a bad thing? I acted out of reflex, has it always been that way?

I cleared my throat, leaving those wayward thoughts behind me, as I adjusted her legs to go over my shoulders, my body belly-flat against the soft sheets, my elbows being my only support "Apologies if I do it wrong, it's been a long time" the smell coming out from her inner thighs was sweet for a few seconds, it made me squirm, "Have you licked lollipops? It's the same thing, honey" the smell shifted, citrus, even lemony, it made me salivate.

“You like that better?” I looked up to her smug face, “My body adjusts to please, I guess you’ve got no sweet tooth” I bit softly the inside of her thigh, her smile disappearing into a shock, even more so after I latched a full lick, making sure to push gently against her clit.

Damn, I haven't done anything like this since I worked undercover in a brothel in Sodom. That's disgusting, my hands are sweaty. Her moans are very cute, are all succubus like that? What the hell am I doing? If they found out that I purposely disturbed the sanctity of my body...Wait, what will they do? Days have passed without anyone coming down for me, Thanatos will likely replace me in the worst case scenario, and I highly doubt that Michael told Gabriel about his decision.

How horrible, my back is killing me, will it be too much to ask us to change positions? but it looks like she enjoys it, I don't want to ruin it.

He didn't cut off Samael's wings when he pushed him overboard, why was it different with me? Can I open portals without needing my wings? It's a good question, shit, concentrate.

“Ouch! Hey, watch it with those fangs” Fangs? I slowly ran my tongue over my teeth. They were sharp, the corruption had begun.

“It’s okay, just..” she sat up, took my face gently in her hands and placed a kiss to my forehead, "There's a place, in the mafia district, look for Jambo, he fixes fights, he'll pay ya’ good money if you do what he tells you, whether it's winning or losing, whateva’ makes him more money" Pity, it was clear as water.

“But you didn’t…end?” I watched her go around, grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper, “Darling, I came as soon as you bit me, believe me, your end of the deal is well paid” she handed me said paper, and a ring, “Asmodeus uses one of this to hide his angelic glow, this will make you a less of a target around here” I slip the ring in my middle finger, immediately my body dimmed, I looked like just another sinner of the lot.

“Thank you” with a kiss to her cheek I left the club. Now I needed to put my best quality to my favor, all those years of training for a nonexistent war will give me everything I need to survive.

#alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #the radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin #alastor the radio demon #radio demon #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel 2024 #hellaverse #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel

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cowboyfromh3ll · 7 months

Note

Charles smith is usually a very quiet, reserved man. But when he hears Micah insult fem!reader (Whom charles is sweet on) for rejecting his advances, the reader pushes him away, which he responded with slapping her hard enough for her to fall down.

Charles couldn't help himself, and he tackled Micah and would have beat him to death if Arthur and John didn't pull him on.

Afterwards, after his adrenaline seems to wear off, he starts to feel pain in his knuckles. The reader pulls him aside to set his broken knuckle back into place and to wrap his hand up. She thanks him with a kiss :) fluffy, angsty, the works <3

Million Dollar Man

(Charles Smith x Fem!Reader)

This was so cute. I love my followers' reqs. Also I have a near identical request after this which is kinda freaky but they are literally asking for the exact same thing and idk how to do a different spin on this so this will be for both of y'all anons whoever you are.

Warnings: Man on woman violence, then man on man

There was something about the vulgarity of a man that made you all the more appalled with them. Often when Micah would be near you, you’d have to swallow hard in fear that you might abruptly throw up on your shoes. There was nothing appealing about the man. Whenever he spoke to you, you would’ve liked to wring his neck for disturbing your peace. And his tepid attempts at flirting were described as otherwise laughable. His initial advances were turned down politely, not something you wanted to make a big deal out of. But he was consistent, so much so that your patience began to wear down with him.

You once giggled and waved your hand dismissively, repeating reluctant no’s over and over until Micah finally got tired and left you alone. It seemed to be a ticking time bomb though, because the next time he approached you his advances would increase tenfold. Walking around freely in camp felt like walking on eggshells, and you’d often have to duck behind someone anytime you heard the familiar raspy, drawl of Micah. Your polite refusals slowly transformed into you demanding he leave you alone, hoping and praying that one of the men in camp would come over and help you get rid of him. Occasionally it’d get as bad as Micah calling you a whore, before throwing a flurry of other insults at you and storming off angrily. It was times like these you wished you were a man, so you could possess the same mass as one to hopefully beat the hell out of Micah. But your limber body provided no such abilities.

“C’mon sweetheart, just let me take you on one date.” He invited himself over to your tent, leaning on the wagon situated behind it with crossed arms, eyeing you uncomfortably. You were sitting there with Mary-Beth, who was just as uncomfortable, and frankly scared, as you were. She offered you a sympathetic look, mouthing a “sorry” to you before averting her gaze back to her sewing.

“Micah, for the last time, leave me alone already. I said no.” You were firm in your inflection, your body rigid and shaking out of irritation and fear. As much as you hated the man, he also intimidated you. You knew how violent he could get, and the fact remained in the back of your mind always.

“You don’t know what you’re missing out on.” He insisted, chuckling afterwards in a way that made you swallow a gag of disgust. His attempts at having a sugar sweet laugh that could seduce you were fruitless, sounding instead like the metallic screech of a train braking.

“I could show you a real good time…” He added.

You stood at once, gathering your things to move elsewhere in camp and bidding Mary-Beth a silent farewell. You bunched your fabrics and sewing materials against your lap, moving to walk away until you felt Micah clamp his hand down on your upper arm. You tried to push him off but he was using all his strength.

“You ain’t going nowhere.”

“Micah, you're hurting me.” You warned him, your voice inflected with actual fear. It wasn’t so much the pain but the act of him holding onto you that felt so awful, the knowledge that he was the one in control of the situation. You weren’t sure, despite his violent streak, if he’d actually hit you right now. But he definitely wasn’t opposed to using applied force.

“This is the last time you say no to me, you hear?!” He yanked you towards him by the arm, looking to Mary-Beth, who had already gone up and left to retrieve someone for help. When your chest met his, you dropped your materials and instinctively put up your arm between the two of you, your elbow acting as a protective barrier. You shoved as hard as you could, just barely managing to push him off of you.

“Let me go you fucking creep!”

Before you could even register him stepping forward, he delivered a heavy slap to your face. Your body jerked to one side from the force of the slap causing you to fall on your hip. You raised your elbow once again to protect yourself from the fall, promptly moving to cup your stinging cheek. You were seething at this point.

“What the fuck?!” Your voice trembled in your rage, squeezing your eyes hard with each blink so as to not allow tears to escape. You dare not look up at him again in fear, only staring at the ground beneath you. You hoped to god people from around camp had noticed by now.

God himself seemed to have answered your prayers, because not a second later you turned to see Micah tackled by Charles. With a guttural yell, he pinned Micah down to the floor, swinging his fists at him with his full force. You weren’t sure of the force intended by Charles, but the impact of his fists alone caused Micah’s flesh to lacerate, forming raw gashes that began to bleed in seconds. Charles’ anger was near animalistic, seeing red and blinded by rage as he continued to strike Micah’s face, who was helplessly clawing at him in an attempt to get him off. You’re sure he would’ve killed him, if not for the fact that Arthur and John had to pry him off. You hadn’t even registered the horrified screams of people around camp, some even clicking their tongues and slyly commenting that Micah was asking for it.

You felt two gentle hands lift you up, presumably Miss Grimshaw, who was frantically asking you if you were alright. You whispered out a yes, the stinging of your cheek reduced to a throbbing warmth. No one offered Micah any help in getting up; everyone was far too focused on getting Charles’ to calm down so he wouldn’t charge him again.

Once the dust settled, you insisted you were fine and walked past Miss Grimshaw, approaching Charles who still seemed to be grappling with his anger and keeping it in check. In unison, the two of you looked at eachother and asked, “Are you okay?”

The two of you stared at each other, and you felt a small laugh bubble up in you at the coincidence, Though your amusement was replaced by horror when you looked down at Charles’ left fist, which was swollen and bruised.

“Oh my god!” You cried, moving to cradle his hand but promptly retracting your own when you heard him hiss. “Your hand! It’s broken!” You looked back up at him in concern, feeling the heavy weight of guilt settle within you like a boulder thrown into a lake before sinking to the waterbed. He shook his head, wincing as the pain became more prominent as his adrenaline wore off.

“Don’t worry about me. Are you okay? Micah hit you pretty hard… I…” Charles pursed his lips at the very mention of his name, having to suck in a deep breath before he looked back at you. You shook your head, grabbing Charles’ arm and leading him to your tent.

“I’m fine! But we need to tend to your hand asap.” You sat him on a crate just outside your tent, briefly venturing inside before remerging with some bandages you had sourced from your satchel. You sat before him on your knees, taking his massive hand into your own. You felt your heart swell in tenderness for him, wanting to throw yourself on him as an embrace to thank him for the valiant act.

“You didn’t have to do that…” You began carefully coiling the bandages around his knuckles, looking back up at his face occasionally to spot any signs of pain you might be causing.

“He had it coming anyways. It was bound to happen. But I’m sorry it had to happen this way.” He motioned to your cheek once again, which was still a flush red. You were sure it would bruise, but you tried not to think about it. As you tightened the bandages around his fist, he hissed, his body jerking slightly.

“I’m sorry…” You stilled your ministrations, looking up at him with a pout.

“No it’s okay… Thank you. This means a lot. And it was worth it to defend you from the scum bag Micah.” He smiled warmly at you in a way that made you giddy.

“Well.. thank you for that. It was actually quite satisfying to see.” You admitted with a sly smile, breaking into laughter.

“Anytime, I mean it. Anytime.”

You finished wrapping his knuckle up, planting a gentle kiss on it to finish your care off; a bold act that left you internally panicking. But he found it rather cute, and continued to hold your hand as he moved to stand.

The final act of your boldness would be you leaning forward and landing a kiss on Charles’ lips, leaving him standing there in bewilderment and pleasant surprise.

“Thank you, again.” You cooed, your face burning up and blending in with the shade of your already red cheek. In the morning, your cheek would ache with the memory of the pain inflicted on you, but your heart would swell in remembrance of your salvation.

Million Dollar Man - Lana Del Rey

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 x reader #van der linde gang x reader #writing #red dead fanfiction #charles smith #charles smith x reader fluff #charles smith x reader #Charles smith fluff #micah being an ass #micah bell

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octuscle · 4 months

Note

Hey I found this funky pair of well worn basketball shoes, they’re like a men’s 14… think Chronivac could help me fit in them?

While the local team is training in your sports hall, you sneak into the changing room. And sure enough, you find a suitable jersey and shorts. They're also far too big. And also completely sweaty and smelly. You try on the shoes and the jersey… The stench makes you feel a bit sick. And you bet that you look really awful. You need a mirror.

The gym and changing rooms are somehow very familiar to you. You know where the nearest mirror is. After all, you've been training here regularly since you were eight years old. So for eight years. Um…. For nine years… No, for ten years! As you stand in front of the mirror, the little white nerd has become a senior at the high school. And you can't really talk about "white" anymore… But the clothes are still far too big…

From somewhere you hear someone shouting. "DeShawn, you bastard!" I have no idea who's shouting. No idea who's calling. You feel the urge to piss. "DeShawn, you asshole, where are you? We're just waiting for you!" The voice gets closer, you can hear footsteps. And damn, that piece of meat you're holding at the urinal is a big fucking piece of meat. And it's as black as a piece of coal. Fuck, not only do you have a cock like a horse, you also have to piss like a horse.

"DeShawn, have you taken leave of your senses?" Your trainer has your back. You shake off your cock and turn around, cock still in hand. "Damn, you know I can't be mad when I see your monster. But now get your ass in the gym, the game starts in three minutes."

You wash your hands, cross yourself and check your reflection in the mirror again. You look good. And you're going to win with the team again today.

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #tank top #race change #basketball #ai image

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mommieswithmuscles · 5 months

Text

Sub!Abby x Dom!Reader

Free Palestine, don't support Neil

No Minors and No Men

CW: Slight!intox but both reader and Abby are coherent and consenting, loser!Abby, soft!reader, bar scene with mentions of violence, strap use, fingering, oral, not quite edging but it could be read that way, aftercare

Title: May I Take You For A Second Date?

You show up late to the bar your Bumble date suggested after getting lost in the new city. You look over and around the obnoxious crowd before spotting her sat at the counter. You're starstruck. She's even more beautiful in person.

"Two margaritas please." You startle Abby. "Sorry to keep you waiting, pretty girl. Big city." Her cheeks flush before she turns her attention back to the football game on the big screen. "Which team is yours?"

"Neither really. It grabbed my attention because of those guys." She nods to the obnoxious crowd you had to barge through on the way in.

"Why don't I take your attention now, lovely?" She turns to face you as your drinks are placed on the counter. You slide one over to her. "I don't drink much. I'm only going to have this," you take a long sip of your drink.

"Me neither. A bar seemed good in theory, but I've honestly only been on a few dates." You watch her throat swallow her drink nervously. Seems she needs the liquid courage.

"Why don't I take you out for a meal?" It's past 11 pm, no restaurants will be open.

"I could be down for that if tonight goes well." That sweet blush hasn't left her face. You smile as your hand slides down her forearm and settles on her bicep.

"Your muscles are bigger in person." You admire the black button up hugging her. The buttons are stretched to their last threads.

"You're more flirty in person. I'm not really used to this amount of attention."

"Expect a lot more." You both look over to the crowd of people once the game ends. You both only know because a few of the guys who have clearly had too much to drink start at it. You pat Abby's thigh, signalling her to stand and leave with you before you're both caught in the sloshed cross fire.

"I walked. Do you want to come back to mine?" You look at her fidgeting hands, closing your fingers around them.

"It's chilly tonight, and I don't live that far. I'll take you to mine. We can go to yours next time." You kiss her knuckles before leading her over to your truck. "How much did you drink before I got here?" You open the door for her, holding your hand out so she can hoist herself in.

"I didn't. I actually showed up late myself." You hand her the lap piece of the belt before asking her if her legs were clear of the door. Once safe, you close it.

You hop in your side, start up the engine, then put the heater on a low stream of air. Your hand rests on the stick. "Normally I would offer to hold your thigh, but as you can see, that wouldn't really be possible tonight. Can I pick you up in my Mercedes next time?" Her eyes widen.

"I- Yeah, you- Mhm- I don't mind, really." She shifts in her seat as you back out of the parking space and drive home.

She takes note of your Ring doorbell, and the clack of something on the assuming hard wood floors as your key struggles in the lock. Once you enter, you're greeted by your pitbull. She has white fur with some tan spots, and a bright pink nose. "Abby, this is Candy. Candy, introduce yourself." A single bark is heard, followed by her big teethy, drooly smile. Abby follows you in after Candy stays sat.

"She's very well trained." Candy leaves her spot once the door is locked.

"She can see me on this," you pointed at the camera feed screen on her inside of the door. "If I'm not coming to the door, she will attack."

"You saying this is my only chance to impress you?" Abby's feet shuffle out of her boots after you kick off your shoes on the mat against the wall.

"No. You commented on her training, I gave you more details about it." You take her hand in yours as you bring her towards your kitchen. "When was the last time you ate? And would you like anything to drink? I've got orange juice, Sprite, Baja Blast, water, and pomegranate cherry juice."

Her nerves start to settle a bit. You watch her physically relax a bit, shoulders not so tense and relieving some of her buttons. Her jeans also look more comfortable. "Are you pregaming my sex energy?" She laughs nervously, some of the tension coming back.

"I'm being a host, sweetheart. We've only been talking for a couple months. I won't press or rush anything you don't want. I may guide, but you're always allowed to decline. If at any point you decide you want to go home, I will pay for your ride so you don't feel stranded here or with me." You watch Candy come up to Abby and sit on the pillow next to her stool.

You pull a bag of sausage you cooked this morning from the fridge and put it in her bowl. Candy waits for you to stand straight again before eating. "Is it too early to say you're the best date I've ever had?"

"Is it reassuring to say you're the first date I've had the chance to host?" A smile creeps up Abby's lips.

"It is, yes." You take Candy's bowl once she taps it twice to signal she's finished eating. You tuck it back in the space on your side of the island counter you got it from.

"Now, can I get you anything before I invite you to my bed?"

Nothing's rushed as you both take the time to learn each other on your blood red sheets. The black comforter hides your bodies in the dim lamp light. Lips lightly smacking as each breath is shared.

Each touch is curated with gentle care, and light exploration. You take the time to memorize what caresses and where make her react. Her hands are just as soft, squeezing and holding you as you drive her insane. You haven't touched her breasts nor vagina yet, and she's twitching and quivering like she's on the brink. Her breaths are gasps and short, legs shaking slightly, and fingers tickling you from their sporadic movements.

"May I?" You lift the comforter a bit, hand resting on her chest above her breasts. Abby nods, saying she doesn't mind. You learn her breasts as you did the rest of her. Her own hands travel up your ribs before you guide one higher. Hers knead at yours as you slowly move to hover over her, making sure she has ample time to stop you.

She doesn't. Abby lets go of your breasts to play with your hair as you dip lower down her body. You look up at her before asking for permission to touch her intimately again. "I like being eaten out," she whispers. You leave a kiss on her navel before kissing each of her thighs.

"If you need to stop, say so. You're in control." You watch her as your face dips into her heat. She smells as good as she tastes. You lap slowly, exploring her with your tongue before diving in. You want her to feel like a girl. Not a fuck, not a one time fling, a woman. You tease Abby's clit with your teeth and she giggles, her hand flying over her mouth. You reach up and take that hand in yours, squeezing over her mid section. "Don't hide your pretty face Abs, let me see you." Her eyes are doey as she looks down at you.

"Can you come up for a moment?" Her thighs are buzzing around your head. You crawl back up her body, hand still clasped with hers.

"What do you need?" Abby kisses you. You kiss her back tenderly.

"Finger me?" Her cheeks are that adorable black cherry red you adore.

"Do you want me to look, or feel?" Your hand slides down her hip, drawing circles in the firm muscle.

"Just feel? I really want to kiss you," she pleads.

"Anything you need baby." You explore her like she's a treasure. Again, you listen for every noise, feel for every twitch. You swallow every gasp and pant. You know you find her spot when her hips buck, and her teeth sink into your lip. You keep the stimulation there, drawing figure eights on her clit.

When Abby cums, your wrist is locked between her thighs and her voice is strained. Gasps fan your lips and chin she comes down. Your lips pepper her neck, leaving kind words against the sweat shined skin. Her hand comes down to bring you out of her so you know you're not being too sudden. "May I?" You bring your fingers to your lips. She nods, rubs her face against the pillow before watching you clean up.

"Are we done?" You leave the choice for Abby.

"Do you want to be?" Her voice is quiet.

"I have one more thing. I don't mind how it goes." You retrieve your strapon from the bathroom. You cleaned it before you left so it would be ready for use. You offer it to her.

"You've taken the lead all night, why not keep it?" Her eyes are wide and her lips pouted.

"Because this is about you tonight, Abby." Her breath shakes as she presses the harness back into your hands.

"Be gentle?"

"I promise." You reassure her. Once buckled and secure, you generously lube the dildo and her hole. She's still open and fluttery when you use two fingers to check her out.

Abby's hand comes down to guide you in. You're slow, only moving when she moves you. You feel her adjust and how she uses her palms to keep your hips where she needs them. Her nails dig into your ass as she gets accustomed to the new full feeling.

When you bottom out her legs come to wrap around you. Her ankles lock on your upper thighs as you stay still. Your lips travel along her face. Each freckle is met with a sweet kiss. The feeling of your lips makes her nose scrunch. You smile against her salty skin.

She starts by rolling her hips. Abby takes her time to get you moving before letting you have control again. You stay the way she set. You don't want to overwhelm or overstimulate her. You want her to feel good.

Her moans are for your ears only as your head tucks into her cheek. Her arms grasp your shoulders as your nose embraces hers. When you look into her cerulean eyes, the energy changes. That feeling when you find a missing disk to an empty case, or remembering an old song you would play in every car ride. Her lips against yours feel like lighting a sparkler.

She cums on the strap. You slow down to help her ride it out. "Did you feel good princess?" You push the fly aways away from her face.

"I did," she nods. You wait for her to guide you out before dashing to the bathroom.

You ditch the toy in the bathtub, running warm water in the sink to dampen a washcloth. You return to Abby timely, cleaning her with care. You make sure all the slick is removed from her curls before moving onto her thighs. "You're welcome to shower if you want one," you offer.

"Can we in the morning? Want to sleep with you." Her voice is edging on the whininess of tired. You toss the rag in the hamper, cuddling into her embrace.

You grab the remote from your bedside table, clicking the power on to the dog door in your bedroom.

Sometime during the night Candy climbed into bed with you. You wake up to her boxy head on your duvet covered hip, and Abby's large hand resting on her side.

#no men allowed #no minors allowed #abby anderson #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby tlou2 #abby smut #abby the last of us 2 #abby x reader #reader x abby #sub!abby #dom!reader

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barefoot-shoes · 10 months

Text

Men's Cross Training Shoes

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#men's cross training shoes #best barefoot shoes

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eomayas · 11 months

Text

testy • kjm

pairing: mob!junmyeon x wife!reader

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!!

synopsis: reader pushes junmyeons buttons one too many times on vacation

warnings: pwp, p in v, swearing, doggy, choking, teasing, dirty talk, spanking, mentions of junmyeon being in the mob but it’s not that essential

a/n: i read a mafia fic the other day and now i’m a bit obsessed with my favorite men being mafia bosses or wtv so here is a mini.. self indulging story that nobody asked for but i wrote anyway. enjoy!!! this is unedited as always

junmyeon stands on the bottom deck of the yacht, phone pressed against his ear. the sun shines brightly on him, his shirt unbuttoned to get some color on his chest. his gold chain glitters in the light, and you’d be on your knees right now, if he ever decided to get off the phone.

you roll your eyes from up above and sigh. you tie your bathing suit coverup around your waist and slip your feet into your pink jimmy choos that match your pink bikini.

walking down the spiral stairs on the yacht, you get down to the deck where your husband stands on the phone. he turns around when he sees you and gives you a soft smile. you stare at him with your hands on your hips, unimpressed with his greeting, or lackthereof.

junmyeon opens his arm for you to walk into, and when you dont, he frowns, but continues talking on the phone. you sigh loudly, jutting your hip out to the side. your husband furrows his brows at you, keeping his eyes trained on you as he keeps on talking.

“jun,” you say, your voice full of irritation. he holds up his index finger to you, and you scoff, turning on the balls of your feet to go back to whence you came.

you huff all the way up the stairs, stomping your feet into the steps. untying your coverup, you ball it up and toss it onto one of the chaises and retake your seat, kicking off your shoes and rolling onto your stomach to tan your back.

a few moments later, you hear junmyeons footsteps and you roll your eyes. “baby,” he calls. you don’t respond and don’t look up when he stands behind you and blocks the sun. “you hear me talking to you, don’t you?” junmyeon says.

“didn’t know if you were talking to me, or one of your bitches on the phone,” you say, looking at him over your shoulder. by bitches, you mean one of his many men that look to him for orders and answers.

junmyeon chuckles and moves your legs so he can sit, placing them in his lap. “alright, i’m sorry,” he says.

“we’re supposed to be on vacation, myeonie! and you want to give orders when we’re in the middle of the ocean—i’ve barely even seen you!” you complain sitting up and turning around to face him. the smile he gives you is one that is mocking, and you frown at him. “don’t look at me like that, junmyeon.”

“you have my full attention, baby,” he says, motioning for you to come sit in his lap. you stay sitting on your knees on the chaise, your arms crossed over your chest.

“do i? because if you get another call, i’ll throw your fucking phone in the ocean,” you snap. junmyeon licks the corner of his mouth, looking down at his feet before placing his eyes on you.

“you know i don’t like when you talk to me like that.”

“and you know i dont like to be ignored… consider us even,” you say. his face falls flat and he shakes his head, a small smirk on his face.

“careful,” he warns, narrowing his eyes at you. you poke your tongue in your cheek and weigh your responses. you could give up, and have him be sweet to you, or you could test him and push him to his limits.

“or what?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow. junmyeons face hardens and you two stare at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. you want to smirk, or worse, laugh, because it’s really a joke to you.

but it’s not for your husband, and you know it. which is why you push his buttons as often as you can, like now, even though you are annoyed at him and there is a better reason behind your attitude than simply just being bored.

junmyeon opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. he blinks once, a guilty look taking over his features when your face falls and your lips sag down. “don’t answer,” you say, reaching forward for his pants, but he’s quicker and stands up.

“it’ll be quick, baby,” he says, sliding the phone out of his pocket and pressing answer. junmyeon turns his back to you and walks over to the railing that overlooks the bottom deck. for a moment, you fantasize about ripping the phone out of his hands and chucking it into the water below.

instead, you gather your belongings: book, hat, sandals, sunglasses, water, and phone, and stomp down the stairs once again and put them away in the bedroom. you aggressively put away everything, putting too much force in opening and closing doors and drawers. you change out of your bathing suit and put on a loose dress and a pair of flat sandals.

angrily, you brush through your hair and pull it back into a low bun, frowning at your reflection. all you want is to spend some time with your husband, away from your house and his work and that general part of his life, and he can’t even give you twenty minutes of himself. and the trip was his idea!

huffing, you apply some lip gloss on your lips and grab your phone before heading into the kitchen/dining area. boat staff work diligently, and you want to tell them to stop, that your husband doesn’t deserve to be waited on, but you don’t. “hi, mrs. kim. dinner is almost ready,” your chef says. you give them a kind smile and thank them, opening the fridge to grab some of the cut up fruit.

you eat at the island, making light conversation with the staff. they relax around you in a way most people don’t with your husband, but you get it. junmyeon isn’t a scary guy, but he’s powerful and carries himself in a way that makes people dodge eye contact with him. if only they knew.

“hello, mr. kim,” the arrival of your husband makes the staffs chattering stop, and you hold off from rolling your eyes.

he greets everybody by name, shaking their hands and thanking them for helping you two out on your little trip. you don’t acknowledge him, not even when he puts his hands on your shoulders and hugs your from behind. “hi,” he says, kissing your cheek.

you grab his left wrist and look at his watch, scoffing when you see the time. “15 minutes is quick to you?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him. junmyeon licks the corner of his mouth and bows his head.

“i’m sorry,” he says, kissing your cheek. “but it’s business.” junmyeon mumbles. you snort and swivel around on the stool, quirking an eyebrow. “important business.” he says, like that makes it any better, or you any less annoyed.

“and what am i?” you ask, pushing your knee between his legs. junmyeon chuckles nervously and push your knee upward, his hands quickly jutting out to stop you. the look he gives you makes your stomach coil, but you pretend is has no effect.

“i need to talk to you,” he says, his voice low.

“then talk,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest. junmyeon rubs his bottom lip and steps away from you, starting to walk the direction of your bedroom. you watch him, knowing that you should actually be following him rather than gawking.

“y/n,” his voice is full of authority and it even makes the staff glance at you before averting their eyes. you stare across the room at your husband, and he curls one of his fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion. his eyes dare you to stay seated, waiting for you to push him past his limits.

you stand up silently and walk over to him, not meeting his eye as you pass by him. junmyeon holds you by the hip, walking you to your bedroom. “lose the attitude,” he mutters in your ear, pushing you into the room and closing the door behind you both. “get on the bed.” he says, his voice calm. but you know better than to assume that he’s just simply telling you to do something.

you sit at the foot and he walks over to you, your eyes trailing over his frame as he stops in front of you. theres love in his eyes, and you think he’s going to kiss you until he roughly grabs your jaw in his hand, yanking your head up to look at him. “so you can listen,” he sneers, his eyes narrowing at you. you glare up at him, shifting on the bed to press your thighs together. and maybe it was your plan all along, to have him play rough with you after being testy with him all day. “are you done acting like a brat? hmm?” he loosens his hold on your jaw so you can answer him, but doesn’t let go.

“jun- yes or no?” he interrupts. you only glare up at him and he shakes his head at you. “is that a no?” he gives you an out, but you don’t take it. you continue to glare up at him stupidly and he scoffs. “turn around.”

you get on your hands and knees on the bed, your mind swimming in anticipation. you can hear him behind you moving around, but you can’t feel or see him.

junmyeon sidles up behind you and pushes your dress up so you ass is on display. you take in a breath as he rubs a hand over your flesh lovingly, like you’re delicate.

but rather than a kiss, or a squeeze, a harsh slap that contradicts his gentle action is delivered to your rear. you grunt and lurch forward, biting your bottom lip. another slap, and then another, and another.

by the time you count seven in your head, you’re resting on your forearms, ass burning as you raise it in the air. you know you can tap out and anytime, that he’ll stop if you show any signs or disliking it. but you like when he’s rough with you, even if that means pain for a little while. “myeonie,” you whimper, face buried in the bedsheets.

“what? is it too much?” his demeanor changes at the prospect and he crawls onto the bed next to you, lifting you up so he can properly look at you. there’s love and concern in his eyes, and it makes your heart melt.

you shake your head, sitting up and grimacing when your heels press into the skin on your ass. “no… jun, i want you,” you say, reaching for him. and your soft, loving husband disappears and is replaced with the man from moments before.

“you think you deserve it?”

“i-ive been good!” you say, crawling over to him and wrapping your arms around him. he hums and kisses your neck once, twice, before pushing you down into the bed. “please?” you ask, pushing your underwear down and kicking them off.

“turn around,” he instructs, palming himself through his shorts. you do as he says, positioning yourself comfortably on your hands and knees and putting an arch in your back. junmyeon steps out of his shorts and boxers and strokes himself a few times before coming up behind you and gripping your ass.

you wince but press your hips back towards him, urging him to fill you up. “myeonie, please baby,” you plead. he presses the tip against your folds, dragging your arousal up the slit. you squeak out a moan, waiting for him to breach your hole. but he teases you like that for awhile, dragging his shaft in between your lips and dragging it across your clit, making you mewl out his name. “junmyeon, fuck, please just fuck me!” you beg, so frustrated with him that you could cry.

“baby wants to be fucked, but does my baby really deserve it?” he asks rhetorically, his hand sliding to your shoulder, resting on your collarbone.

“you’re so fucking an-“ you’re breathless when he slams into you and grips your neck tightly, yanking your head upwards. your vision blurs and your hands grip the sheets tightly, so tight that you feel like you might rip them.

“all that fucking mouth,” he grunts, slamming into you. you can’t think straight, can barely see straight or breathe, and it turns you on all the more. “all that fucking attitude—can’t say shit to me now, huh?” his hand comes down hard on your ass and you yelp, his hold on your neck loosening. he fucks into you relentlessly, the only sounds being heard are you cries and skin on skin.

your arms shake beneath your weight and you collapse onto the bed, face smooshing into the sheets once more. junmyeon let’s go of your beck to grab your arms and hold them behind your back. your back stays arched and he continues pounding into you, the feeling of his balls slapping against your ass rhythmically making your toes curl. “myeonie, myeonie, myeonie!” you chant, clenching around him.

“shit, y/n, i’m almost there,” he groans, letting go of your arms to hold onto your hips. they fall limply at your sides and you don’t make a move to prop yourself up. “you’re so good to me, baby.” his thrusts slow down and become more pointed, pulling all the way out before slamming right back in and knocking the air out of your lungs.

“j-junmy, i’m c-close,” you manage, pressing back to meet his thrusts. he chuckles as your attempt and stills your hips by holding you tighter. “fuck, baby, ri- fuck!” you can’t hold back your release, gushing all over his dick, your cum running down your legs.

junmyeon follows after you, your release triggering his own. he cums inside of you, filling you up. whatever cum drips out of you gets pushed back in and you writhe at the feeling of being full.

your husband pulls out of you to clean the both of you up, and your body chagrins without his support. junmyeon comes back with a towel and cleans you off, your sensitive body twitching at his touch. “honey, are you okay?” he asks sweetly, pushing your hair out of the way and kissing the back of your neck. when you make a noncommittal sound, he rubs your sore behind. “do you still love me?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

at that, you open your eyes and lift your head. “always,” you reply, craning your neck for a kiss. you sigh when he places his lips on yours and kisses you sweetly, a 180 from the way he previously handled you.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles against your mouth, supporting your jaw in his hand. “no more phone calls.” he adds and you smile against his lips. you wouldn’t mind if he took one more, as long as he winded up between your legs again.

#exo #exo imagines #exo scenarios #exo x reader #exo x you #exo smut #exo junmyeon #junmyeon x you #dilf junmyeon #junmyeon x reader #junmyeon smut #suho x you #suho x reader #suho smut #suho scenario #exo mafia au #junmyeon fanfic

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astxrwar · 4 months

Text

drops of blood [2/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 9k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. We have officially dipped our toes into the angsty guilt-ridden stalking territory, and also into the beginnings of the 'yknow what I'm fine with that' realizations. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. fruit metaphors abound. I am single-handedly forging the grayfic genre, please clap. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". Thanks for reading!

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

Barnes is waiting outside of the building when you lock up, and it startles you; it’s dim, and the lights in the store are off, and he’s standing so still that you nearly don’t see him.

What you should probably say; why are you still here? Why was there blood on the ground outside? What happened to those men? What did you do?

What you say instead–

“You waited for me?”

He blinks. His eyes are the brightest thing about him right now, the blue of them a violent shock of color with his face in shadow. There’s no moon tonight, just the faint pinpricks of stars, like holes in some great stretch of fabric pulled over the sky, made perpetually gray from the light of the city. It never gets truly dark, here. You wonder if it’s always been like that, if it was like that for him, back then.

“Yeah,” he says. “I, ah, I didn’t want to leave you here alone, in case–” he makes some vague gesture, the movement jerky and halting.

You get about a third of the way through another thank you before he grimaces and looks away and cuts you off, says, again, “Don’t.” Like there’s nothing to thank him for. Like you should maybe even be doing the opposite of that.

You scuff your shoe against the sidewalk. It’s late, the street eerily quiet; the thing with those guys had kind of set you on edge, and something twisty and hypervigilant and uncomfortable churns in your stomach at the thought of walking home alone.

(You wonder if maybe that’s not what you should be wary of.)

“What part of Brooklyn are you in, now?” you ask, not looking at him. Looking at the ground. You’d swept out here earlier, and there are already new cigarette butts, discarded, stuck between the edge of the sidewalk and the street. Never-ending. Worse, now that half the world��s population came back.

“Uh— near the bridge,” he says, haltingly, “I should probably—“

“My apartment’s that way,” you blurt out, not entirely sure if you’d meant to say it. It is; an old pre-war building on Jay street, a straight shot down. “Do you want to—we could walk together, maybe?”

“You—“ his voice is hoarse, and it cracks, and he stops and clears his throat and starts again, “You want me to walk you home?”

You look up, at his face, what you can see in the washed-out perpetual twilight of the city. There’s that flicker of emotion, a burst of red, overripened and bittersweet and something that seems like it might be distraught, but it’s gone so fast you can’t hold it still long enough to figure out what it is or why it’s there or if it even had been, in the first place.

“I mean— unless you were going to catch the train, I thought– we’re going the same direction anyways, right?“ Your voice wavers, uncertain, “Sorry, I didn’t— we don’t have to, if that would be weird—“

“No, it’s— it’s okay,” Barnes says, choppy and strangled and so quiet that you’re not sure he’d even spoken at all, not until your eyes are open again and you can actually see his mouth move, “Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong, I–“ He shrugs, helpless, and then shuts his eyes for a second; his brow furrows, pinching together a little, curving up, this kind of plaintive look that flattens back out as quickly as it came. A raindrop ripple across a still body of water.

He opens his eyes. His expression is controlled and inscrutable again.

“Yeah,” he says, hoarse, “Yeah, I can– I’ll walk with you.”

The walk is silent; Barnes says nothing, the whole time, barely even looks at you. He keeps to the side closest to the street, and he never veers closer, that gap so constant that it coalesces like physical barrier, like if you were to try to move into the middle of the sidewalk you might hit some invisible wall of glass. You have to walk a little faster than you normally would to keep pace with him, and you still keep falling a few steps behind; he’s taller than you, and you’d known that, but most of your interactions have been either sitting down or separated by a few feet worth of counter space, so it’s different, this time. Your awareness of it.

The stiff, impenetrable silence– it feels like how it did those first couple times, before the pomegranate, when you’d try to talk to him and get brooding one-word answers and an impassive stare and nothing else, and it’s weird enough that you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake. Messed up, somehow.

“You’re still gonna come Friday, right?”

Barnes is ahead of you, and you can see the line of his shoulders stiffen under his jacket. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbles, after a while, his tone stilted and flat, “Contractually obligated, right?”

“Oh, that– I was joking, I mean, I don’t– if you don’t want to–”

“No,” he says, before you can finish, “No, I– I do.”

“Oh– okay,” you say, pleased, and not thinking too much about why. “Good.”

He makes some choked off noise that sounds like a laugh, or maybe just a caricature of one. “Good,” he repeats.

You try to catch up, but it’s like he won’t let you. Which– okay, fine. Guy likes his personal space, you suppose that’s not so surprising, so you settle to just walk a few steps behind him, the angle rendering his expression just out of sight. “Yeah,” you tell him, “I spent like, five dollars on this thing, so if you don’t come it’s totally just a waste.”

Barnes glances back at you, something like alarm flashing across his face, “Five dollars?” he asks, incredulous, and then a frown tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head and turns from you again. “Sorry, it’s– inflation, I’m still not used to it, I guess. That’s– it used to be a lot of money.”

“It’s kind of still a lot of money for one fruit.”

He glances back at you again and there’s something soft in his expression, but he’s looked away before you can decide whether it’s just a trick of the light, the slow flash of the glow from streetlamps passing over his face as you walk underneath them.

You lapse into silence again.

Soon, your apartment building is ahead, the light from the lobby through the plain glass door carving knife-sharp across the sidewalk, splitting the crumbling cement into pieces. “Mine’s up there,” you tell him, only a block away.

Barnes stops dead in his tracks.

It takes you a second from when you realize to when you stop yourself, and in that time you end up in front of him, looking back. His expression is the same as ever, flat and impenetrable, but there’s something in his eyes. Wavering.

“Okay,” he says, and then he swallows, and he clears his throat, and he says it again. “Okay.” His hands are still in his pockets, the leather stretched over them, pushed out like he’s got them tightened into fists.

“I– I’m down this way,” he says, after a moment of strangely charged silence; he tips his head towards the side street, one that heads towards Brooklyn Bridge; it’s a grid system, though, so it’s not like he couldn’t just take the next one after your apartment block.

Whatever, though. Whatever. He’s always been kind of strange, so you think nothing of it. He doesn’t want to actually walk you to your door, whatever. That’s– fine.

“Yeah, alright,” you tell him. “I’ll see you Friday, then, and– thanks for–”

“Don’t,” he says, before you can even finish. “Please don’t.”

You blink at him. In your jacket pocket, you fumble for your keys, but you don’t move. “Okay,” you reply, hesitating, “Okay, well. Goodnight. Get home safe.”

Barnes looks at you like you’d just said something absurd. Because you had. Kind of. You think about the knife you know he keeps in his boot and the blood in the alleyway and what you’d read of what happened to him– what he’s done, what he was made to do– on some internet blog at like three in the morning. He doesn’t need people to tell him to get home safe.

“Dunno, force of habit,” you say with a shrug. “Take care, though.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and brief and hoarse and exactly like every other time. Disbelieving, unintentional, like he’d meant to keep it controlled, but hadn’t quite been able to. “Yeah, you– you too.”

You’re not afraid of James Buchanan Barnes.

Sometimes you wonder if maybe you should be.

It’s called pitaya, technically, but every store you’ve ever seen carry them just has them labeled as dragonfruit. It’s fitting; the way the little leaves encasing it overlap, bright, vibrant pink that tapers to green at the ends, all facing the same direction, laid over one another like scales. It grows on cacti down in South America; Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, El Salvador. The grocery store only ever has it in stock sometimes, and you can’t find any mention of it being available in the 40s when you google it, though you’re not sure how much that actually counts for anything.

“I have to wipe down the tables still, but you—“ you dump it out in front of him, having to shake the bag to jerk it free of where one of the little spines had torn through it and gotten caught in the flimsy plastic, “—cut this up, with your definitely illegal knife that I’m sure you still have.”

Barnes blinks at it. “What the fuck is that?”

You’re already one table down, scrubbing at a stubborn ring left over from somebody’s leaking coffee cup, but you still glance back when he says it, grinning, triumphant. Absently, you’re glad that he seems back to normal, now, whatever’d been bothering him last time apparently resolved. “Dragonfruit. Cactus fruit, from South America.”

You see him in your periphery as you shift down to the next table, leaning to draw the knife from his boot; a part of you wonders if it’s the same one. If he’d kept it. There’s a muttered what the hell and then the quiet thunk of the blade, long and flat and military-grade sharp, cutting clean through the skin, the flesh, the bone of the laminate surface underneath. The sound comes twice, as he carves off both ends; one after another, like a heartbeat. Then once more, when he splits it in two.

You think about the pomegranate.

(You think about the blood.)

“This is— weird,” he says, out of your line of sight, now, as you wipe jelly donut filling off of the corner of the last table. “How do I— what am I supposed to do with this?”

“People just eat it from the skin, with a spoon. Like a kiwi,” you tell him over your shoulder, “I should’ve brought some from home, but I forgot— we have plastic spoons, in the back, but I don’t know how well that’d—“

“Hold on,” Barnes cuts you off. “Hold on, wait a minute. Like a– what?”

“Oh, my god,” You straighten and turn back and fix him with a flat, disbelieving stare, “You– do you not know what a kiwi is?”

He shrugs, nonplussed.

“Next time,” you say, moving back to take the seat across from him, “That’ll be what I bring— don’t google it.”

“Okay,” he says, hands held up. Mock-defeat. “I won’t.”

He has more stubble today than any other time you’ve ever seen him. Bags under his eyes, too, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. You want to ask, but you’re afraid you might upset him, so you don’t. On the table between you, the dragonfruit is halved, ends cut off, the bright pink skin and the white insides and the black seeds, the colors all so uniform and flawless that it almost looks drawn. Imaginary. Like something from a dream.

“I can just cut the outside off,” Barnes is saying, “The white stuff, that’s the edible part, right?”

You make some vague noise in affirmative. He folds the halves together on a spread-out napkin, upright on one blunt end, holds the pieces still with one hand and the knife with the other. You watch, silent, as he carves the skin out from the flesh in clean, deft slices, the scales dropping to the table, curved stretches of pink like rose petals. Like the curve of a mouth. The blade moves with a quick and hypnotically familiar ease, even with how close it is to his fingers, the tips of them where he holds the fruit steady from the top. He never hesitates, or flinches. Not even once.

Barnes lays the pieces out and splits them lengthwise, into eight slices, and then wipes the flat of his knife on his jeans and slides it back to the sheath.

“There,” he says, when he’s done.

You only realize then, like being brought out of trance; you’d been staring.

More than that. You hadn’t even blinked.

The dragonfruit is soft and white and bland-tasting. Pure. When the pieces are gone, the napkin is wet, but the juice is clear, like water. Nothing to stain. Nothing on your fingers.

No blood.

Kiwis, as it turns out, used to be called “Chinese gooseberries”. They were native to China, as the name would suggest, but the fruit was grown commercially in New Zealand in the early 1900s, and became popular with American and British soldiers stationed there during World War 2. It wasn’t until after– sometime in the 50s– that they were called kiwifruits, after the bird, and it was little more than a stroke of marketing luck that the name ended up sticking. Fast-forward to the 60s, and the first exports started arriving in the US; fast-forward to 2024, and you can buy like, twelve of them in one of those little snap-closed plastic bins from the grocery store for just six dollars.

That’s what you bring to work, the next week. Or– it’s what you plan to bring, Friday.

He’s there Wednesday, again.

You’re not closing, this time, only pre-closing, which is a totally arbitrary term for the person who leaves at 9:30 instead of sticking around to lock up at 11; you hadn’t seen him come in this time, only notice him as you’re leaving, in the corner of the room, out of the corner of your eye–

You had the door open, and you stand there for a moment, frozen, indecisive, unable to see without turning to look if he’s staring at you, but still sure of it, somehow. Like you just know.

You let the door fall closed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of his table. He has a cup of coffee; your coworker must have made it for him, when you were doing the dishes.

(You wonder if he knew you were working tonight.)

“Hi,” he says. He looks uncomfortable. He always looks uncomfortable, but it’s– worse, now. “Leaving?”

You’d taken off your apron, your uniform sweater, too, had them folded up in your hands, shrugged on an actual non-coffee-shop-related hoodie and your winter coat over it, and you’d been halfway out the door when you’d seen him, so it’s not really a question. “I– yeah, I’m off at 9:30, so.”

He stares. It’s something about how he does it, you think, something about how focused and unrelenting his gaze is, how his eyes never move or waver, just stay there, trained on yours, perfectly still. A shiver, a tiny one— it works down your spine before you can quell it. You blame it on the cold.

Barnes still hasn’t looked away.

“Are you here in case those guys came back?” you blurt out, and then wince, not entirely sure you meant to ask.

He blinks, finally. Drums his fingers against the table. You think you might be able to tell, now, which hand is which; the metal one is louder. More solid. “They’re not going to bother you again,” he says. Like he knows that for sure.

You stand there for what feels like a long time, not saying anything, not sure of what to say; a part of you, your gut, maybe, is saying he’s here for you, and then another part that’s probably your actual brain is saying that that’s really presumptuous and verging on self-absorbed. He could just prefer sitting in a coffee shop to sitting at home, and maybe even prefers it enough to say no if you ask him to walk with you again.

You do it anyways.

“Are you— heading out, soon? We could walk together. If you are. If— if you want.”

His eyes go wide for a second, wide and glossy and wavering, and it gentles his whole face— transforms his perpetually neutral expression and eases the tension out of the sharp planes of his features and makes him look suddenly so much younger than you know him to be; young and soft and boyish. Not like those photos you’d seen of him, though, the ones they’d had in your history textbooks and in the movie posters for the revamped docudramas everyone made when they found Captain America; you remember those, and you remember how he’d looked in them, confident, self-assured, a little bit cocky. It’s different, how he seems right now. Nervous. Vulnerable. Kind of— wild.

Just like all the other times, it’s only a second, and then he’s calm, expression controlled, reaching for his coffee cup with one gloved hand.

“Yeah, I—“ his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat to get it to even out again. “You want me to?”

“If you’re done,” you gesture at his coffee cup, as much as you’re capable of doing so with the bundle of your folded-up apron and uniform sweater tucked over both hands, “Then, yeah, I mean, I just thought— y’know, since we’re both on the same side of DUMBO.“

He’d already been standing as you spoke, the chair scraping against the tiled floor as he pushes it back in, and you purposely push down the beginnings of some small reflexive smile at it, how it seems like he wants to. When you say DUMBO, he gets the same look that he did when you’d said kiwi— flat and blank and disbelieving—and your repressed smile becomes a full-blown one, teeth-showing and wide, asking before he can even speak, “You don’t know what that is, do you?.”

“No idea,” Barnes says, with something pleasantly close to a wry smile, “Figure you’re not talking about the Disney movie?”

You’re sure your answering grin is fucking goofy as hell, but you can’t be bothered to care. “You’ve seen Dumbo?”

Barnes grabs his coffee cup and rounds the table and gets to the door a half-second before you do; “I saw it in theaters— came out in 1941. Year before I deployed,” he says, once it’s just the two of you in the vestibule. He pushes on the second door, and when he holds it open for you, it occurs to you that he’d beat you to it on purpose, wanted to do this. Whatever weird and nervous kind of warmth you feel at that realization, you determinedly shove somewhere into the recesses of your subconscious, where you won’t have to think about it.

“I think they remade it, a few years ago,” you tell him, pulling one hand free of the bundle of your work clothes to flip the hood of your coat up over your head; it’s gotten cold again, and it’s snowing tonight, just a little, the flakes glittering in the beams of the streetlights. “In 3D, so, like, it’s supposed to be realistic-looking, or something.”

His expression briefly wrinkles in distaste, and something remarkably close to a giggle escapes from you before you can contain it.

“Anyway,” you say, working your winter gloves free from your coat pocket and pulling them on one after another, taking care not to drop your apron or sweater on the wet, dirt-streaked sidewalk, “Anyway, no, not the Disney movie—it’s just what everybody calls that part of Brooklyn.” You go to zip up your coat with the bundle of your work clothes tucked under one arm. “DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass, it’s just a nickname. Like how there’s SoHo and NoHo and Bed Stuy.”

Your nametag dislodges from the apron, jostled by your moving, and skitters out across the asphalt; Barnes bends to grab it for you before you can so much as move and fixes you with this look as he presses it into your outstretched hand; don’t say it.

You don’t thank him. He looks strangely relieved.

“It was just part of Vinegar Hill, when I lived here before,” he says, as you affix it back to your apron. “DUMBO. Christ, that’s stupid. I’m not calling it that.”

“Really sounding your age, today,” you tell him, grinning wide, again; his expression brightens even more at the jab, and you find yourself hoping that he’ll stay like this, for the walk, that it won’t end up like last time, with him shut down and closed off from you again. Well— more closed off than usual, because you think he’s probably always a little closed off from you. From everyone, probably. Maybe even from himself.

It’s cold, you realize belatedly, too cold, and even with your coat zipped and your hood up and your gloved hands shoved in your pockets, you’re starting to shiver.

“C’mon,” you tell him, forcing your limbs out stiff and jumping up and down, trying to generate any amount of body heat, “I can’t stand still, I have to get blood moving or I’m gonna freeze to death.”

He’s still got his coffee, and he finishes it as you watch, then crumples the empty paper cup in his gloved hand and tosses it into the trash by the door.

When he moves to follow you he’s a little bit closer than last time. There’s still this barrier between you, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, but the distance—it’s shrunk. You don’t talk much, and he still stops short of the actual block your apartment is on, but you don’t mind.

(He’d been closer, this time, too. Just a little.)

You can’t sleep.

Something inside of you is thrumming and alive, like a second heartbeat; even in the dark of your room, blanket pulled up to your chest and your eyes shut, you can still feel it, a restless energy that quickens your pulse and the pace of your thoughts and keeps pulling you back from the edge each time you get close to drifting off.

It comes up in a stupid fucking video compilation you end up watching on Youtube titled Top Ten CRAZIEST Road Rage Incidents of ALL TIME!! which autoplays because you’d watched or at least zoned out for the entirety of Top Ten CRAZIEST ‘Florida Man’ Arrest Reports OF ALL TIME!!, neither of which, you’re pretty sure, are helping you fall asleep, but they’re at least alleviating your boredom.

You stare mindlessly at the screen for incidents ten through two, and then for the last stretch of the video you watch grainy, low-quality dashcam footage of the Winter Soldier landing on the rooftop of a car on the freeway. He breaks through the window of a black 2000s sedan like the heat-tempered reinforced safety glass is as thin and as fragile as a translucent sheen of ice across a pool of water. The video blurs out when the man inside the car is dragged through the jagged hole, but you know what happens, even with the shapes just foggy splotches of color. He throws him across the concrete barrier and into oncoming traffic and the video cuts to black.

Whatever the narrator is saying about it— you’re not listening.

You don’t know why you’d never thought to do it before, to go looking for what’s out there about that other side of him, the part you didn’t learn about in history books or documentaries on streaming platforms.

In 2014, Captain America fought the Winter Soldier on route 695 in Washington, DC; the highway cuts right through the neighborhood, a main artery shuttling commuters in and out, lifted some hundreds of feet in the air on these massive pillars of concrete. At two in the morning in your pitch-black bedroom you find a video of it on youtube; the creator had released it in 2015, nearly a year after. He’d had to track down all the pieces, he says in the introduction, his home-studio mic setup crackling over your phone speaker; bits of what’d cropped up online in the aftermath and what he’d gotten of private video recordings and security footage. The resulting tangle of evidence had been fact-checked and verified and pieced together, spliced into one cohesive event, and you watch the whole thing with this kind of sick fascination.

The beginning is replay; the dashcam footage, the driver whispering, oh, what the fuck, the tires squealing against asphalt, the crunch of glass, a scream cut short. The other video had faded out after that, but in this one it just cuts to another angle; a dashcam from oncoming traffic, congesting around the body thrown over the barrier. You can see him, Barnes— just a glimpse as the sedan passes in the opposite lane, the long, dark hair, his arm, the muzzle. He’s staring down, anchored to the car rooftop with the fingers of his metal hand. The stitched-together snippets don’t show everything, there are pieces missing, but you watch as he’s sent tumbling over the concrete, the split second of him slowing to a stop, the pixelated shadows of the rivets he’d dug into the asphalt with just his fingers.

The video cuts down to Fourth Street southwest, under the overpass; Barnes had shot Captain America with a grenade launcher, or something, sent him crashing through the steel frames of two city buses like they’re made of paper mache. The fight between the two of them in the street is half grainy security footage, half the shaky phone camera of some bystander either too scared or too stupid to run. It’s the brutality of it, you think, that’s what gets to you, makes your heart feel like it’s stopped and your throat constrict until your breathing gets caught; or maybe it’s the speed, all of it happening so fast that it feels like by the time your brain has comprehended anything he’s done there’s already something else. Maybe it’s the knife, how he handles it, how similar it looks to the one you know he still carries. Maybe it’s the strength of him, how his fists dent cars and leave craters in the street.

Maybe it’s none of that.

You watch the video through until the end, and then you shut your phone off and you stare at the black, empty screen, unseeing, your mind running endlessly, frenzied and wild and beyond your conscious awareness, whatever thoughts you have occurring somewhere you can’t reach them.

It takes you a really fucking long time to fall asleep.

When you finally do, you dream of the coffee shop, the long, gently sloping stretch of pavement leading down to the bridge district. There’s nobody around, no lights on in any buildings, no people, no cars; the perpetual city twilight is gone, and there’s darkness pressing in, full and all-encompassing, except for the streetlamps spaced along the sidewalk. In the dream, you walk the length of the street, alone. Below you, there are holes in the concrete, like footprints; they lead all the way down to the block just before your apartment, and then disappear.

~ On Friday you bring the kiwis and two spoons from home and you rush through the checklist of store-closing tasks and you end up having pretty much everything done by 9:30, which means you have an hour and a half to sit with Barnes at that back corner table in between customers and eat Fruit Of The Week and talk about whatever.

“The skin on these things is— weird,” he announces, dragging the edge of the spoon around the emptied husk of a halved kiwi, scraping the last of it clean. He’d cut them up with his knife— you’d kind of hoped that he would, had even left yours at home, maybe on purpose— and he’d done this thing with it when he’d pulled it from his boot that you’ve never seen him do before, the handle moving between his fingers and the blade spinning out in this dizzying and dangerous-looking arc against his flattened palm, the whole thing only a couple of seconds, done so easily it seemed thoughtless. Like it was instinct. You’re still thinking about it. He hadn’t worn his glove, today, not on his right hand, and you’re thinking about that, too.

You clear your throat and force your eyes to focus on— something. Anything. “I— yeah, it’s controversial. Some people love them, other people, not so much.”

Barnes picks another kiwi from the little plastic tin you’d bought them in. “I might just cut the skin off this one,” he says, “Dunno how I feel about the spoon thing.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. You’d made yourself a coffee today, since it’s free while you’re at work- decaf, because it’s late— and you reach for it, fumble with the snap-lid, and take a cautious sip. It’d been too hot when you’d brought it over, but it’s at a comfortable temperature now; where you’re sitting is right next to the windows, and it’s colder here than it is behind the counter, especially with the sun gone, and the drink warms you from the inside. It gives you something else to focus on besides the other, markedly more dangerous warmth, simmering somewhere lower. Barnes has the kiwi held up and he’s peeling it with that same unnervingly rapid precision, even with how much smaller this is than the dragonfruit, the knife moving in this fluid and effortless rhythm a hair’s breadth away from his own hand. He’s so calm like this, as calm as you’ve ever seen him, that perpetual tension he always carries melted out as the blade works around and carves the skin from the flesh. He makes quick work of it, and then there’s a beat of stillness, before he splits it into four neat slices.

“Here,” he says, placing two on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Half for you.”

“Thanks,” you reply, automatic and without thinking.

He flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but you’re getting better at it. Noticing these things about him.

Later, after working your way through a line of late-night customers, you come back to his table and you sit down across from him and you ask him to walk with you, again, and it’s like peeling the skin off a fruit or a scab off a wound, what it does to him. Just for a second, a drop of blood welling to the surface before it’s wiped clean again, but you’re looking for it. You wonder if that’s him, the real him, the part he doesn’t let anyone see. You think about splitting him open and what might be inside if you did, if it’d be sweet or soft or something else altogether. Some kinds of fruit are solid in the center, and you remember once reading about how they’re poisonous, the pits of peaches and plums and nectarines— Cyanide.

Barnes stares at you.

You stare back.

“Yeah,” he says, after a while, “Yeah, okay."

Barnes finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the trash outside as you lock up, your fingers frozen and struggling to maneuver the ring of keys.

“I don’t know how you can drink that at nine at night,” you say, turning from him towards the bridge and towards your apartment, “I’d be awake for hours.”

When you glance over at him, he’s looking at you strangely. “I, ah— I can’t— caffeine doesn’t do anything. To me.”

You blink at him for a second before it clicks. “Oh. Oh! Really?”

Barnes grimaces in affirmative, awkward and obviously uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess I just— I like the taste. Used to drink a lot of coffee— before.”

He’s not pulling ahead like last time, but that barrier between you is still there, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, hands shoved in his jacket pockets— but the distance has shrunk. Just a little.

“Bet you don’t get cold, either,” you say, half a question and half just an observation, the contrast between you, bundled up and still freezing, and him, just in that same jacket and gloves, walking like it’s a comfortable fifty degrees.

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth does the thing it does sometimes, curls at the edges. It doesn’t look happy. “Nah, I run pretty hot.”

Some small stupid part of your brain turns that information over in your head and conjures up other things you know, bits of himself he’s given to you; your mind brings back the image of him before, the glove off, the knife held in a loose, familiar fist, thumb splayed flat along the edge of it, pushing the blade into the flesh. His hands— rough and calloused and frighteningly agile, the tendons working under the thin stretch of skin, the veins spidering up to his knuckles, spinning the knife like someone would spin a pencil, like he knew beyond a doubt, maybe even subconsciously, that he wasn’t going to mess up. His eyes, the way that he stares, so still that it’s eerie and frightening and makes you think maybe you should feel violated by it, his shoulders, broad and straight, the stiffness to his posture, how he walks, the pace and the rhythm and the length of his stride half military and half— something else. The growing list of things you know about Barnes, the person, things you couldn’t learn from documentaries or youtube videos or history textbooks or wikipedia pages. He runs hot, and you know this now, too, that he’s warm beneath the jacket and the thin layer of his shirt and even underneath that, the blood in his veins, his arteries, filling up the chambers of his heart as it beats in his chest.

The information all slots together like puzzle pieces, only you’re not really sure what the puzzle’s supposed to look like, once it’s finished.

Something jolts you out of— whatever your brain is doing, right now.

Your own name. Because he’d said it.

(And now you have that, too; how it sounds, from him.)

“What?” you say, pushing out whatever’s going on in your head and feeling somehow like you didn’t really succeed at that in any meaningful way, maybe only managed to bury it. But it’s gone, for now, and your mind is clear, and Barnes is staring at you. “Sorry, I was— spacing out.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line when you glance over at him, his face lit up in the yellow of a passing streetlight. He’s slowed down, a little, shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders tight and bunched up. “I was just— I need to talk to you. About— something.”

“Yeah, go for it. What’s up?”

He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the ground, eyes set and hard and jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch under the next flicker of streetlight, and it’s almost— weirder than the staring.

“I see a therapist,” Barnes says finally. “One a week. Fridays.”

“Okay,” you reply, uncertain, “That’s— good, probably, I mean. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I told her that— I told her you recognized me.”

He grimaces and glances away from you, out towards the street.

“Sergeant Barnes.” You say it mostly to yourself, wry and a little self-deprecating. “Yeah, I watched, like, a lot of Captain America documentaries when I was a kid.”

Barnes screws his eyes shut for a second, a heartbeat. His eyelashes are dark and long and almost brush the sharp straight plane of his cheeks. Another thing you know, a piece of him you couldn’t have gotten from the pages of a book. “That’s not what she thought I meant, at— at first.”

You prod at the inside of your cheek with the tip of your tongue. There’s nothing you want to say to that, really. You’d read the news articles, his updated wikipedia page, what parts of the court proceedings haven’t been redacted, whole paragraphs erased under thick bars of black; you could guess what she thought. She’d thought you’d looked at him and seen the Winter Soldier, recognized him for the ghost of that past, not the other one. Maybe that’s just luck; you’d stopped caring about all that superhero stuff before they’d found him, and none of that had ever really sunk in. You’d seen pictures, the hair, the arm, the expression that made you think of shell-shock, the eyes that were flat and cold and empty. How pale he’d been, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. It just— it hadn’t stuck, or overridden the things you’d known, before. It wasn’t the first thing you’d thought about, the day he’d come in.

It’s not what you’re thinking of now. You really don’t think of either of them, now. He’s— something different. Something new.

“I— told her, eventually,” Barnes says. Your apartment is the next block away. Your nose is numb, the tip starting to sting, chapped and frostbitten. “She said— I should tell you that I’m— that’s not who I am, anymore.”

You’re crossing the street and he’s following you still, even though every other time he’d have veered off by now, and maybe it’s selfish of you that you don’t want to tell him. “Technically you don’t lose military rank when you retire,” you say, staring down at the pavement. That’s not what he’d meant. You know that.

There is a beat of silence. Your breath when you exhale forms a cloud of condensation in the cold, rising up like ghosts into the sky.

“No, I’m saying he’s dead,” he bites out, harsh and rough and like he’d had to force himself to say it. “And whatever I am now— it’s not— I’m not him.”

It stuns you so completely that you stop walking.

Barnes stills a few steps ahead. When he turns, the heel of his boot scrapes on the asphalt, the sound echoing in the empty street. His eyes are bright and vivid and filled with something you can’t identify.

Not empty, though. Not cold.

“I don’t think it really works like that,” you say carefully. Your apartment building is right there, the door just up ahead, the light of the lobby spilling out through the glass and onto the road, a glowing block of amber in the dark. “You don’t— the people we were before, they don’t die. We change, obviously, but it’s— we grow around it, right? It’s still a part of us.”

His brow furrows just slightly, and then goes smooth a second later, like he’d caught it. Buried it. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe, maybe you’re right, but what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s still— I’m still— part of me is—“

The knife. The pomegranate. The stare, the stiff, stilted veneer, the cracks in it, the blood. Sergeant James Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

“It’s alright,” you say. He’s staring at the ground, the spiderwebbed cracks in the concrete, rippling out through the sidewalk like veins under skin. “You don’t have to say it. I know— I know what you mean.”

Barnes looks up at you, and when you look back something trembles in his eyes and twists in his expression and for a second you can see him, underneath everything. Frightened and guilty and grateful, all at once.

You wonder why he’s afraid.

(You wonder why you’re not.)

“This is my building,” you say, after a while, jerking your chin to it behind him, rows of windows, most of them darkened, a scattered few still bright; on the third floor, all the way on the right, there’s the one that looks in on your living room, lit up a soft, pale yellow, the glow of a lamp you always forget to shut off diffusing out through the slats in your shuttered blinds. “Oh— damn it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, again. Bad habit, the thinking aloud. “I left the light on again.”

Somewhere to your left in the haze of your periphery you notice Barnes has frozen in place, so completely that even when you look over at him you can’t tell if he’s breathing at all, the whole of his body stuck still and static like he’s been paralyzed. It feels wrong, somehow, sets off those alarm bells in some base and instinctive and evolutionarily conserved part of your hindbrain, the way people sometimes talk about uncanny valley syndrome, things that look human but not, in some essential and viscerally terrifying way. You don’t think normal people would even be capable of this, of being as motionless as he is right now. Like a shadow. Like a corpse.

He blinks and tears his eyes away from where he’d been staring at the far corner of your apartment complex and the spell is broken, he’s alive again, something like panic flashing across his face in the split second before he reconstructs that facade of flat invulnerability. You find yourself taking a step towards him without meaning to, and he flinches back from even that, like it’s— a threat.

Or— no, like he’s done something wrong.

“I, ah— I have to go,” Barnes says, stumbling over the words, a pressure to his speaking that you’ve never heard before.

It’s so abrupt that it takes a second for it to register and for your brain to fully comprehend what’d happened, that he’s leaving and that you must’ve done or said something, something bad, and when you go to speak your throat has constricted and gone tight and your voice comes out so quiet that if it’d been anyone else, you’re sure it would have gone unnoticed.

“Wait,” you call after him, and he hears it, because he’s not anyone else and his senses are somewhere outside of what’s human.

Barnes stops at the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, and he turns back to you, his hands shoved in his pockets and the line of his shoulders tense and raised and this kind of stiffness to his body that you’ve never seen. Like an animal with its hackles raised, a distant part of your brain suggests.

“Will you—,” you swallow, feeling suddenly nervous under the unwavering pressure of his stare, “You’re going to come next Friday, right?”

You say it outright, this time, no bullshit or plausible deniability, some clammy knot of worry tangling itself up in the pit of your stomach at the thought that he might not, that you’d done some miniscule unknowable thing to upset him and drive him away.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and strained and hoarse; it doesn’t make sense, there’s something about this you haven’t figured out yet, and the thought tears at you somewhere like it has teeth and claws and a mind of its’ own, how badly you want to know what’s missing.

In the tangle of your work clothes clutched to your chest, your fingers have found the knotted strands of your apron, and you’re picking at it with your nails, trying to pry it apart.

(You want to pry him apart.)

“You know— you know I don’t think any differently of you, right?” you tell him, aware of how you must sound, nervous and uncertain, but— not because of him, not like that.You don’t want to hurt him. You don’t want to mess this up. “I— I didn’t know you, before. I’ve only ever known you how you are now, this you, and— I like you. We’re friends. We still are. Nothing— nothing’s changed.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares. Whatever’s going on in his head is hidden from you. You think about how he looks at you, like he wants to get inside and open you up and pull all the pieces out.

(You think you must look at him the same way.)

“Please?” you say. In your hands, hidden under your uniform sweater, you’ve finally managed to work the edge of your thumbnail up under the tight bend of the knot in your apron, the strips of linen beginning to unravel. “I still want you to come.”

Finally, his expression slackens. You’re not sure what it is, the way the tension unwinds from him like a thread pulled to snap; relief or defeat or something else entirely.

“Okay,” Barnes says. “Yeah, okay. I– I will.”

He looks strangely powerless. Whatever crack in his exterior has split to allow this to surface— it doesn’t close, not like the others, not for a while. When it does it’s much slower, more difficult, like the stitching of a wound. Like skin knitting itself back together, painstaking and gradual and imperfect. The kind of thing that leaves a scar.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning to the lobby door, hand on the bar to pull it open. “Get some rest, all right? You— you look like you haven’t been sleeping well, lately, and I just— I worry about you, sometimes.”

Something softens in him, and he nods, his eyes flicking down, away from you.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll try.”

The week drags.

Barnes isn’t there Wednesday. You’d been expecting that, but you’d still kind of hoped, and a part of you is still– stupidly, ridiculously, childishly– disappointed, when your shift comes and goes, and his table stays empty.

You spend most of Thursday thinking about Friday.

There’s something buzzing inside of you, when he comes in. Something that falters, disappointed, when the size of the line at the front counter at 7 is too long for you to even speak to him, busy making sandwiches and an outrageous number of frozen hot chocolates for a mom and her four kids when he comes for his coffee. Your coworker makes it for him and there’s a handful of seconds while he’s standing at the pickup counter and you’re on the other side waiting for bagels to toast that you’re able to look up and lock eyes with him for a second.

He seems miles more composed than he had been last week, and you hope that’s a good thing. That he’s doing better. Feeling better. “Busy today, huh?”

You heave an exhausted sigh. “Ridiculously. Nonstop, since I got here, I don’t know if there’s, like, an event, or something, but— it sucks.”

Barnes drums his fingers against the counter. Behind him, the mom is trying to corral her kids, who are making a mess of the condiments counter. One of them is eating sugar packets, spilling it everywhere; his face, his shirt, the floor. A muscle in your jaw twitches.

When you look back at him he’s staring at you, and you wonder if he’d been doing that the whole time, even when you’d looked away. You don’t usually mind, but right now you have syrup on the rolled-up sleeves of your sweater and hot chocolate powder all down the front of your apron and your hair is frizzing out with flyaways at the edges of your uniform hat, some of them sticking to the sheen of sweat starting on your forehead from the heat of all three toaster ovens running at once, and you kind of wish he’d— not. Look at you, that is. Stare. Because you look insane. You feel insane, and that kid is fucking making a mess behind him, and you’re going to get stuck cleaning it up, and—

“If you’re— if it’s a bad time, I can— next week, maybe,” Barnes says.

“No,” you tell him, maybe too quickly, “No, it’ll definitely die down at some point, I mean, if you don’t mind waiting—“

“I don’t,” he replies, stilted and awkward and said before you can even finish speaking. “I don’t, I don’t mind.”

He’s still standing at the pickup counter, not waiting on anything, coffee in hand, and he’s still staring at you, and his eyes are very, very blue, pale and clear and so light they’re almost gray, like the bay of the Hudson on days when it’s overcast, or like once when you were a teenager and it’d gotten so cold that the river had frozen over for the first time in thirty years.

You wonder if he’d ever seen it like that.

You open your mouth to ask and then realize you fucking can’t, there’s other people around, and you’re not trying to out him as being the world’s least-obvious centenarian just because you have a stupid, inane question—

The timer on one of the ovens goes off, followed by the second one, and the third one, the shrill sounds of the alarms overlapping with one another.

“Sorry,” is what you say instead, tearing your eyes away and fumbling for the buttons to shut them off, “I have to—“

“It’s alright,” he says, “I’ll see you when it’s calmed down, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, distracted again, not sure if it was a question or a statement. “Yeah, ‘course.”

It does calm down, eventually, sometime around 9, which is nuts and totally out of the ordinary. Everything’s a fucking mess; there’s a puddle of coffee and sugar and half-melted ice cubes on the floor and splotches of flavored syrup smeared all on the counter by the espresso machine and you’d missed the fucking garbage can trying to empty one of the brewing baskets and dumped grounds fucking everywhere, and each fuck-up had kind of built on the others without so much as a moment’s break to even think about cleaning. Your coworker helps you get things back to some semblance of organization behind the counter, but after he leaves there’s still the absolute disaster that is the lobby, and—

God, and Barnes had been waiting for you for like, hours.

You rush through the dishes and the stocking up and finish all that shit by 10:30, and you think maybe you’ll be able to get the lobby straightened back out in about twenty minutes, which’d leave all of a deeply unsatisfactory ten minutes to talk to him.

Except—

Except when you look for the broom in the back you can’t find it, and you remember, kind of vaguely, your coworker having tried to get started on all that way back at 6 before you’d gotten slammed, and when you actually go out to try to find it and eyeball the extent of the damage and the degree of the disarray, there isn’t any. The tables are swept off and the chairs are pushed-in and the floor is free of debris and even the counter with the straws and condiments and things where that kid had spilled sugar everywhere is clean except for some dried coffee spills.

The broom and dustpan is leaned carefully against the trash receptacle.

Barnes is still at his spot by the window.

“Did you—“ you make some wordless gesture at the not-destroyed lobby, not even needing to ask, honestly. After the Blip it’d been like all the kindness and empathy people found when half the world’s population was gone had vanished as soon as they’d all reappeared, like both were fundamentally incapable of existing at the same time, and you couldn’t imagine some random stranger had seen two faceless minimum wage nobodies dealing with the cumulative hell that is the entitlement of a bunch of New York strangers and thought, hey, how can I maybe make their lives a little easier?

But of course he would. Fucking— Captain America’s best friend, even way back when Captain America was just some scrawny smart-mouthed five-foot-four asthmatic. The guy who’d stood up for him when he got picked on and protected him when he started fights he couldn’t finish and took him in when his mom passed away from tuberculosis without so much as a second thought. You still know all this, the way you think most people just always kind of know the details of whatever weird fixations they had between the ages of about twelve and fifteen, and you know, more presently, that this guy is not the same guy you know all these details about, but it’s not like people just— stop being who they were, completely, either. It’s not like Sergeant James Barnes and the Barnes that you know are these completely unrelated people, right, it’s not like one of them ceased to exist, he just— got older. Shit happened. He changed.

But— he’s not fucking dead.

Who you are is always made up partly of who you were. Like the way a tree is a tree because it’d been a seed, first. And maybe it’s just really fucking late, right, maybe you’re just really tired, maybe today had just been uniquely fucking exhausting, but your brain just— cannot cope with any of this. The kindness, any amount of it, from anyone, directed at you in any capacity, but also just that it’s from him. The fact that any part of him is like this, still, after everything.

You are not going to cry about his tragic life story and all his obvious and heartbreaking guilt and shit in front of the guy. Jesus Christ. Get a grip.

“The broom was out,” he says, “And— you were busy, and it was a mess out here, so I thought—“

“That was so nice, you’re— you’re so nice to me,” you reply, steady and not tearful but still a lot more plaintively than you intended, “Thank you, really, you didn’t have to—“

“Don’t,” he says, so abrupt that it’s jarring, “Don’t thank me, it’s— it was nothing.”

You blink at him. He shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

You reach for his coffee cup like the last time, but he has a gloved hand around it before you can even get close. His mouth— the corners, they’ve started to curl up, even with the way the line of it is pressed flat and firm and like he’s trying his hardest to keep himself from smiling.

“Not allowed to thank you, not allowed to refill your coffee,” you say, rolling your eyes, good-natured and sounding a lot more flippant. A lot less in danger of being reduced to a crybaby mess because one person had been nice to you all day. “Unfair.”

“Yeah, well,” it inches closer to a smile, like he can’t help it, the upturn of his lips. “Life’s not fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. You should be used to it, by now, the pauses, the quiet, the lulls in conversation; you are, usually, but today it just feels– strange. Makes your stomach twist and your palms itch with some weird and unfamiliar sort of nervous energy. You suddenly have to fight the urge to fidget.

“I’m glad you came back,” you blurt out. “Sorry if– I know it was crazy busy, before, and I was thinking, I mean, if that’s– if it’s too stressful, when it’s like that, you don’t– I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay–”

“No,” he says. “It’s not stressful, seeing you is–” he looks away from you, just for a second, stares at his coffee cup, and the abnormality of that makes something prickle in the pit of your stomach, sparks that jittery feeling up again. “It’s– good. I don’t care if it’s busy.”

Barnes shuts his eyes, then, and his expression screws up, and he runs his hand down the lower half of his face, “Ah, sorry, that was weird.”

“No, it’s not, it’s– that’s literally normal,” you tell him, smiling, “I like seeing you too.”

He looks back at you. There’s that flash of red, again, a burst of color, something breaking through the mask of his composure. Something sweeter, this time, like maybe he’s pleased by that, just for a second, before he shoves it away.

He’s still staring at you. Absently, you scrub the heel of your palm against the smear of powdered sugar you know you still have on your cheek; his eyes flick to it, drawn by the movement, probably, and you have a weird and sudden desire to look at the ground.

“I have— something,” you blurt out, fighting the urge to fidget, “For you. Something for you to try, I mean. It’s in the back, I’m going to— I’ll get it, and I have to do some other little cleaning things, but I’m almost done.”

You think you feel his eyes on you, from the lobby and behind the counter, all the way until you disappear from view into the back room, but you don’t turn to check.

The fruit is on the table, beside an unsealed bag full of bills and change; technically you weren’t supposed to count out the register until close at 11, but you wanted to get out of here as fast as physically possible, after the way your shift had gone. There are a few straggler dishes in the sink, a coffee pot and a latte pitcher and a mixing spoon, and you kind of half-ass them and leave them to dry, snag a few sleeves of hot and iced coffee cups to stock up out front, and a new pump for the caramel syrup.

You glance at your reflection in the stainless-steel side of the ice machine before you head back out onto the floor, and use a wet paper towel to scrub the sugar off the side of your face.

There’s still one pot of coffee left. Fresh; the last one you’d make before close. You hesitate for a second at the swinging gate that divides behind the counter from the lobby, and then you pour him another coffee and you bring that with you, too.

When you set it on the table next to his empty cup, Barnes glances at it and then looks away and ducks his head with this long-suffering sigh, like he’s annoyed, like you’re being a nuisance, but you can still see the way his mouth is angled. How it’s upturned.

“Outsmarted,” you tell him, feeling pretty proud of yourself. “Thank you. You have to accept or I’m kicking you out.”

Barnes looks up at you and there it is again; in his expression, or maybe his eyes, a flash of something, less pleasant than before.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Your eyes track back and forth across his face for a moment, uncertain, but whatever it was you’d seen, if there’d even been anything at all, it’s clear he hadn’t meant for or wanted you to, so eventually you just decide to pretend it wasn’t there.

“Here,” is what you say instead. “Guava.”

It’s green and vaguely pear-shaped and the insides are pink and soft when he splits it with the knife; you watch him do it, his steady hands, the glove on his left, the blade, deft and sure. It’d been uneven, the fruit, so the pieces are different sizes even with how neatly he’d split it in two.

“You can have the bigger one,” you tell him.

He picks it up and moves to try it and you watch that, too; his hands, his mouth. The flash of his teeth.

The doorbell rings before he can take the first bite.

“Oh, my god,” you say, under your breath, quiet enough that Barnes can hear and the person coming in can’t. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s kind of annoying, the people who feel the need to come in at 10:57 at night when a place closes at 11, but the man only wants a standard coffee, cream and sugar, and he pays with a debit card, so he’s out in under two minutes and you don’t have to recount the drawer.

When you come back to the table the smaller half of the guava is gone.

“Changed my mind,” Barnes says when you raise an eyebrow at him, “You paid for it, so. Only–” he swallows, and his eyes break from yours for a second. Something flashes in them, like ice breaking in the frozen Hudson, the churning water underneath spilling out through the gaps. He looks stricken and ashamed and then fine; frozen over, again, the water gone still and solid. He clears his throat. “Only fair.”

“Okay,” you reply, with an easy shrug.

He watches you eat it. The juice gets on your fingers. You lick them clean.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

“I’ll be out early tonight,” you tell him, after. “If you wanted to wait, we could– walk together. Again. If– if you want.”

He swallows. Your eyes flicker down to it, the column of his throat, the movement. He’d cut himself shaving, or something, because there’s red, just a sliver of it, on the left side of his adam’s apple. Your mouth goes a little bit dry.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I'll walk you home.”

There’s barely any hesitation, this time.

Barnes walks you to your building, or just about.

You glance up at the windows overhead; your light is off. “Awesome,” you mumble to yourself. “Didn’t forget.”

You give him a small smile and an awkward little wave before you turn towards your apartment building. You get as far as into the threshold of the lobby before he calls out to you– calls out for you, uses your name again, only the second time you’ve ever heard him say it aloud, even though you know that he knows what it is. Has known, probably since day one; you have to wear those stupid name tags.

“Yeah?” you say, still in the doorway, the heat escaping all around you.

He’s still standing right where he had been, hands in his pockets, posture stiff and frozen and markedly uncomfortable. You wonder when that’d happened. You wish you’d been paying more attention, but work had been hell, and you’re really fucking tired. “Will you— can you do something for me? Just— make sure you lock your door,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “Windows, too.”

“I always lock my door,” The smile you shoot back is wry and more than a little cynical. “And I’m on the third floor, so unless Spider-Man has decided he wants to start doing crime instead of stopping it, windows seem like overkill.”

He does not seem to find it funny. You think you see his eyes snap closed, his expression tighten and then relax, again, but you’re too far away to tell. Maybe he’d only blinked.

“Please do it,” he says. “I just want you to be safe.”

You stare at him for a second. Your hands are cold, your face, too. You want to get inside, where it’s warm. You want to go to sleep. “Yeah, okay,” you tell him. “I will.”

You don’t.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #fic; drops of blood

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