#passing colour in PUT method

[bullet-prooflove]

The Asshole King: Jack Abbott x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @gabsgabsvaz @yousigned-upforthis @flyinglama @cosmic-psychickitty

Companion piece to:

Masochist

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW)

Meeting you was the best thing that could ever happen to Jack, he fully acknowledges that as he watches you potter about the kitchen in a Stevie Nicks t-shirt that barely covers your ass and black panties. You have Rhiannon playing on the vinyl player in the living room, the sound from the LP serenading the two of you as he sits at the kitchen table sipping decaf tea.

Before you everything was a vacuum, a slow empty death. There was no joy in his life, no heart, just the relentlessness of living in a world that lacked saturation and colour. Now he wakes up to this every day, a wife that sprinkles kisses on his face before she puts on a Fleetwood Mac record and dances around the kitchen as she makes her to do list.

The thing he loves the most about you is the fact you don’t let anything dim that light. You see the worst of humanity in your work as a psychiatrist. The broken, the damaged and sometimes the irredeemable and you handle it with a sense of grace and calm that’s truly remarkable, even if your methods aren’t exactly conventional.

He’s talking about the singing, the way you get your patients to calm down when they’re in a heightened state by using music therapy.

One of the first things people experiencing anxiety are advised to do is to breathe slowly however telling someone that usually has the opposite effect because they hone in on the fact they’re not getting enough oxygen.

That’s where singing comes in.

It’s a form of regular, controlled breathing that stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system. Focusing on the lyrics distracts patients from catastrophising, lowering their blood pressure and improving pain management.

 The first time he heard about it from Dana, he called bullshit but then he’d seen you in action in The Pitt when a vet presenting with complex PTSD was brought in, panic stricken and injured. They couldn’t calm him down and were discussing sticking him when you’d snapped on your gloves and instead of verbally manhandling him you’d taken your phone out and asked him his music preferences.

Country, he’d told you his entire body vibrating with terror.

It had taken three songs to calm him down, Jack had literally watched the tension melt from his body as you sing along with the lyrics, pretending to check vitals while encouraging him to do the same. By the time you got through Kenny Chesney’s American Kids a med student was already in the process of stitching up the 6 inch gash in his leg from the cycling accident that brought him to The Pitt in the first place.

“He spend two months in a military infirmary in Basrah.” You tell Jack in the aftermath as you fill out the discharge paperwork. “Being here took him there, which was why he was reacting so badly.”

Jack gets it, he’d worked in a dozen of those places over his years in the military and they’re not for the faint of heart.

“You are not a real person.” He’d responded, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking Disney Princess thrust into the middle of a hellhole.”

“And you’re the asshole king of said hellhole.” You’d reminded him gesturing at the chaos around you. “You know where to find me if anyone else gets too rowdy.”

He does find you, unintentionally at the end of his shift waiting for an Uber because your car’s in the shop for the third time in three months.

“Come on Cinderella.” He’d sighed because at this time of day surge charges will be through the roof. “I’ll give you a ride.”

He doesn’t make it home that until a couple of hours before his next shift because the two of you get talking about your record collection in the car. You have a rare Bob Dylan bootleg your father gave to you before he passed away and Jack, he’s been in love with that man’s music since he saw him play Nashville in the 90s. He spends the morning in your armchair, listening to the bootleg with headphones that remind him of the ones you used to get in the listening booths of those vintage record shops before they all closed down.

He jerks awake up in the early hours of the afternoon to find a blanket tucked around him and the headphones resting on the cabinet where the vinyl player resides. His gaze comes to linger on you, asleep on the couch, the book you were reading resting underneath your palm. He raises to his feet, draping the blanket over you and you mumble into the cushion, settling deeper.

“It’s alright Sleeping Beauty, it’s just me, the asshole king.” He murmurs as he picks up the book and sets it on the coffee table. “I’m gonna let myself out, let you get some rest.”

You don’t respond and he doesn’t expect you to. He’s an insomniac at heart, he hasn’t slept a full eight hours since his first tour abroad and you’re normal, so wonderfully fucking normal it hurts his heart.

It’s when he steps outside into the sun that he realises somethings changed. The world seems a little brighter and he knows that that’s because of you, you and that bootleg copy of Bob Dylan.

When you start your shift that evening you find a gift at your work station up in Psych. A glossy black bag from one of the last vinyl places in Pittsburgh. You smile as you remove the sleeve from the packaging.  

It’s a Fleetwood Mac album, one you’ve been trying to track down for a couple of years. There’s a yellow post it stuck to front, written in an unfamiliar hand.

Noticed this was missing from your collection.

- The Asshole King

That vinyl, it’s the start of something wonderful, something he never saw coming.

“You wanna do laundry or groceries?” You ask him drawing Jack back to the present as you bend over the counter, filling out your to do list. He shifts in his seat at the kitchen table, his toast forgotten as his gaze fixates on the way your ass looks in those black cotton panties.

You’ve been married three years now and he still can’t believe that this is his life.

Fleetwood Mac, he thinks as the record switches to Say That You Love Me, I owe you the fucking world.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[satinestales]

❝here i blur into you❞ | qimir x fem!reader

pairing: qimir x fem!reader

summary: you've been stranded on an unknown island with your nemesis for weeks now, the air getting filled with unpalatable tension as you try to find a way to get away from him. one afternoon, the tension breaks as he offers his knowledge to help you train.

warnings: english is not my native language, reader also has a twin and has a similar situation as osha, reader is a bit paranoid, lot of foreplay from qimir, teasing, fingering, cunnilungus, vulgar terms,

now playing, acquainted by the weeknd

He smelled like sandalwood, filling the air every time he passed you by or handed you a plate of food. For the first few days, you ignored it, letting it brush against your nose, your thoughts concentrating on how to get out of the island or how to kill him without breaking the code. But after nights and nights of sleeping in the same cave, sharing his space, and smelling him in every corner, it started to drive you crazy.

You lost your nerves last morning during your hand-picked breakfast when he strolled into the cave after his morning swim, water still dripping from his hair, the smell punching you in the nose, leaving you dizzy and breathless. You didn't know where you wanted to go, but as you picked up your things and bottle of water, it wasn't your main concern.

The smell itself didn't bother you. He bothered you. You knew exactly what game he was playing. With your sister, he played the role of a big brother, older protecter that she always wanted and wished for. With you, his mask dropped, revealing a charming seductive character. Every time he handed you something, he towered over you, gazing into your eyes so intensely it made your knees shake. Or when he walked towards you, he took his time, his eyes going up and down your figure until they fixated on you, staring at you until he came so close you could feel his breath brushing over your face. The slightest touches of his hands, the knuckle strokes, the skin contact when he healed your wounds.

He was trying to seduce you, knowing your weaknesses, just so you'd turn your back on the jedi and stay with him. As a padawan, desire was one of the forbidden emotions, alongside hate, anger, and fear. You never felt the touch of another, not one you desired.

His act had its way with you. You didn't deny it, but it was just a role for him. A mask he put on whenever you were close. You wanted to know the real him and maybe even try to help him. Instead, you were met with lustful eyes and breathtaking smell of his. A few days ago, you returned his gaze when he spoke to you, to try to read his thoughts and emotions. You only saw the colour red.

After you stormed out of the cave, leaving Qimir wondering, you kept walking around for about thirty minutes before you found yourself surrounded by smaller rocks, standing ankles deep in a hot sand. It wasn't that far away from the cave but far enough to get away from him and his sandalwood smell.

You dropped your bottle and some spare clothes on one of the flat rocks, letting yourself fall on your ass, letting out an anxious breath. You had no idea what you were going to do, how to act, or how to survive the upcoming days. You were certain Sol was going to find you and save you. You started to think about Yord and Jecki. You weren't that close to Yord, even in your padawan days. Jecki, you knew from afar, but she always had a soft smile on her lips. Your heart ached for them, feeling guilty even if there was nothing you could do.

You sat there for hours, staring at your dirty shoes. You were frozen. You needed to train. You were sure there was going to be time when you would have to protect yourself against Qimir and his brute strength. He killed Yord with his bare hands. As long as you would attack his hands first, you'd be safe.

You found a branch, pictured it as a lightsaber, and started repeating over and over fighting methods you were taught by your master. You held up till the sunset, and when the sun rose again, you picked up the branch and started again.

You didn't bother with breaks. You kept going till your knees gave up, and your arms fell by your side. Your chest rose up and down fast as you sat down, the branch falling metres away from you. You rested your head against the closest rock, daring to close your eyes. You were away for almost a day, with no food, just water to keep you company. You slowly started to regret leaving so impulsively, but you had no idea what you would do if you'd stay another minute around the intoxicating smell of his.

You had to fall asleep, your body reacting to the unknown sound earlier than you. Trying to compose yourself as you rubbed your cheek, painful and red, from resting against the hard rock. You picked yourself up, turning around to find where the sound came from. It didn't take you long, for Qimir revealed himself, appearing just a few metres away from you, a bag around his shoulder. He took you in, scanning your body like he was searching for any weapons or injuries. He found nothing, only a thin branch right behind your feet.

"You could at least take some food." he broke the brooding silence and your mutual staring contest. His voice was soft, small tug on the corned of his lips. He wore his usual beige shirt, transparent to his muscles. You shook your head, trying to focus on something else than his forearms as he put down his bag to take out the stuff he brought you.

"I'm not hungry," you lied, holding steadily your position, scanning his every move. He took out all the food to put them on the rocks in front of you, gently, making sure not to drop anything. He didn't forget to bring you fresh water, new clothes and a lightsaber.

Lightsaber.

You took a quick step back at the sight of the lightsaber, your ankle meeting with a rock. He brought a lightsaber. He was going to kill you now. You were sure of it.

"It's for you," he read your mind, making himself a place to sit next to the food, lightsaber at the opposite end of the food row. He tilted his head, softly smiling at you. "The tide is going to end by tomorrow," he said, his eyes set low, eyebags underneath. "you could disappear."

"What do you want?" you asked, attitude and hidden fear in your voice. Why was he helping you. Why did he inform you about the tide and possible escape. Was he planning something?

"For you to eat," he smiled, his teeth showing up for a second. "I have no desire to hurt you or let you die of starvation." His hands rested on his lap, his eyes soft and gentle, morning sun reflecting in them. He was beautiful in this light. But you shook that though away.

"What's with the lightsaber," you pointed with your head to the weapon, not daring to move, feeling his eyes burn into your skin.

"I made it for you," he replied quietly, looking over at the saber. You flinched when he slowly stood up, walking towards it to pick it up, holding it so the handle could be in your direction. He was close, too close to your liking, a small circle of rocks surrounding you two. "Figured you'd want one." he purred, taking slow steps towards you, not breaking his gaze at you. Like he was waiting for you to run, taking in every detail of you.

He stopped at arm length, lifting the lightsaber to you. You didn't move to take it and just stared at it. It was small compared to his hand, plainly black.

"How long is it since you've held one?" he asked, almost in whisper, looking down at you with curiousity. You didn't answer, forcing to look away from the saber, mirroring his intense gaze. You tried to read him again but failed. You were too tired to even see one small thought. He took a step closer, instinctively you wanted to take a step back, but the rock behind you made you stumble, Qimir's arm catching you sharply, pulling you back up.

He was so close now that the saber handle was touching your ribs, his breath tickling your face again, the sandalwood, again, penetrating the air. You tried to move away, pushing against him, but he didn't move an inch. He looked like a marble statue against the light.

"Take it," he growled, shaking with the saber a little. When you still didn't move, he took your hand and placed it on the weapon, his grip strong and tense. "Turn it on," he moved even closer, the head of the lightsaber pushing against his abdomen.

Turn it on.

You repeated his words.

Turn it on and get it over with.

Only you couldn't. You tried to force your hand to move, but like someone froze it, it was paralyzed.

"I'm not like you." You managed to let out, breaking your neck to look up at him. "I don't attack the unarmed."

"When did I attack the defenceless?" he asked, still holding your arm firmly, keeping you standing in one place. His hair fell like a black curtain around his eyes that stared into yours, awaiting an answer.

"Jecki," your voice broke at the memory of her. She had no reason to be there. She should have been safe at the temple.

You heard him take a deep breath, his fingers slightly amplifying the pressure around your wrist. "She attacked first,"

"She was a child." You raised your voice, trying to move away from him but as much as you wanted he didn't let you.

"Your Master brought her there. He knew the risk." He replied, his voice soft and calm with no hints of remorse.

"What do you want?" You cried out, furrowing your eyebrows. You wanted to scream at him, punch him, fight him, erase the stupid smell he had that drove you crazy and confused your thoughts.

"For you to eat," he repeated, stupid smile dancing on his lips. For a second, you wondered why he wore a mask to hide his beautiful face, but you quickly erased it. With the final push, he let go of your arm and stared at you as you made your way towards the food. You devoured embarrassingly quickly, forgetting about the claim you weren't hungry. All the time he stood there, watching you carefully.

When you finished eating, you took advantage of the bird that took Qimir's attention for a moment to hide the fork and knife behind your belt. It was stupid, but it counted as something. You could sharpen it using the rocks and use it when he'd attack you in your sleep.

"Why won't you kill me?" You asked after you finished your plate, reaching for the water bottle. You felt his stare. Everywhere. At that point you didn't know if he was still playing the role of a whore or he just had a staring problem. Both options made you nervous.

"As I said, I have no desire to." He smiled, kneeling down to squat. He slowly started rolling up his sleeves, the scars on his arms now more visible than ever. His long, thick fingers were wrapped around the lightsaber, his other hand now hanging in the air.

It was useless talking to him. It was obvious before, ridiculous now. You nodded, accepting you won't get any honest answer out of him.

"Thanks for the food, you better get going now." You slowly stood up, your stomach full and warm. "Time for your daily swim." you added, hoping he'd leave you alone till tomorrow when you could swim to the other side and leave this abandoned island.

You didn't hear him letting out a chuckle, his dimples showing. "I can take one here," he pointed at the calm water in front of you, guarded by gigantic rocks.

Great.

"Do whatever you want," you murmured, trying to convince yourself you're okay with his presence. Naked presence. You saw him the first few days, where you followed him every morning, not trusting anything he said. He invited you to join him every time, and every time you didn't say anything, just stood on guard, scanning and taking in every movement he made.

He was well built, with big arms, strong back, and powerful legs. Was he stripping in front of you as a part of his act, or was he just that unbothered by your presence. You hoped it was neither. You rather got tricked than ignored.

"Okay," you heard him murmur, walking towards you for his clothes. You flinched, taking a big step away from him, finding the lightsaber lying in the sand. As he slowly made his way to the water and started to undress, you took the lightsaber in your hands, feeling it, remembering the last time you held it.

You started your routine again, this time with your lightsaber, the branch left lying in the sand. You were well aware he was watching you, motivating you to show off and not to embarrass yourself.

Minutes ran by before you heard a splash, Qimir walking out of the water. You didn't even think to turn around, but your body decided for you. Your head tilted his direction, your eyes going up and down his figure. It wasn't the first time you saw it but this time you saw it from a clear view.

Suddenly, you had a hard time swallowing the saliva forming in your mouth, your heart aggressively punching your ribs.

Focus.

You quickly turned your head back, hoping to remember what you were doing before you scanned his form. You wondered if it would hurt, or would it be pleasurable.

You felt shame thinking about these things, but you never received an answer. The Jedi around you never answered, and those outside you didn't trust.

The unknown heat overtook you again, you had to close your eyes to regain your focus. Instead, The Force directed you back to him. His grin fixated his lips as he put on his clothes, not bothering to dry himself. Water droplets falling from his hair to his shoulders, his muscles forming themselves against the skin-tight robe.

Opening your eyes, you took a glimpse of your lightsaber, unaware of Qimir slowly approaching you. You practised your movements, your hand twists, and leg work. You had to get used to the weight of the lightsaber after years of not touching one.

You stopped yourself from turning his direction when you felt his touch on your shoulders.

"Keep your shoulders back," he whispered, forcing your shoulders back into their correct position. You froze, now only focusing on the warmth reflecting of his body. He bent over so his lips could reach your ears, and his hands travelled down to your biceps. "Your elbows up. You have them too low." he simply added, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You pressed your legs together, unaware of your need.

You listened to him, tho, keeping your shoulders and elbows in the position he moved them. His hands didn't touch you fully, only tickling the surface of your skin, but it was enough to make you burn.

"You need to spread your legs," he added, hearing a small smile while informing you. You fought the urge to turn and hit him in the face with the lightsaber handle.

When you didn't listen, he forced his knee between your legs, forcing them apart.

"So you don't fall over," he whispered against your ear, the little hair on your neck standing up.

"I didn't ask for help," you uttered, bitterness in your tone. You wanted him gone, but not for the same reason you did yesterday. For the reason that he made you have physical reactions without touching you. Having to press your legs together because of his voice. Feeling your skin burn by feeling him pressed against your back.

"You obviously need it," He smiled against your earlobe before pulling back just to let his hands fall onto yours, checking the way you hold your saber. He fixed the placement of your fingers, his breath on your neck erasing all of your thoughts. His warm wet chest pressed against your back, his breath tickling you. Your ass pressed against his abdomen. It was all too much for you. You shouldn't be feeling this way.

Yes, he was attractive. Yes, he was charismatic and soft when he wanted to be. But he wield the power of the dark side. He couldn't be trusted. You were scared the dreams you were having so often might become true.

"Use your thumb," he woke you up from your thoughts, pushing himself against your back as he held your hands. His voice was low and dark. "Place it on the top to hold it steadily. That way, it won't slip out of your hands, and you won't have to use strength to keep it in place." Even the way he talked and taught you almost drove you over the edge. You knew that's what he wanted and fought hard against it.

"I know how to hold a lightsaber." You hissed, shaking off his hands. Regretting it as his hands found its way to your lower back, pushing in, you had to hold back a moan,

"Straight posture." he simply said, ignoring you, leaving his hands on the back of your hips. You focused on taking deep breaths, hoping the heat between your legs would go away.

Almost as if he felt it, his hands moved from the back to the front, tickling the exposed skin of your stomach. You wanted to cry out, his touch driving you insane. You wanted to do something and, at the same time, nothing. You wanted him to take you, but you also wanted to drive the lightsaber through his skull.

"You won't fight anyone without a straight posture," he emphasized, pushing his fingers into your stomach, holding you in place.

"I've fought many people without you before." you replied angrily, a small moan leaving your lips at the end of the sentence as he moved his fingers lower, under your belly button.

"And did you win?" he mocked you, whispering into your ear. His hands right above the place you used your fingers while wishing they were his.

You were done with his stupid comments and mockery, pushing against him to turn and punch him, but he didn't let you move a muscle. He was too strong.

"What do they teach you," he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. "They don't teach you how to stand still or how to hold a lightsaber. Only how to surpress your emotions to become a hollow shell."

"That's not true," you argued. "We are taught to control our emotions, to feel them but not to let them get the best out of us."

"So why do you supress what you really want?" his voice turned into whisper again, his thumb making circling motion on your lower stomach. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew you were about to give up.

"Why do you shy away from your desire?" he added, using little to no strength to bring you skin to skin to him, feeling his length on your lower back.

Accidental moan left your lips. You closed your eyes out of embarrassment, wishing he didn't hear that. But you weren't that stupid.

"It's the path, path to the dark side." you stumbled over your words, feeling his fingers go lower, right above the belt of your pants.

Fuck.

"Then stop me," he whispered, his index finger going slowly underneath the hem of your pants. "Stop my hand. I'll let you." he added.

You didn't move a muscle. Only rested your head against his chest and let your arms fall by your side, lightsaber falling into the sand. You wanted him, and he wanted you. There was no reason to fight it. That was a problem for your future self.

"Tell me," he purred, his right hand painfully slowly maling their way to the hem of your panties. "Has anyone ever touched you like this?"

He was mocking you, playing with you. He knew no one ever had. You didn't count. "No," was your simple answer, wanting to dig yourself a deep hole in the ground and bury yourself in it.

"How does it feel?" he asked, his fingers finally reaching your wet bundle of nerves, slowly starting to circle your clit. You grabbed his arm out of shock, digging your nails into his skin. It felt too good. You were dripping wet, it was too easy for him to find your weak spot.

"As a Jedi, you can't even be with the people you love," he murmured into your ear before starting to leave small kisses down to your neck. "Can't give them the pleasure they deserve."

His fingers started to go up and down your clit, always stopping right before your entrance. You wanted to start begging for him to take you, but you didn't want to embarrass yourself more than you already have. You didn't pay attention to anything he was saying, only focusing on his fingers driving you crazy, making it difficult to keep a steady stance.

"What kind of life is that? Hmm?" His sloppy kisses and his fingers teasing your core themselves, almost had you falling over the edge. You were so touch deprived you were surprised you didn't cum when he touched you for the first time.

"Qimir," you cried out, wanting his fingers inside of you already. The first time, you said his name out loud. And he listened. His fingers stopped their movements, deserving an annoyed groan from you. He took them out of your pants, placing them on your waist to circle you so he could be face to face with you.

He didn't say anything before he bent his legs, kneeling in front of you, letting the sand swallow him. He looked up at you with pitch-black eyes, hinting on your pants. You understood, taking your time but nodding, letting him take off your pants and underwear.

The urge to cover your face and run away was strong, but the feeling of his mouth on your clit was stronger. You cried out hard, grabbing his hair as he dipped his tongue between your folds. This is what the Jedi deprived you of. You wanted to scream.

Qirim's tongue moved with rhythm against your dripping cunt, his fingers holding you still by your hips. Your hands were tangled in his hair, tugging on them every time he moved his tongue, teasing your entrance.

"Fuck," you hissed, your knees bending. Qimir quickly caught you, not stopping assaulting your clit. "Qimir, please," you begged. You weren't sure what you were wishing for anymore, but his name in your mouth felt almost as good as his tongue felt between your folds.

Your arms moved from his hair to his shoulders, holding yourself steady when his hand left your hip to put them between your legs. You caught a glimpse of his face when you looked down. Lustful dark eyes, messy hair, sweaty against his forehead, his nose and mouth covered in your slick. The view itself almost had you cumming on his tongue. So when his fingers joined the game, pushing inside of you, betwen your walls you let a pornographic moan. You were alone on this island but if someone was on the other end, you were certain they could hear you.

His fingers moved fast, in and out of you, spreading and curling inside of you. He was gentle with you at first but as he felt you getting closer and closer to the edge he threw all the respect out of the window, fucking you mercilessly with his thick fingers.

If his mouth and fingers had you screaming his name you wondered how his cock would feel.

"Qimir, I'm- " you cried out, wanting to warn him, but he felt it. The way your walls started to contract, crushing his fingers inside of you. His tongue kept circling your clit, adding to the pleasure. You were sure you formed new scars on his shoulders as you came hard around his fingers and tongue, failing to catch your breath and keep your legs straight and strong.

He held you for a few minutes as you rested against him, his lips still glossy with your wetness. Without thinking, you bended over to press your lips against his, tasting yourself, mixed with the flavor of him.

[painted-flag]

I'LL BE SEEING YOU - b.b

☾⋆⁺₊✧ part of my Marvel soulmate series, found here. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ bucky barnes x fem!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: allusions to past trauma, therapy sessions, and angst (with a happy ending). .𖥔 ݁ ˖ music telepathy soulmates. (6.6k words) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ you always passed by the man with frost-coloured eyes when leaving therapy each week, but did not know how much he could impact your life.

i'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces -billie holiday

The stifling atmosphere of the neatly arranged and sterile-like room was both unsettling and comforting. It had become a ritual to sit on the irritatingly comfortable couch while facing Christina Raynor’s analytical but also somehow scrutinizing gaze. As a person, she was fairly agreeable. As a therapist, she was as sharp and poised as her time on the battlefield; an experience that is both healing and disquieting. 

You were reaching the end of your session and began to feel the familiar sense of dread. It was a struggle to show up to these sessions as unwillingness and avoidance often clawed at your throat, but after you arrived, it would feel horrible to leave. It is a weird form of torture. 

The coolness of the room had you shuffling in your seat as Dr Raynor readjusted her grip on her mug of what you could only assume was a now-cold cup of coffee. The earthly and intense smell of the drink had permeated the air, stifling out the low-burning and almost empty vanilla candle on her desk on the other side of the room. 

“Setting your studies aside,” Dr Raynor took a momentary sip, “Have you painted lately?” You remained silent, still reeling from the interrogation-like assault she gave you moments ago about your studies. There was not much to tell; you had not bothered to go back to campus since… 

Feeling the intensity of your shutdown, she pivoted her angle, “What about work?” Your arms crossed over your chest as if it could shield you. 

She let out a sigh that was neither exasperated nor encouraging, “Selective mutism as a trauma response to what you’ve been through is common. Through these sessions, you’ve gotten quite better, though. Wouldn’t you agree?” Dr Raynor’s leg crossed over the other with her foot bouncing slightly as her head tilted to watch you. 

“I guess.” You mumbled as you broke eye contact to look down at your hands that rested in your lap and picked at your cuticles. 

“What about your soulmate? You mentioned that there was a change in music type last week.” Dr Raynor pushed further. A lump formed in your throat that you struggled to get rid of. 

“Yeah, uh,” Your nose sniffled as you inhaled, “It used to be all swing music. You know, stuff from like the 30s or 40s. But lately, there was some new stuff. Uh, Fleetwood Mac I recognized, some Jim Croce, Pink Floyd, The Clash. All the classics, I guess. Mainly Fleetwood Mac, I think they like that the most.” 

Speaking about your soulmate has always been a rough topic to touch on. When you were young, you would spend all of your free time next to a scratched-up pink Barbie CD player that was covered in stickers, some slightly torn off. Every disk you could get your hands on around your house would be stacked up in piles next to it. Methodically, you would go through each one, hoping that they could hear it.  

Silence. 

All you ever got in return was silence. 

For years, you held on to the belief that they would respond. Some brush of notes to hit your ears, or possibly the lilt of singing. Nothing ever came. Not until a few years ago. Though it was only ever 30s and 40s music. There was a small fear that they were possibly some geriatric person in an assisted living facility who had reached the end of their days. That would not be unusual, the bond did not necessarily mean a romantic connection. It could simply be platonic, though that was rare. 

Dr Raynor moved her hands gently to convey her words, “Maybe you could respond? Play what they play. Put on something else.” At your continued silence, she sighed loudly, “Simply communicate.” 

“I don't…” Your eyes caught sight of the clock across from you and noticed the time, “We’re out of time.” You got out of your seat as quickly as you could without looking too rushed. Dr Raynor recognized the play you were making, but let it slide with nothing but a quirked brow. 

“I will see you next week.” She responded. You nodded back gently, slightly flushed from the embarrassment of leaving so rudely. The door was a welcome sight, and your hand gripped the cool steel of the handle. When you yanked it open, your attention was focused on the floor. 

As you turned to go down the hallway, your boot-clad feet thumped against the manilla-tiled floor. Since you were stuck in your own world, you did not notice a figure as you turned down a hallway. 

It was like you hit a rock-solid wall. Abrupt and alarming, you almost would have fallen over if it were not for the strong arms that moved quickly to grab your forearms and stabilize you. When you finally looked at the person who you ran into, you sucked in a breathe. 

You knew him from brief moments as you left your sessions with Dr Raynor and he went in. Bright, icy blue eyes bored into yours. They were startlingly cold, but also somehow warm at the same time. It was like standing outside on a late winter’s afternoon and feeling the warmth from the sun on your face for the first time in months. His hair, dark and cut short, complemented his eyes. Under the leather jacket he wore, it was easy to see how well built he was. 

You were not an idiot, nor unaware of world news. You knew who he was, or rather knew the rumors of who – what – he was. Is he still active in the field? The answer was not entirely clear, but you did know those days as a weapon were likely long behind Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Hell, you remember your history teacher nearly drooling over the Howling Commandos during the WWII unit. 

It was just your luck that you happened to run into the incredibly mysterious but equally incredibly handsome man. 

Of course, your luck has always been shit. The familiar voice in your head sounded off. 

“You alright?” He asked you. Holy shit, his voice. 

Your mind was too cloudy to think of a proper response, not that it mattered much; it was difficult to talk to people, especially those you did not know. 

You nodded meekly and shuffled out of his grip, suddenly very aware of how close he was. Once free, you gave him a shy smile as a thank you before quickly making your way to the exit. The rapid thudding of your heart did not let up the further you left, and there was a nagging feeling in the back of your head. 

It was like an itch you could not scratch, only awakening after stumbling into him.

“Ah.” Dr Raynor put her mug of half-empty coffee on the small table beside her armchair as Bucky walked into her office. “Right on time.” 

Bucky barely managed to resist rolling his eyes as he moved to sit on the couch in her space. He bit the inside of his cheek as he recited the same mantra he always did at the start of these sessions. 

Only an hour. You can make it through an hour. 

He was less than satisfied at being forced into this office for an hour each week. Dr Raynor was not exactly pleasurable company, especially when her eyes seemingly pierced through his skin and read the soul which lay underneath. If he had a soul. 

Bucky knew he had a soulmate, so that must mean he had a soul, right? That was not something he wished to think about, even less while going through his court-mandated therapy. 

“So,” Dr Raynor clicked her pen and leaned back into her chair with a notepad, “How has your week been?” 

“The same. Just as they always are.” He put in no effort to disguise his dry and emotionless reply. Dr Raynor clicked her pen, pinched it between her fingers, and tapped it against the notepad as she tilted her head at him. 

“The same?” 

“The same.” Bucky reaffirmed. Another click of the pen, followed by a light sigh. 

“You’re going to keep making this difficult, hm?” 

Bucky shrugged, “I don’t know what you mean.” He often found some sense of humour in dodging her questions and sought to do it as much as he could. Dr Raynor, however, never tolerated it for long. 

“Alright, you don't want to talk about that.” She mumbled while scribbling some notes down on the page, “How about a checkup? Did you listen to my suggestions?” 

“I uh,” Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, “I didn’t listen to all of them, just a few.” 

“And?” Dr Raynor stopped tapping her pen and quirked a brow. 

“They’re not all bad. I liked uh,” His eyes scanned the list to find what he was thinking about, “Fleetwood Mac.” Bucky still found himself struggling to differentiate topics and names, often preferring to write things down in order to keep his mind from running away.

Dr Raynor nodded, “That’s good. Any response?” 

Bucky leant back in his seat, baffled that she would touch such a sore topic for him so early on in their appointment. He imagined walking out of the room right then, but he knew that would only make their next sessions even more tense, while he would also technically be in violation of his court-ordered conditions. 

Before his life turned into the nightmare it became, he could remember how disappointed he was as a child, having heard no music growing up. Absolutely nothing. It took a chunk out of his heart each time he heard Steve speaking about the latest song he had heard. He had been happy for his friend, but it ached to not have it himself. 

The paper in his hand crumpled as he tilted his head to crack his neck slightly. His jaw was clenched, and he could feel the ache begin to build in his muscles. Dr. Raynor was silently waiting for an answer with those same calculating eyes he had come to both rely on and dislike. 

“No.” Bucky nearly spat it out, but restrained himself. 

“Well, perhaps if you–” 

“I don’t see how relationship advice is conducive to helping me deal with my shitty past.” Bucky interrupted. He could see a certain look in Dr. Raynor’s eyes, like she had thought of something in that moment. 

“Conducive? Ah, did not know we were using big kid words.” She tapped her pen against the pad rhythmically while both of her brows raised in challenge. 

Bucky’s voice remained monotonous with an ounce of sarcasm. “Now, that is definitely not okay to say as a therapist. You know, I should report you for–” 

“Well, you’ve been acting like a kid.” She reciprocated his attitude and cut him off, “Increasingly so, as of late.”  

Bucky stayed silent, not wanting to continue speaking and make the hole he dug himself into bigger. Dr. Raynor let the silence sit over the room and settle in. He noted when they had begun her sessions that she was just as good at weaponizing silence as she was with words. 

“You spoke about hearing their music during your time as him and the first few months after you stopped. But not much since. Is that still correct?” 

He huffed, “Yeah. It’s been a while.” 

“Well, maybe you could listen to more music. Communication is important.” Dr. Raynor put down her pen to reach over and pick up her mug of coffee on the table that separated them and took a sip. 

“Maybe they’re dead.” Bucky pushed back. He said it with a more joking tone, but deep down, it was a running fear that surfaced each day. Dr. Raynor put her mug down and looked at him with disappointment. 

“Do you truly believe that?” She questioned. 

“Yes.” There was little hesitation in his voice. 

“You would have felt it. All I am saying is that it may do you some good to communicate. If not for your soulmate, then for yourself. Get up to speed with the times.” She clicked her pen, “Now, let’s talk about your sleep. Has anything changed since last week?” 

Bucky sighed and decided to get somewhat comfortable. The same mantra repeated in his head. 

Only an hour. You can make it through an hour.

The gentle breeze of a late spring afternoon cooled your warm skin as you walked through a quiet Brooklyn park. Fresh air always worked when clearing your mind. This park, and the subtle getaway from the cluttered city, was always welcome. The sounds of the city were only a hum in the background that you could ignore as you tried to ground yourself. 

The day had started poorly. It was not a big event that set you off, but small inconveniences that added up. A wake-up alarm that did not start, an accidentally burned breakfast, and an expired bag of coffee you did not know about until you took the first sip were excusable. The final straw was when your jacket got stuck on a doorknob in your apartment, causing you to jerk backward. It took a few calm breaths in and out to think clearly. 

That was how you found yourself in this park, desperate to grasp any shred of sanity you had left for the day. 

It was in this contemplative mood that you lost all awareness of your surroundings and walked across the small trail mindlessly. At a sharp turn, you felt yourself slam into something hard. Hands shot out to grab your forearms and stabilize you. Your eyes glanced up to see who it was with words of apologies on your lips, but nothing was left. 

Fuck. Again? 

You bumped into him again? 

Your face flushed with embarrassment at having bumped into the Sergeant Barnes. Again. As if you could not be any more mortified at your actions. All of the inconveniences you faced that morning seemed inconsequential now. 

He probably thinks you are a klutz who can’t even walk straight. 

“Woah. You alright there?” Bucky’s voice grounded you more while a look of recognition passed through his eyes, “I saw you at Dr. Raynor’s office.” 

It was hard to get words out, and your mouth opened and closed a few times with no air passing through. You swallowed the saliva in your mouth. Your arms crossed over your chest like some sort of protection as you mustered the courage to speak. 

“Uh, yeah.” You coughed lightly to clear your sore throat, “Sorry. It seems I’ve made a habit of bumping into you.” The words made you want to shrink in on yourself. Each time you talked to someone, it felt like each word you chose was weird and not something a real person would say. However, Bucky continued as normal. 

“Well, it’s not so bad,” He said, sticking his hand out, “I’m Bucky.” 

You hesitantly reached out to shake his hand, being startled by how large it was compared to yours and gave him your name. He repeated it once, and you tried to ignore how it made you feel a flutter in your stomach. 

Something came over his face, along with a slight flush. 

“I’ll not keep you any longer. Have a good day.” Bucky quickly spoke. Before you could respond, difficult as it may be, he left you standing in the park alone. You watched him leave and paid close attention to his strong shoulders and back. Blushing, you turned away and kept walking on the route you originally planned. 

It was only after he left that you were able to feel an itch at the back of your head. 

By the time you got to your apartment, after wandering for another hour, the corner of your small living room beckoned you. A small shelf, shaped into four square sections, was filled with vinyls that had long accumulated dust. Sitting on top of it was your record player, an Audio Technica that you managed to get on a lucky Black Friday sale. The plastic case that covered it had a thin coat of dust on it. 

You stood there for a few silent moments, contemplating the choice you now have in front of you. 

Dr. Raynor thought it would do you well. Communicate. Simply communicate. Has it ever been simple?

You walked forward, reaching to grab the familiar blue sleeve of the record you used to listen to daily. Slipping the vinyl out, you used your other hand to lift the turntable cover and place the record on it. You gently positioned the tone arm and the cueing level with muscle memory, positioning it at the second-to-last track; the song you used to play erratically every day. 

Once everything was all ready, you sat down on your couch right beside it and let the familiar tones reach your ears. Sunlight by Hozier played through the speakers as you closed your eyes. 

Maybe they were listening. Maybe they could hear as well. 

When the song was over, you got up to stop it. Your breath ceased as you waited for some response. Anything like when they were playing music a week prior. 

Minutes passed and there was nothing but the sounds of the city outside your window. A distant siren, some frustrated driver honking their horn, and chattering crowds. When there was no response, you huffed with disappointment and put the vinyl away. 

As you made a move to walk to your kitchen for some much-needed food, the sound of a piano caught you off guard. It sounded slightly grainy with age, and the familiar voice of Billie Holiday was ushered in with an alto saxophone. It was familiar, and you could remember your grandfather playing it for you when you visited. ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ was a personal favourite of his and yours. They were playing a song. 

It was at a low point in your life and you wanted the comfort of his company. He put on a record, and suddenly it felt like a warm blanket had been put over your shoulders. The melody calmed you. 

They heard. They heard and they responded. 

The fuzzy feeling in your body took hold of your heart and you decided to sit back down on your couch and let the sound soothe you.

You were sitting in Dr. Raynor’s office with your leg bouncing with impatience. The room was cool and a refreshing change from the increasing heat outside. The end of your session was nearing, and you wanted nothing more than to rush home. You wondered what your soulmate was doing at this moment. 

“And what has changed since then?” Dr. Raynor’s voice broke you from staring at the clock mounted on the wall behind her. 

“Well, they responded. It's become a habit for us now. I play a song, they play one back, and then it repeats.” Your hands were folded in your lap, squeezing one another like it was some kind of support. 

“That’s good,” Dr. Raynor scribbled something down in her notepad. “Communication like that is important to foster.

“Except it’s mainly stuff from the 30s and 40s.” You interjected. Frustration had begun to build in you. At how long this session has felt like, at your inability to express emotions well, the on-and-off ability to speak that you so desperately wished to have control over. 

Dr. Raynor stopped writing, “Well, they have a particular taste, then.” 

“With my shitty luck, they’re old and in a care home.” You spoke dryly. Dr. Raynor shifted in her seat and her head tilted with a familiar disappointed look. There was a glint in her eyes, like some unknown secret. 

“You may be surprised by how the world works everything out.” She responded. 

“Why do you always say that?” Your frustration had gotten the better of you, “This everything works out schtick.” 

“In my experience, it does-” 

“If that were true, then none of what happened to me would have-” Your voice had steadily risen, only for you to cut yourself off. Taking in a deep breath, you grounded yourself. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.” 

Dr. Raynor placed her notepad and pen down on the coffee table and got out of her chair. She walked over to one of the bookshelves in her office that held a speaker dock. 

“What was the first song you played that got a response?” She asked. Your vision glanced back at the clock and noticed it was almost time for you to leave. 

“We’ve only got a few minutes left.” You noted, but she only turned back at you and waited for an answer, “Sunlight by Hozier.” 

Dr. Raynor nodded and turned back to type it into her phone. She fumbled around for a moment. “I was never good with tech.” 

Before long, the familiar song was playing again through the speakers. You sat in silence while listening to the melody play. Dr. Raynor appeared not to mind it, though you do recall from one of your sessions many months ago that she had a preference for heavy metal and not much else; so this was definitely a change. You remembered being surprised for only a moment when she told you that, but thinking about it more, it did not sound surprising at all. 

You gradually got up and grabbed your bag as the song came to a close. “I’ll see you next week.” 

Dr. Raynor smiled as a goodbye, and you took that as a cue to leave the room. When you turned down the hall that led to the exit, you spotted Bucky making his way in. He was dressed in his usual colour of black, except this time it was riding leathers. Your cheeks burned at the sight of his biceps straining against the leather jacket. 

He gave you a small grin as he passed, “Morning.” 

You nodded back and tried not to stutter at the sight of his frost coloured eyes, “Morning.” It was only one word, but it felt like it took all the effort you had just to say it. 

Bucky watched as you continued on your way, mentally cursing himself in the process. With your back to him, he could finally let his shoulders slump, and a sigh passed between his lips. 

Morning? That was all you could think of? You sound like a recluse. 

It had been decades since he last attempted to flirt with a lady. Clearly, there was work to do. Though he never intended to try and fall back to that side of himself again. He used to be so smooth, eliciting giggles from the ladies he would pass. 

That Bucky was buried deep in the snow at the bottom of a ravine in the Swiss Alps. 

However, slowly, painfully slowly, he had begun to resurrect the battered corpse of his former self. Each new day was an attempt to breathe life into it, but it was not always successful. Some days took what little he had given, resetting him back to the beginning. 

He tried, he really did try to bring his old self back, but he was not Dr. Frankenstein at bringing that corpse back. Most days, he just felt like the monster. 

Walking into Dr. Raynor’s office, he stopped immediately. She was fiddling with her phone on a dock, and suddenly the familiar sound of the song that had been repeating in his head for the last week came through the speakers. 

“Sorry,” She muttered while fiddling with it, “I was never one for technology.” 

“What-” Bucky swallowed as she turned the song off abruptly, “What was that song?”

You were relaxing in the gentle atmosphere of a hole-in-the-wall record store on some side street you happened to stumble upon during a mindless walk. With the routine you had started with your soulmate, you had begun to get low on albums you had not played for them and decided it was best to pick up a few more. Pricey, yes, but worth it. 

Being swept up in the rows of organized boxes full of more vinyls than a person could ever listen to in their life, you did not notice the person near you until their looming shadow towered over your figure. You were startled out of reading and glanced up to see Bucky standing right by you with an amused look on his face. 

“I’m starting to sense that I should wear a bell.” He spoke first. You tried to recover and steady your breathing, but it was difficult to cool down near him. It seemed your body was always set alight. 

“Well, at least I did not bump into you this time.” You retorted. Suddenly, you felt self-conscious. How long had he been here? Did he see your horrible posture as you slightly hunched over to view the records? 

You did not have time to overthink as he laughed at your response. He laughed. Not at you, but at something you said. 

“True. What brings you by here?” Bucky asked. It was then that you understood that he wished to have a conversation with you. You had thought your timid nature and dry responses would have him back off, but he has not. 

“I’m running out of new records. Looking for something new to shake things up.” You spoke. Bucky nodded and smacked his lips together as he appeared to think. 

“You takin’ suggestions?” He asked. You nodded stiffly, still nervous around him. Bucky walked over a few aisles until he reached a specific section, and you noticed what was there. 

Of course, this was the stuff he must have listened to before… 

Vinyls from the 20s, 30s, and 40s cluttered up the space, organized by decade and inside each by genre. He looked comfortable here, as if he had spent countless hours puttering around it. 

“Well, you could never go wrong with this.” Bucky searched through a square section and pulled out an album. The familiar covers brought you back to childhood, wrapped in the comfort of your grandpa’s arms as music played through the room. 

“Already have that.” He looked surprised at your answer and you clarified, “My grandfather was a fan. Lead Belly, Blind Willie Johnson, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and-” 

“Billie Holiday,” He finished your sentence and put the record back in its spot. “Well, your grandfather had good taste, but that rules this one out. Hmm.” Bucky glanced around for a moment. You could tell he was very familiar with this section. 

“Here.” He pulled one out and showed it to you, “Count Blaise’s greatest hits.” 

“Sounds familiar. I think I’ve heard some of his stuff.” You accepted the vinyl and took it, nearly fumbling when his fingers brushed against yours. You flipped it to the back, partly to read but also to try and cover your cheeks that are likely more red than you would care to admit. 

“You know this section well,” You spoke, “I imagine it must be a little overwhelming coming back and having to catch up on all this.” You hoped you did not push the subject of conversation too far, but he appeared not to mind at all. 

“Overwhelming is an understatement. I don’t think I could ever catch up, but I’ve been exploring the seventies and eighties lately.” Bucky spoke. Your eyes lit up at that, and you gestured for him to follow. 

“What have you listened to so far?” You asked. 

He sighed and thought for a moment, “Jim Croce, Pink Floyd, The Clash. Though I prefer Fleetwood Mac the most.” 

You nodded and glanced around the new section the two of you walked into, “Then another recommendation from the early eighties.” Fingers skimmed over some of the record sleeves, flickering between them before finding what you were looking for and handing it off to him. 

Bucky held it in his hands and scanned the front, “Siouxsie and the Banshees?” 

“Good group. That's Juju, but Tinderbox is another good album.” You paused for a moment before speaking again, “Now, this may be a little out of your current comfort zone as it's the nineties, but I cannot in good faith allow you to leave this shop without it.” 

You moved down a few more sections and grabbed another vinyl case. You held it out in your arms like you were a kid presenting their science fair project with glee. 

“The Cranberries?” Bucky looked at it with skepticism. 

“One of the greatest groups to grace this planet.” You informed him. Bucky reached out and took it. You could have sworn he intentionally brushed your fingers that time, but shook that thought from your mind quickly. It was a dangerous game to play, to pretend there was something there, especially with a man like Bucky. It was hard not to though, he was too damn good looking. 

“Then I’ll try both.” Bucky smiled at you. A momentary pause happened between you two as you simply looked at one another. You became more flushed under his gaze and shifted your weight from one leg to the other. 

“Well, I, uh, have to go.” You awkwardly gestured with the pointing of your thumb to the exit. Bucky appeared to snap out of his thinking and nodded. 

“Yes. Uh, thanks for the recommendations.” He vaguely swung around the records in one hand. A fluttering feeling bloomed in your stomach. Who knew he could be adorably awkward? Giving him one last nod of goodbye, you turned to go to the register at the front and leave him be. 

Hours later, you were still contemplating that short conversation as you were making dinner. You knew your appointment with Dr. Raynor was the next day and a part of you was almost excited. Those brief moments of passing by Bucky as he was on the way in had become as ingrained into your routine as mealtimes. You looked forward to seeing him and catching a glimpse of those frost-blue eyes. 

As you sautéed some vegetables, a familiar song started to play in your head. You froze in place as you identified it. 

Siouxsie and the Banshees. Siouzsie and the fucking Banshies. 

Clarity hit you right in the head, and you moved to grip the counter as realization flooded over you. It added up, it all added up. The lack of music in childhood, the 30s and 40s songs always playing, and the introduction of bands from the 70s and 80s coincided with his exploration into other decades. It was all so obvious you could hit your past self. 

No. No. No. No. This cannot be happening. 

It explained why you were so comfortable talking to him despite your struggle with mutism. It explained why he had so easily and quickly become a fixture in your life, even if the presence was small. And it sure as hell explained why your heart could not stop beating erratically when those diamond blue eyes looked your way. 

Bucky Barnes was your damn soulmate.

You were nervous, more than usual. Dark circles hung under your eyes, indicating how little you had slept that night. It was impossible to get even an hour of rest. Your bedsheets were crumpled because you turned over more times than you could ever count. He was your soulmate. There was no other explanation.  

Music played in your head as you entered the building to Dr. Raynor’s office and walked down to hallway. The song your soulmate – or rather Bucky – played after you reached out consumed your head. Billie Holiday’s melodic voice echoed around your brain. 

I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, 

It was weird, being in a headspace where you were thinking so intensely but also unable to fully understand it. The closest feeling you could attribute it to was that haze you have between sleep and awake; there, but not truly there. 

That this heart of mine embraces, all day through, 

Now, as you made your way to Dr. Raynor’s office, you knew you would have to mention it. You were fully convinced that if you did not fess up yourself, she would be able to tell you were hiding something immediately. The woman was a bloodhound for finding secrets. 

In that small cafe, the park across the way, the children's carousel, the chestnut trees, the wishing well, 

You tried to ignore it as you turned down another hallway and approached the slightly ajar door of Dr. Raynor’s office. Your gaze immediately went to the speaker dock in the corner of the room, the same song playing in your head was playing through those very speakers. What the fuck?

I’ll be seeing you, in every lovely summer’s day, 

Turning to the figure out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bucky standing there. His eyes were soft, but his posture was stiff like he was nervous. It was a weird emotion to see on him. Your mouth was open in slight shock. 

He knew. He had to. 

Fuck. What do you do now?

“Hey,” You finally spoke after moments of silence. 

Hey? 

That’s what you say to your soulmate?

“You know,” Bucky responded. It was not a question, but a statement said with trepidation. Was he… scared? The air in the room was cool, but tense. 

“I do. Last night, when you played that album I recommended. It uh, it all came to me.” You were not sure what else to say. As much as you struggled with speaking, talking with him before you knew he was your soulmate had been surprisingly easy. Now, there were expectations and outcomes thought to come from this connection that felt paralyzing. 

“When did you find out?” You asked. 

Bucky took a step closer to you, “Last week, when you were leaving your appointment. Dr. Raynor played that song, and though I had no concrete evidence,” He took another step closer. “It felt right.” 

“Oh,” You nodded slowly, mouth still open, “Disappointed then?” You tried to cover it as a joke, but inner you was frightened. You felt inadequate, or maybe not exciting enough. You had a regular life, normal and as non-adventurous as most. But would he even care for that? 

He took a final step to be right in front of you, speaking with his voice low as those familiar frost blue eyes gazed into yours. 

“Absolutely not.” He whispered. You did not know when the song ended, but suddenly the room was thrown into silence. Nothing but the sound of your light breathing remained. 

“Of all the songs to respond with, why this one?” You asked. 

“When did you first hear that song?” Bucky asked back. You would be lying if you said it took a while to find that memory. It was burned into you, something that you turned to in dark moments. 

“I was young. Bad day at school, well, bad days. My grandpa was visiting home and was there when I came home crying. My parents, uh, worked a lot,” You sniffled lightly, pushing away at the burn in the back of your eyes. “He held me in his lap and played his favourite songs. That one stuck with me the most.” 

The corner of his lips twitched upward at your heartfelt expression, and you felt one of his hands grab yours. He looked down to fiddle with your fingers as if it was hard for him to maintain eye contact before he spoke. 

“I wasn’t frozen when that song played. I was, he was, on a mission. It was the first time hearing it since they took me-” His voice cut as he let out a shaking breath, “It brought me right back to before… all of that.” 

You used your free hand to capture the one he was holding your other with. Your fingers rubbed smooth, methodical circles on the back of his hand. It felt like instinct to comfort him, like a part of you relied on it. You wanted to sway the topic as it clearly was not something Bucky wanted to delve into this early.

“How the hell did you get Dr. Reynold’s in on this?” There was curiosity in you about how he set this up. By now, your appointment was supposed to be happening. 

“It was actually fairly easy to convince her. She knew for a while.” Bucky answered. Your face shot up to look at him and your brows furrowed. 

“She knew?” You would have been angry, but it was so like her to know. She dug up secrets like it was nothing. “And she didn’t say anything?” 

“HIPAA or something like that, I guess,” Bucky answered. The two of you shared small smiles. 

“Of course she knew.” You let out a quick laugh. Bucky raised his hand that was clasped with yours and tugged you a little closer. Red flushed over your face, and you could swear his super soldier hearing could hear your heart rate pick up. 

“I still haven’t listened to that other album you recommended. I was thinking you could come over? I’m a little intimidated, after all, it is outside my current comfort zone, as you put it yesterday.” Bucky uttered with a tone of playfulness you had yet to hear from him. 

“You? Intimidated? I doubt it.” You respond with a teasing tone. 

“You know, I’m trying to subtly ask you out.” He reasoned. 

You quirked a brow, “Subtle? Music playing, a surprise meeting, and a confession? Yes, very subtle, Sergeant.” 

Something darkened in his eyes when you addressed him like that. You swallowed some saliva that had built up in your mouth. His eyes scanned over your face like he was trying to memorize it as much as he could, as if you were at risk of being taken away. 

“You gonna give me an answer?” Bucky remarked. There was something on his face akin to fear as he waited for a response. 

“Yeah, I’ll come over and listen with you.” Your voice whispered, entirely too afraid to think this was all a dream and you would wake up any moment. He smiled gently at your answer and his posture perked up. 

“Good. I’ll make you dinner as well.”  He spoke the words like a promise. 

“Dinner? Well, now you’re spoiling me.” You tilted your head. It was nice seeing something other than a straight face or a scowl on him. 

Bucky came alive with that smile, and you wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. 

Bucky pulled you in closer with your hands quickly moving to land on his chest. “That’s the plan, doll.” 

It was not intentional, the change that your apartment underwent in the following months. It was subtle at first, but swift. The vinyl shelf acquired more additions over time, those that he would bring over. You would do the same when you went to his place for a dinner date and a listening session. However, it became more frequent at your place. 

Soon, it was not only the records that moved over. A drawer full of his clothes turned into multiple, the toothbrush sitting in the cup on your sink got a friend right next to it, books on your shelves were intermixed with his, until one day Bucky was simply there. 

There was no need for an official declaration or a fixed time for him to fuse so fluidly into your life. Truly, you two were always together through time. It was only natural for time not to keep you apart any longer.

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Tim Bradford x Rookie!Reader [PLATONIC] — ONGOING SERIES: Like Father, Like Rookie.

Summary: After responding to a particularly gut-wrenching call, you find yourself struggling to shake it off. Tim doesn’t do hand holding or pep talks, but the way he subtly keeps you grounded reminds you that maybe he does care—just in his own way.

Warnings: Reader & Tim take a domestic call gone wrong, mentions of blood, derealisation.

You weren’t sure why this one stuck with you.

You’d seen worse. At least, that’s what you told yourself. You’d handled chaotic crime scenes, violent arrests, situations where adrenaline took over and left no room for emotions to settle in. But tonight—tonight was different.

It was a domestic call gone bad. The kind that started with a 911 hang-up and ended with shattered glass, blood on the floor, and a kid too young to understand what had happened but old enough to know it wasn’t right. You did everything by the book. Secured the scene. Called for medics. Reassured the child the best you could, even when their small hands clung to your uniform like a lifeline. You did your job. And then you left.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But one thing couldn’t get out of your head — Your uniform was awfully stained.

The blood wasn’t yours, but it didn’t matter. It had splattered across your sleeves when you helped the woman up from the floor, smudged onto your hands when you picked up the crying kid. You hadn’t noticed it at first—too busy, too locked into protocol. But now, sitting in the shop under the dim glow of the streetlights, it was all you could see.

You rubbed your palms together, as if you could scrub the feeling away, but the red didn’t disappear. It had already dried, darkened into something rust coloured and permanent. Your breathing slowed, the noise of the city fading into a dull hum as a strange weight settled in your chest.

You didn’t even realize you were staring at your hands until Tim spoke.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cut through the haze. You blinked, finally looking up, and he was already watching you—brows drawn, head tilted just slightly. You hadn’t even noticed that the shop had pulled over to the side of the road.

“You’re here,” Tim said evenly, like he was reminding you of something obvious. “Stay here.”

You exhaled, shaking your head as if that could clear the static in your brain. With stiff movements, you reached for a napkin in the center console, scrubbing at your hands even though it wouldn’t do much good. Tim let you, didn’t say a word until your hands stopped shaking.

Then, after a long beat, he reached behind his seat and tossed you a fresh department hoodie.

“Put that on,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the road.

You hesitated, then pulled it over your uniform without question. The fabric was warm, heavy, grounding.

You weren’t sure if it actually helped, but somehow, you didn’t feel so lost anymore.

You pulled the hoodie over your uniform, the scent of worn fabric and faint cologne settling around you. It was grounding in a way you didn’t expect. But then, Tim reached over and—

His thumb swiped against your cheek.

You stiffened slightly, not because of the touch, but because of what he was wiping away.

Blood.

You hadn’t even realized it was on your face too.

Tim’s movements were calm, methodical. He pulled another napkin from the glove compartment, wetting it with his water bottle before dabbing at the smudges across your jawline. His touch was firm but not rough, like he knew you needed something tangible to focus on.

“You’re doing fine, kid,” he said, voice low, steady. “Stay with me.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, but compliant. Your breathing was shallow, but you matched the rhythm of his movements—each slow pass of the napkin against your skin, each flick of his eyes scanning for anything he missed.

When he was done, he studied you for a moment. His usual sharp, assessing gaze softened just slightly, like he was trying to gauge if you were still floating somewhere outside yourself.

“Talk to me,” he finally said.

Your lips parted, but no words came out at first. You swallowed, forcing out something—anything.

“I didn’t even feel it,” you admitted. “Didn’t notice the blood was there.”

Tim nodded, like that answer made sense. “That’s because you were running on instinct.” He tossed the used napkin into a small trash bag near the console. “It’s not a bad thing. It means you did your job.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight in your chest shift—still heavy, but not suffocating.

Tim didn’t push for more. Instead, he rested his arm against the center console, glancing at you like he was about to say something but changed his mind. Then, after a beat—

“Let’s get some coffee.”

The abruptness of it almost made you laugh. Almost. But the offer was exactly what you needed—something normal, something routine, something that wasn’t blood and sirens and silence pressing in too hard.

You nodded, finally meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Tim hummed in approval and put the shop in drive.

The coffee shop stayed quiet between you and Tim for a while, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Just… steady. Like the weight of the last call wasn’t pressing as hard anymore. Like you could actually breathe again.

Your coffee was still too hot to drink properly, but you held onto it anyway, fingers gripping the cup like it was some kind of lifeline. Tim didn’t comment on it. He just sat across from you, sipping his own, gaze flicking out the window every now and then, like he was still half on duty even while sitting down.

You let the silence sit a little longer before finally speaking. “So… you’ve done this before.”

Tim glanced back at you. “What?”

“This whole ‘walking someone out of a breakdown’ thing,” you said, raising a brow. “You’re kinda suspiciously good at it.”

Tim scoffed. “It’s not a breakdown.”

You gave him a look. “It was getting there.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’ve done it before.”

You nodded, waiting.

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything else. But then, his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his coffee cup, and he spoke again.

“I had a T.O who did the same thing for me,” he said, voice lower now. “When I was a rookie, fresh out of the military. Thought I could handle anything.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

You blinked. Tim didn’t talk about himself much, and when he did, it was usually wrapped in sarcasm or some kind of tough-love lesson. But this—this was different.

“What happened?” you asked carefully.

Tim exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Bad call. Domestic. Ended ugly.” His fingers flexed once against the cup before stilling. “My T.O. knew I was barely keeping it together after. Took me out for coffee, let me sit with it. Didn’t push, didn’t lecture—just reminded me that it wasn’t my job to carry it forever.”

You swallowed, watching him.

Tim glanced at you then, eyes sharp and knowing. “That’s what I’m doing for you.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling like he could see straight through you. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though even you weren’t convinced.

Tim’s brow lifted. “Sure. That’s why you haven’t taken a sip of that coffee yet.”

You scowled at him but finally lifted the cup and took a hesitant sip, more out of stubbornness than anything else. It was still too hot, and you made a face, setting it back down.

Tim smirked. “There. Progress.”

You rolled your eyes but felt the tightness in your chest ease just a little.

After a moment, Tim leaned back, stretching his shoulders. “You don’t get used to it, you know,” he said, voice softer. “The blood. The way people look at you when they realize you can’t fix everything. You just learn how to live with it.”

You nodded slowly. “And coffee helps?”

Tim shrugged, smirking slightly. “Doesn’t hurt.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, finally taking another sip of your drink. This time, you didn’t grimace.

The weight of the last call still lingered, but it wasn’t crushing you anymore. You weren’t fully back yet, but you were getting there.

And Tim—without making a big deal out of it—was making sure you didn’t have to get there alone.

[bee-calm]

tbhk but they're lab-based phd students- because sometimes you just need to make the most self-indulgent au you can think of

nene

marine microbiology

talks to her culture plates, swears it makes them grow faster

tries to put cute labels on her samples then can’t remember what ANY of her shorthand means the next day

forgets her pass and gets locked out at least once a day 

algae clip-art in all of her presentations

sings in the microscope room, thinks nobody can hear her singing in the microscope room

once thought she’d re-written scientific dogma then realised she’d put a decimal point in the wrong place

thinks transcriptomics is witchcraft. is currently doing transcriptomics.

brings chocolates for the rest of the lab, is everyone’s favourite because of it

became best friends with aoi when they somehow managed to double-book the flow cytometer

could read those papers she’s been saving for weeks, OR she could spend two hours changing the colour scheme on her figures 

amane

materials chemistry, probably something space-exploration-aligned

pure synthesis, if it’s bigger than a kilodalton then he doesn’t want it anywhere near him

if there is an unlabelled round-bottom flask in the lab freezer then there’s a 90% chance it belongs to him. claims he can tell the chemicals apart by Vibes alone (amane voice: nmr is for Weaklings)

worlds messiest fume hood, yet somehow the worlds most immaculate desk-space. (currently the biggest scientific mystery the rest of the lab is working towards) 

will tell people (read: kou) that biochem isn’t real chemistry just to cause problems 

really good at teaching project students

also really good at scaring the project students by pretending to drink the toxic chemicals

extensive lanyard pin collection 

nobody has ever actually seen him go home

has a set of glassware-themed coffee mugs. much debate as to whether or not he just stole them from the lab.

kou

structural biology

just a guy and his 10 litre E.coli grow-up

once spilled an vat of LB all over the bacteria room. legend has it the stains are still there to this day

banned teru from the cryoEM room after he walked in and the entire setup almost crashed 

likes modelling structures, wonders why his computer is always running so slowly, fails to consider that the 5 pymol projects he has open at all times may have something to do with it

serial offender for walking home still wearing his goggles

thinks mammalian cell work is witchcraft 

incredibly chaotic labwork processes, still somehow gets the results anyway. most common saying: ‘this is not going in the methods section’

once dropped his earring into the liquid nitrogen tank, has still not lived it down 

has a framed photo of his first crystal on his desk

ongoing war with mitsuba over whether electron microscopy is real microscopy or not

keeps taking on side projects for other people, has yet to realise that this may be the reason he never gets to go home on time

teru

molecular biology

theory x1000, ask him a question after his presentation and there’s a 90% chance he’s got a bonus slide already prepared to answer it

benchwork also x1000, that person who asks ‘oh can i try?’ and gets amazing results first time on the experiment you’ve been trying to get right for weeks.

cell culture x0, banned from the tissue culture room, WILL contaminate any flask put within 5 feet of him

the machines hate him. the centrifuge keeps trying to eat his samples. the plate reader breaks on him at least once a week.

serial weekender

stickler for lab safety, can and will send out threatening emails reminding people to wear their gloves and lab coats

once drew the entire signalling cascade for his target molecule from memory on the whiteboard in a lab meeting and it was impressive enough that nobody has wiped it off yet 

keeps doing horrendous timecourses, can be found taking plate readings at stupid o clock in the morning 

aoi

immunology 

the flow panels she manages to pull off are a constant subject of awe and horror 

likes working weekends because it means nobody can hear her verbally threatening her cell cultures when they’re not behaving

can fit a scary amount of information onto the lid of an eppendorf tube

when stressed can be found hiding out in the plant biology greenhouses. has made friends with some genetically modified tomatoes

rocks up to the lab meeting with publication-ready figures for an experiment she did yesterday

the source of 90% of the passive aggressive post-it notes around the lab

everyone dreads her post-presentation questions. will dissect your experiments and do it with a smile.

started off working normal hours but has gradually become borderline nocturnal over time

teru contaminated her cells once, has been using it as leverage to make him collect things from stores for her ever since

keeps giving akane’s email to sales reps instead of her own so she can get free stuff without ever being contacted by them again

akane

biophysics 

scary single molecule data, deliberately puts huge equations on his presentations so nobody will ask him questions

might as well get paid lab tech wages too, chronically stuck on stock solution duty

crashed the lab computer trying to run one of his datasets on it

the only reason the lab has a booking system for the equipment. anarchy would prevail if he wasn’t around.

will go off to do photobleaching experiments and emerge hours later looking like a cave creature

keeps having to fix the equipment that teru breaks

perpetually receiving emails meant for aoi by people who got their names mixed up

also perpetually receiving emails from the company sales reps who aoi told his email to so she wouldn’t have to deal with them

says he needs to stop working weekends, then suddenly it’s saturday and he’s stuck in the microscope room with teru again

has somehow acquired a small army of project students (none of them are studying the same thing as him)

incubation time= coffee time

mitsuba

cell biology

made a cell line, treats it like it’s his baby

trust issues, won’t let ANYONE share his reagents. serial pipette hoarder.

neat lab book, can still somehow never find where he put his protocols or what concentrations he used his antibodies at

could probably win an award for his immunofluorescence images, someone automatically turns the lights off when it’s his turn to present in lab meetings bc he’s guaranteed to have cool microscopy to show

thinks bacteria work is disgusting. ensures kou knows this.

[emerging from a 5-hour session in the microscope room] what day is it?????

loves his work, doesn’t act like it (the reagents smell bad. the lab benches are dirty. people keep using the milk he brought to put in the fridge. nobody cleans the water bath. if there’s nothing to complain about, he’ll make something.)

threatens to move to industry at least once a day 

outright refuses to do weekends

found the perfect colour scheme for his graphs, considers this the highlight of his entire degree

any minor inconvenience is an excuse to go to the cafe on campus

natsuhiko

innate immunity, infection

zebrafish models

nobody is sure if he bought a tie-dye lab coat or if it’s just that badly stained

has absolutely named his fish (doesn’t actually remember which is which, but the sentiment is there)

forever followed by a gaggle of project students. is constantly reminding them to do as he says, not as he does 

incubation times are a suggestion, not a rule (read: keeps getting distracted and leaving his experiments way longer than necessary)

convinced he’s going to be patient zero of the zombie apocalypse when he accidentally creates super-salmonella and infects himself 

serial distractor, WILL chat to people while they’re in the middle of a 96-well plate

isn’t going to eat the LB agar, but the temptation is always there

someone bought him the ‘women want me, fish fear me’ hat for his birthday, keeps it on his desk

the confocal microscope hates to see him coming (5 hours is a short session when you’re trying to take z-stacks of an entire fish)

sakura 

drug discovery 

probably dabbles in synthesis, plays orchestral music while running columns bc apparently it gives them better separation 

tea drawer in the office, WILL pull out an entire teapot during their incubation times 

best dressed person in the lab, at all times

eternal struggle of dangly earrings versus the samples they’re leaning over

neat handwriting, still terrible at labelling eppendorfs (what are the lids so small for)

incubation times to the second

runs BIG experiments, has mastered the art of the plate plan. made a template which has somehow ended up distributed around the entire department 

ceo of not replying to sales rep emails 

mildly allergic to the nitrile gloves, the drawer below the tea drawer is the hand cream drawer

earphones + cell culture is the ideal de-stress activity

over-prepares for presentations, will spend 2 weeks rehearsing an informal flash talk

probably the only person who actually sends their lab coat to get washed

mei

tissue engineering 

has designed all of her labmates a mug with terrible research-relevant science puns on them 

invented side-projects, has probably got a collaboration ongoing with every other lab in the department 

bought a label printer for her reagents, has way too much fun with it

thought a week-long experiment was bad? try two months

life goal is to get to try making DNA origami just to say she did it

keeps starting doodle chains on the lab whiteboard

experiment worked= sweet treat to celebrate

experiment failed= sweet treat to commiserate 

probably did a masters in the microbiology department, they keep trying to convince her to switch projects back to them bc her streak plating was gallery-worthy

picks up her lab coat and 10 pens fall out of the pockets

sold her soul to parafilm

tsukasa

RNA therapeutics

goes in cell culture with no gloves, still somehow doesn’t get contamination 

that one insane person who actually enjoys the stress of working with RNA

doesn’t even do SDS-PAGE but still has coomassie stain all over his lab coat 

keeps launching dry ice rockets 

homebrewed a microfluidics system in the lab, it makes weird noises at night and everyone is slightly terrified of it

keeps materialising in the corner of the microscope room when mitsuba is in the middle of taking images. the cause of many a dropped slide.

plots his data in excel

worlds worst file names. no system, no dates, just a keyboard smash and a prayer

who needs desk space when you can just move your laptop into the lab

gave into temptation and tasted the cell culture media once. it was disappointing 

either the most incoherent presentation you’ve ever seen, or a major scientific breakthrough, no inbetween 

[scribblecon]

Hooogh I’ve had this in my wips for a while and finally finished it. Untitled Skids x reader because it’s almost 2am and I just want to post it I can’t faff about deciding on a title right now lol

SFW, GN reader

—

“Skids! You made it!” You exclaim, arms open as Skids enters your habsuite.

“How could I pass up spending time with you?” He throws you a lazy smile before taking a look around the room. He notices what appears to be a workstation set up on the desk with some materials you’d been gradually collecting from various planets the Lost Light had stopped at on its travels. “Er, what, exactly, is this by the way? Some kind of experiment?”

You break out into a grin as you tell him to sit down and switch to his holo avatar, then start explaining. How you remembered him saying he doesn’t have any hobbies because he gets bored of things once he masters them, and that got you thinking, what if there’s a skill no one can truly master? You’re not sure about Cybertronians but humans have been arguing about and striving to perfect different art forms for centuries, so, why not start with painting?

Now in his avatar, Skids joins you on the desk to inspects your materials. It’s nice of you to think of him like this, but it’s only a matter of time before his brain starts piecing things together and he gets restless for something else to do. At least it’s an excuse to spend time with you.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” You interrupt Skids’s train of thought, patting his avatar’s shoulder. “You’ll just master painting like you have with all your other skills. But I want you to go into this with no examples or references. Paint something from the heart. Or, uh, spark, in your case. You know what I mean.”

“From the spark.” He turns to face you, raising an eyebrow. Still not fully convinced, but interested.

“… I’m going to explain the basic properties of oil painting so you don’t destroy any of my stuff by accident and then turn you loose on a canvas. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like you’re throwing me in at the deep end.”

“And when has that ever been a problem for you?”

—

You’re hard at work directly opposite him, having arranged the easels so that he ‘couldn’t cheat’ by watching your own creative process, but Skids has no idea where to start. Self expression does not come easily to mechs that have been fighting for millions of years. Staring at the colours you had set out for him, he picks one at random and squeezes it onto the palette. He’ll just make something up as he goes and say it’s abstract expressionism.

What started out as picking colours at random has turned into something far more methodical and an exercise in frustration. There’s something in the back of his mind that he can’t quite remember but as he smears another streak of orange across the canvas the memory feels more tangible, only for it to evade him just as he feels like it’s within reach. Swapping out brushes for palette knives, he builds up layers of texture, carving out shapes in some areas and spreading paint around in others.

Ready to take a break, you drop your brush in a jar of turpentine and walk over to see how Skids is doing. “Woah. It’s like staring into a pool of magma.” You can’t quite put your finger on it, but something about the painting makes you uneasy. “A little unsettling when you look at it for too long though, don’t you think?”

“Unsettling?” Taking a step back, he frowns as he wipes off the palette knife in his hand. That hadn’t been his intention. He kind of sees what you mean though. In a sea of oranges and yellows so bright they almost glow against the dark background, right in the centre there’s some marks that look like part of a face in the midst of an inferno. He hadn’t put a face there on purpose, but now he’s spotted it, he can’t unsee it.

“It’s not a bad thing.” You murmur. “Are you alright though? You looked pretty intense earlier.”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He can feel his head starting to hurt. “Using a holo-matter for too long can really wear a guy out, though. Time to call it a day?”

“Oh, god,” checking the time, you realise several hours have passed. “We’ve been working for a while, huh?”

“It’s no bother,” He says, avatar dissipating. It takes a moment before his optics switch back on and he continues speaking. “Really, It was interesting. We should do this again. Now how about you clean yourself up and we head to Swerve’s?”

You look at your hands and down at your clothes, marred with paint stains. “Sounds like a plan. Give me 10 minutes.”

[chaotic-orphan]

Beg

Three loud bangs on Whumper’s door pulled him from his work in the kitchen. Well, work was a generous word for it. He was scrolling through the Guardian after a long day with two fingers of rye in his hand. He turned his head, eyes narrowed at the intruder, hoping whoever it was would get the hint and leave.

“I know you’re in there you bastard!” Whumper smiled at the familiar voice, surprised. Things rarely surprised him. “Open the fucking door.”

Whumper would know that belligerent voice anywhere. He crossed the hall to his front door, unlocking it and beaming a smile at Whumpee.

“Well, well, well, what are you doing here, darling?”

Whumpee looked like a storm. His hair was sticking up all over his head, the way it did when Whumper put him a stress position for too long or threatened to use the whip or the cane on him again.

Whumpee didn’t answer. Instead he pushed his way passed Whumper into Whumper’s home and stormed through the hall to the basement door. Whumper closed the door and locked it, grinning at the blessing of his evening.

Whumper followed Whumpee down into the basement and leaned by the door, folding his arms across his chest. “What're you doing here, Whumpee?”

Whumpee tore his jacket from his body and went to throw it in the corner but caught it at the last second, hesitating, and then walked calmly over to the coat rack and hung it up before he turned to Whumper.

“I want you—” Whumpee began but swallowed and looked away. He cursed and turned and ran a hand through his hair and cursed again. “Fuck… fuck! Fucking— fuck! God! Christ!”

Whumper’s eyebrow arched as he straightened, intrigued by his former Whumpee’s frustration. His dress shoes clacked against the cement of the basement and echoed back. Whumpee glanced over his shoulder at Whumper and shook his head, his hand ran down his face.

“Fuck, what are you doing, Whumpee?” Whumpee asked himself quietly. His whisper troubled and haunting, disbelief colouring his voice as it found Whumper’s ears.

Whumper narrowed his eyes. “Oh…” he said, realisation dawned on him as sudden and as cruel as his smirk that graced his lips. “Oh… you want me to hurt you, don’t you?”

Whumpee stiffened. Whumper’s smirk widened. “Oh that’s it, isn’t it, darling?”

Whumpee turned, eyes ablaze with a glare that only confirmed his guilty admission, that yes… that was exactly what he wanted. That was the reason he was here, but he didn’t want to beg. He didn’t want to ask. Whumper grinned.

“Don’t call me that,” Whumpee snapped. Whumper stepped closer and put his hand on Whumpee’s cheek, relishing as Whumpee flinched under his touch. Oh this was like the best Christmas gift he never asked for.

“But it is what you want, isn’t it?” Whumper pressed. Whumpee didn’t answer, but his eyes turned pleading. Whumper drank in his expression, abuzz with the notion of what Whumpee was doing here. A sick kind of satisfaction passed across Whumper’s features.

Whumpee hesitated as his eyes searched Whumper’s face. He reached a hand up and batted Whumper’s away from his face with a scoff. “Forget it,” he muttered and went to step past Whumper. “This was a mistake.”

Whumper allowed Whumpee to walk to the door. He turned in place, his eyes followed Whumpee’s conflicted back as he got to the door of freedom. Whumper didn’t stop him, but it seemed like that’s exactly what Whumpee wanted him to do. He didn’t even try to go for his jacket.

Whumper’s amusement grew. He undid the button on one of his shirt cuffs and slowly, methodically started rolling it up his forearm as Whumpee pressed his forehead against the door, no doubt having another conflict of delicious emotions.

“I’ll oblige you, of course, darling,” Whumper told Whumpee, unable to keep his smile from his face. Whumpee stiffened at the door, his palms flat on the door.

A shaky breath echoed through the basement.

Whumper started on his second cuff.

“You will?” Whumpee asked. His voice oh too quiet. Oh so vulnerable. It sent a shiver down Whumper’s spine.

“Of course.”

Whumpee turned to face Whumper, his expression suspicious but his eyes held that little glimmer of light, of hope that it would be that easy. Had Whumper taught him nothing, the poor dear.

“You just need to ask.”

Whumpee’s brows drew up, pained, his mouth flattened into a thin line. His fists opened and closed at his sides, drawing Whumper’s gaze. He trailed his eyes up Whumpee’s arm to his chest that rose and fell too quickly before going back to his conflicted face. Whumpee tried to keep his bluster up, but they both knew he would submit, it was only a matter of when.

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“I have been told that.”

“And I hate you.”

Whumper shrugged. “Well I didn’t force you to come to my house, Whumps.”

Whumpee’s eyes blazed. “Don’t call me that!”

Whumper dipped his chin. Whumpee’s face fell as Whumper started slowly towards him. Whumper tsked lightly, shaking his head.

“You’ve been too long without my guidance, Whumpee,” Whumper said. Whumpee opened his mouth, but no words came out and he shut it quickly when Whumper cocked a brow at him. “Good boy. Perhaps you remember some things I taught you.”

“I— I don’t- I don’t want to be yours, I just… I need—”

Whumpee stopped a foot in front of Whumpee. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Yes Whumpee?”

Whumpee stifled a would be whine in his throat, his anger bubbling to the surface again.

“We both know what I want!” He snapped, throwing his hands wide, before he loosed a harsh breath and his hands ran through his hair. “I need you to… to…” he squeezed his eyes shut and yanked at the strands of hair between his fingers and turned away. “FUCK!”

“You need me to fuck?”

“Shut up!” Whumpee snapped, whirling on his heels. He gasped at how close Whumper was to him. He didn’t hear him move, but now there was barely any distance between them. A hand went to his throat and Whumpee froze in place.

His fingers still wound in his hair, elbows stretched out to the side of his head. The only thing that moved was his eyes which widened, revealing more of the whites of them to Whumper whose face was devoid of any emotion as Whumpee looked slightly down at him.

Whumper hummed, fingers tightening. Testing, teasing, remembering and Whumpee stood frozen. He urged his limbs to move but they refused. He couldn’t do anything at Whumper’s touch.

Whumper’s eyes went to Whumpee’s hoodie. He stepped back and moved his hands to the zip. The sound echoed in Whumpee’s head, deafening, his breath locked in his chest as Whumper pulled the jumper from his limbs.

The cold basement air kissed his bare arms and left traces of goosebumps in their wake. Whumper’s hand returned to Whumpee’s throat, a thumb on Whumpee’s pulse. He smiled.

“On your knees darling.”

Whumpee barely registered the order before his knees hit the concrete. He blinked, dazed and shivered as Whumper purred, “very good.”

Whumper’s hand went to Whumpee’s hair, his fingers lacing through the strands. He delighted in Whumpee’s flinches, his barely contained trembles. Maybe his Whumpee hadn’t forgotten everything. He tightened his fingers and yanked Whumpee’s head back so he could see those beautiful, pained pale eyes stare up at him. Pleading.

“Now, ask me what you want me to do to you.”

Whumpee couldn’t contain the whine in his throat this time. “Please, please. Don’t make—”

A slap echoed off the walls. Sharp. Crisp. Warm as heat spread across Whumpee’s cheek. Whumper wrenched Whumpee’s head back further. “I think you forget who gives who orders here, Whumpee.”

[feelfreetopleasemexo]

I may or may not have added another fanfic carrying on the book of love request I got.....

The book of love, part two

That was the start of something....strange? Hilarious? Beautiful.

As the days passed, he continued to come to your desk and ask more outrageous requests.

"Fighting a dinosaur. Fighting Godzilla. Fighting with all might." As he studied your quick drawings he began to ask quiet questions.

"Why did you use that pen this time for the dinosaur? How did you make the smoke look so realistic? How would you make the eyes look angrier..." He was desperately trying to figure out how you managed to create such realistic drawings in a few seconds. The smile crept on your lips as you explained your techniques, you didn't dare take your eyes off the page as you felt the warmth of his questions deepen.

The next day, you noticed that he pulled out his own little notepad. It was small, one he'd probably stolen off midoriya after pummeling him for asking why he needed a note book. He didn't come to your desk all day, instead you noticed he was scribbling things down, furiously screwing it up and exploding it in his hands before scribbling again. Eventually after your last class ended, he walked past your desk as you were packing your books away and dropped a tiny piece of paper at your hands and stormed off. It was a tiny picture of two stick figures crudely drawn fighting each other, you assumed it was him and midoriya as one had big red eyes and the other was crying blue specks all over the place. Your heart swelled at his drawing, he had clearly tried to copy your methods as the sky was lightly shaded grey with the side of a pencil, the building surrounding the figures was lightly sketched, and the stick figures had a darker outline with flicks of lines to imitate movements around them. He had really tried with this picture, you could see how the page was crumpled slightly,  how he'd tried his best to be soft with the pencil, tried to use different line weights and tried to make the stick figures less....stick like. You carefully folded it and put it in the back of your book, a tiny envelope style pocket lay at the back of it for notes.

The next day? He scribbled again. This time, he dropped it off before lunch, another drawing of a stick figure getting a medal that said 'best hero ever' it's hair sharp and yellow, it's eyes dark and red, the medal slightly gold as he tried his best to colour in the lines, you knew he found slowing down and concentrating difficult so to see how he'd taken his time was impressive. After lunch he slumped at your desk again, pulling out his book in front of you, tapping yours to open it as well.

"Show me how the fuck you do faces, I can't ever get it right. They always end up looking like shit." His voice demanding, but something sweet laced underneath it. You smiled as you opened your book, the opposite page had drawings of birds laced all over it, his eyes glanced at it then to the window next to your seat.

"You can draw birds TOO?!" His voice louder, more impressed at your artistic skills.

"Yes, I don't just do cartoons yano..." Your cheeks suddenly flushed as the memory of him seeing your detailed profiles of him flooded your brain. You tried to shake it off as you flipped to another open page, but he stopped you, putting his hand on the page with the birds on.

"You're really fucking good..." He whispered, staring down at the detail on the wings, the close up of the eyes as they seemed to twinkle in the sun. He shook his head slightly, remembering that he had his own book under his other hand. "Anyway.... Teach me how to do faces." It almost felt like a 'please' lingered on his tongue, seconds away from slipping out. You playfully rolled your eyes and smiled at him, pulling a fresh set of pencils out from your bag. You handed him one and started to sketch an oval shape slowly, looking over at him to copy you. He pushed the pencil hard into the paper and drew a wobbly circle, huffed angrily at himself and ripped it out, burning it up instantly in his hands. He pressed the pencil to the paper again, slightly softer this time and tried to sketch an oval, eventually he decided it was good enough and stared back at your page, waiting for you to continue. Your smile pulled tighter at the corners of your lips as you sketched out the intersecting lines, his face visibly confused as to why you just drew a line down the middle and a few across the oval.

"What the fucks that for? You just ruined the circle...." His voice low, confused, like a child studying how you'd pronounce words if you didn't say the first letter.

"It's to plot the face, yano, where the eyes go, the nose, the mouth etc." You tried to calmly explain, putting your hand on his pencil to help him draw the lines on his paper. He looked down at your hand on his, the tops of his ears slightly flushed, as he shook his hand and stared deeply at how his pencil moved. You helped him lightly trace the lines, pulling his hand back a bit so the lines were faint, explaining to him how you'd rub these out later, that these were just a rough guide to help you. Eventually you helped him draw a basic face, nothing particularly hard, but just to help him with how big the features should be, how over exaggerated they could be if you were doing a cartoon. Eventually he got the idea, turned a page and tried his best to follow the instructions you'd just show him. He proudly puffed his chest out as he finished his wobbly drawing of All Might.

"Yeah that's right. I fucking smashed it. Im gonna give it to him. He'll fucking love it, probably cry." The smug look on his face was incredibly sweet, seeing how proud he was of his drawing made a knot in your stomach grow, it tightened with every raised eyebrow, every proud exclamation. He lowered the page from his face and flashed you a sweet smile, before pushing himself away from his chair and stomping towards the door, "Thanks nerd!" He explained, kicking the door open and wandering off to show All Might his new picture. You giggled to yourself, turning a new page and sketching a photo of him proudly smiling, holding out the photo in one hand towards the page as if he'd just found out he was actually Van gogh.

After a few more sessions together of you teaching him how to draw different profiles, how eyes looked different when the face was sideways, how to draw a face looking up, down, confused, angry, kaminari waltzed over and put his hand on katsukis shoulder.

"Whatcha love birds drawing n....BAKUGO! That's actually really good!" Smugness took over katsukis face as he pushed kaminaris hand off him,

"No shit. I'm good at everything I do, extra." You smiled tightly, trying to stifle your laughter as he shot you a dark look. "Look, I'll even draw you." He started to scribble a face with a stupid expression on it, spikey blonde hair and tiny eyes, a massive dumb grin and electric zaps dancing around it. He quickly shoved it in your direction, looking for praise as if he needed your approval before declaring it was finished, you nodded over exaggeratedly, your eyes closed and your smile wide. He let out a tiny sigh of relief and shoved it into kaminaris face,

"See. Even made you look like a fucking idiot too." His smile wide, his eye crinkled slightly at his proudness beaming across his face. Kaminari took it, laughed loudly at it and ran to show the other bakusquad, as bakugo looked back down to his paper and continued to draw kirishima as a shark. You looked over at him and smiled, your eyes softening at his excitement. He didn't even have to look up at you as he spoke,

"Stop staring idiot. Whatcha gonna do, draw me looking down now or...?" The laughter from his voice was soft, low, he wasn't trying to openly mock you, instead he kept it as a little personal joke saved for the both of you. You rolled your eyes and tried to hide your growing smirk, taking your pencil to the paper and indeed, drawing him looking down. His eyes darted slightly to your paper as he noticed you drawing the spikes, his own smirk growing more too.

Suddenly mino jumped up from her seat and exclaimed a proposition.

"YOU TWO SHOULD DO A COMPETITION! WHO CAN DO THE FUNNIEST PICTURE OF PRESENT MIC!" The class suddenly erupted in a sudden roar of laughter and agreement. He looked up at you and flashed a devilish grin, he really never could step away from a competition. You narrowed your eyes and let your own devilish smirk cross your face, as determination to crush him enveloped you.

"She has to use her left hand though!" He shouted, clearly a bit intimidated by your skill and lack of his own. You agreed and both flicked to a fresh page, as mino started a count down.

"THREE...."

"I'm betting on y/n." Kaminari whispered to Kirishima.

"TWO...."

"Bakubros gonna crush it!" He whispered back.

"ONE....GO!"

And with that, you both started scribbling. After 30 seconds of katsuki ruffing and puffing, scribbling profusely, sweat almost dripping from his brow, Mina suddenly exclaimed that time was up. You both handed your pictures to her as she waltzed to the front of the class, holding them behind her back.

"FIRST we have this one." She held out the first picture, it was present pic at a desk with headphones on, looking like he was doing a podcast with all might crying with laughter opposite him, as mic was screaming at him, a little voice bubble next to him read

'so you're telling me you HAVENT thought about what it would be like to be a woman?"

The class's laughter roared as katsuki smirked proudly, clearly thinking his was going to win.

"Look at his mouth oh my fucking God! That's brilliant!" Her laughter eventually stopped as she pulled out the other photo, "NEXT we have this one!" Again, holding out the paper in front of her, the picture was of mic up a tree, screaming with big bundles of tears rolling down his face and splitting everywhere, as bugs started to crawl up the tree towards him. A voice bubble reading,

'Aizawa! Please save me my strong, handsome husband!'

Again, the class's laughter erupted, classmates almost falling off their chairs at the expression on mics face, and the fact he and aizawa were apparently husbands. Your smile making your cheeks hurt as you looked over to katsuki, who tried so hard to hide his laughter behind the hand on his mouth. Eventually the class quietened down, and began their discussion on which photo was better. Midoriya started mumbled about how the artist skills of the tree mic was far better, but the podcast mic's quote was funnier, everyone crowded around each other as they tried to decide which was best. You leant back on your chair, holding your hand out to katsuki, offering a handshake,

"May the best artist win." You giggled, he pushed your hand away as he smirked,

"I'm totally gonna win." He crossed his arms as he sat back on his chair, kicking his legs up so they crossed over the top of his desk. Suddenly it was time.

Mina walked up to the front of the classroom, holding both pieces of paper out front of her again, her eyes gleaming as she slightly started to raise your photo up and lower katsukis. You very slightly shook your head that she should pick the other one, the movements of your head so subtly but luckily she noticed, and then flung katsukis up in victory. He jumped from his chair and cheered, overly excited that he had won and bestest you, won another competition like he always did. The class roared in congratulations at him, kirishima patting his back with a strong swift smack, and Ochaco flinging her arms around his shoulders, proud that he had won. You sat there smirking, nodded slightly to Mina for listening to you, as she then ran to katsuki and congratulated him.

After the class has settled down slightly, all staring at both pictures again and laughing, you started to pack your bag up and put your book away. He placed his hand on the table and as you looked up, you saw his smug face looking down at you.

"Congrats on your win, I guess I AM a pretty good teacher after all..." You laughed, pushing his hand off the paper underneath him and putting it into your bag.

"Thank you." He whispered, leaning down slightly, making sure that only you and him heard his appreciation. He wasnt stupid, he saw the back of your head move slightly as Mina held the pictures up. You shook your head, pretending not to know what he was on about.

"No idea what you mean, you won fair and square katsuki. Now, tomorrow I'm gonna get you to draw anatomy..." Your voice trailed off as you looked down at your desk, he twitched his hand slightly so you'd look back up at him.

"Fuck off idiot." His smile beamed down at you as he then nodded his head slightly and turned back around, indulging in the shower of appreciation that still flooded towards him.

[willsdreamgirl]

amazon standing lamp ⋆｡˚ — wilbur soot x reader

wilbur soot x fem!reader

will has everything he could ever want, then why does he still feel so empty?

18+ | minors please dni! angst and smut

cw: mentions of sex, different sex positions, descriptions of sex, angst, mentions of anxiety, wilbur is NOT okay and neither is the author

word count: 600+

a/n: finally had the motivation to write after a HOT MINUTE. was inspired by wilbur’s new album, mammalian sighing reflex. angst, just BIG ANGST.

“midday missionary, midnight loathing, midnight cowgirl, morning smoking”

your fingers clutch the cream coloured sheets under you, and you spread your legs wide, as wilbur thrusts into you. the sound of skin slapping fills your shared bedroom, your moans fill his ears. “mm, will, just like that…” you look up at him, and he looks at you like he sees right through you. you search his face, his brows furrowing in deep thought rather than pleasure. you manage to string together a sentence between his methodical, almost calculated movements. “hey will… you okay?” he snaps back to reality, looks down at your body and up at you, with a small smile on his face. yet, his eyes look like bottomless voids. you don’t say anything, and neither does he. he keeps going until you orgasm, and pulls out. you sit up, not caring about the post-sex exhaustion starting to set in your bones. “will… you didn’t finish? you okay?” he looks down at the floor. in that moment, he looks so damn vulnerable, so small, all bare. he sighs and looks at you from across the from as he’s putting his boxers back on. “yeah, yeah. i’m good. just not feeling it right now…” something just wasn’t right. you bit your lip, and smiled shyly, walking across the room. you knelt down in front of him, hands running across the waistband of his boxers. “i can help with that…” he looks and you with tired eyes and pushes your hand away gently. “look y/n, not right now, okay?” he walks away, leaving you on the floor, slight carpet burn making the skin on your knees sting.

you decide to leave him alone for a while, watching his disappear behind the door of his home office. you only see him around 9:00 pm, when he comes out to grab a plate of dinner you’d called him to eat an hour ago. you get up from your chair at the table. “i can warm that up for you, love!” you offer. he looks down at his plate, before sighing. “it’s fine.” you watch him walk away from you, yet again.

you go out for a walk to clear your head. he doesn’t ask where you’re going. you return at midnight, the apartment so quiet as if it were devoid of all life. you make your way to your bedroom. wilbur’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed, fiddling with a half burnt joint between his fingers. he sighs as he senses your presence. he puts out the joint on the wood of the nightstand, and motions for you to sit on his lap. you straddle his lap, your cold thighs resting against his warm ones. he pulls you in by your jaw, and kisses you like a man starved, teeth before tongue. he tastes like weed, and if you didn’t love the idea of it, you’d almost be disgusted.

time passes and somehow, you two end up tangled in each other’s arms. you smile into his neck. he looks at you blankly, before turning his head to the side, looking at the amazon standing lamp sitting on the nightstand, as you ride him. you moan wantonly, throwing your head back, elated at finally having gotten your boy back. meanwhile, a tear falls out of the corner of wilbur’s eye. but he plays along, he could never hurt the best thing to ever happen to him. he’s memorized every detail on the amazon standing lamp, the only constant in his life.

he has everything he could ever ask for, then why does he feel so empty?

[awyeahitssam]

Harry giggles. His limbs feel lighter than usual, almost as if bubbles are making them float a bit. He can still control them, but it's a vague, interesting sort of control. Fun.

Harry lets sleep take him. The world whirls around him in sparks of disorienting colours, and Harry watches with a broad smile. It should make him dizzy, but he feels in the middle of something fantastic—a watercolour painting come to life. It's brilliant. Elating.

It stops as suddenly as it starts. Voldemort stares at him from across a desk. "Harry Potter," he sounds almost surprised.

Harry blinks at him. He still feels light, like he is floating, but also distantly sad. "Are you okay?" he asks thoughtlessly.

Confusion masks itself behind anger. Voldemort masks everything behind anger. "Pardon?"

"I’d never felt as good as I did a moment ago," Harry confesses, drawing closer to the Dark Lord. Red eyes track him suspiciously. Harry's chest aches. "But now, looking at you… it makes me so sad."

Thoughtlessly, Harry reaches out, and Voldemort lets him. It’s how Harry knows this can’t be real. That it’s just a silly, drunken dream. Their fingers intertwine, though Voldemort’s hand remains stiff and cold in his gentle grip.

"Aren’t you lonely?" Harry wonders. "Is that yours I feel pressing in, or my own? Even without you," Harry smiles, crooked and small, brushing an irreverent thumb over his scar, "I’m sure it’d be there. People always isolate the freak."

Voldemort’s hand twitches in Harry’s, and he hums, focus dropping from red eyes to trace the long fingers with his own.

"Everybody’s frightened of you. You isolate yourself from friendship, from love, from time itself... don’t you want, Voldemort? I can feel that you do—you’re never satisfied, are you? Will it ever be enough? The world at your feet, no attachments, nobody to challenge you—is that your dream, or your nightmare?"

"You’re speaking nonsense, boy," Voldemort says, but it comes out odd. Stilted. "You presume much."

"Is it presumption when I feel you?" Harry asks genuinely, brows drawing together, hand lifting to press over his heart. Voldemort is dragged with him, pulled a bit over the desk, and Harry blinks in surprise before realizing he still has a grip on the other’s hand. He lets go slowly, and Voldemort pulls back with a scowl.

"You are drunk," the wizard snaps with disgust. "You know nothing of what Lord Voldemort feels."

Harry finds the words… annoying.

"You feel so loudly, though," he returns sharply, moving forward, sliding onto Voldemort’s desk. Ink spills over—Voldemort hisses in annoyance and the stain is gone with a thought—dreams are a magic of their own—Voldemort’s forehead is cold and smooth. Harry bears the man's mark. He presses his scarred head to the smooth. Long, clawed fingers are wrapped around his wrist. His throat.

"Right here, always pressing in," Harry continues, heedless of his position, precarious as it is. "You feel so much it hurts, Voldemort. You hate so much. You’re never just happy. And I was, am, could be. So just take some, won’t you?"

Red eyes are narrow, intent, fascinated as they dart over Harry’s face, trying to gather his meaning. "How do you propose I do that?"

"How does one normally take pleasure?" Harry wonders. Voldemort grimaces, pulling away quickly, and it takes Harry’s bubbling mind a moment to put what he said to context.

"No," he chokes on a laugh, "I’m not asking you to—to snog. To fuck. Just open yourself up. You’re so good at taking, usually, but all you’re doing is giving. Don’t you want to feel like this? Light? Thrilled?"

"You don’t even know what you sound like, do you?" The question is rhetorical. Voldemort’s hand tightens over his throat, until Harry’s breathing grows thinner. "You wish for me to let your happiness pass my Occlumency, as though you have not just slipped through yourself. As if you have no method to make Lord Voldemort feel your pleasure; as if you want to give Lord Voldemort pleasure at all."

Harry touches the hand on his neck, slowly tightening with Voldemort’s rant, and a spark lights his fingers. Voldemort’s hand spasms before it drops. Harry takes a deep breath, glaring balefully. His light-hearted air has faded.

"Perhaps I would give you pleasure so your misery would be all the worse for it," he bites out. The world is fuzzy, but no longer from alcohol. From being choked. Even in his dreams, his life is threatened by this man.

"A pretty plot," says Voldemort. There is something very condescending in his voice; he is clearly looking down on Harry. Doubting him. It’s nothing new, but it makes the sting of anger grow in him. "Very well. If you can conjure happiness as you peer into the face of your death, Harry Potter, then do. Make me feel it, if you can."

Harry’s nails bite into his palm and release. He takes a breath and lets his eyes flutter closed. He focuses.

Happiness. What does it feel like? Like floating, as he was moments ago, or like getting an anticipated hug—not his first, not all the ones he flinched away from, but a hug from Hermione when they’ve almost just died. An arm around Ron’s waist as the boy drapes one around his shoulder. Laughing, hysterical and joyous, by the fireplace. Finding his wand. Finding out he was escaping the Dursleys. Happiness is a brief thing, drenched in the shadows of his life. Happiness is contentment, even if it is a momentary thing. It is the pleasure of a perfectly prepared cuppa; from—nonono, not going there.

Harry wraps the sensations up, one by one, like he’s re-wrapping hard candy, and throws them at Voldemort. Into Voldemort. All but one—his favourite one, his happiest one. That, he grasps, and it’s actual candy in his hand, a sweet that he looks down to, and then unwraps, and he’s moving forward, intent eyes raising, and Voldemort is already gasping, a bit, at the suddenness of it all—of pleasure.

Harry’s lips curl and he pushes the candy into the slightly agape mouth of the Dark Lord a bit cruelly, shoving it deep. He pulls back quickly, before sharp teeth can gnash on his fingers, and watches on as Voldemort experiences pleasure. As Voldemort softens, and sighs, relaxation in every hard line of him, mouth sucking almost greedily around the treasure that Harry has placed within it. Now he’s drunk on it, Harry thinks, horribly pleased to see Voldemort this way.

It’s not real, but still, he hovers on Voldemort’s desk and observes the pink brushing his cheekbones with fascination. He observes the way red eyes roll back a bit, and the way a long, pale throat swallows convulsively down on a slowly dissolving candy until there is nothing left.

Lashless eyes open, dark and suddenly staring. Red barely peeks out from behind the dilation of his pupil, and Harry’s smile is a smug thing.

“There’s your pleasure,” Harry whispers to him, like a secret. “I hope you enjoyed yourself. It can only get worse from here.”

“Worse?” murmurs Voldemort, staring at Harry intently. “You think there is worse you can do, Harry, then give me that and take it back?”

Belonging, thinks Harry, quite suddenly. He’d given Voldemort his favourite thing, the thing that he had been looking for, for a very long time. Longing, and peace, and laughter, and a burgeoning happiness that had very rarely managed to emanate past its conception. He had given Voldemort, too, his desperate hope for things to get better—and then he’d made them get better—and now Voldemort had lost it all.

Suddenly, impossibly, Harry’s eyes are liquid. I’m cruel, thinks Harry, gaze falling from red. There is nothing so cruel as what he has done, and he had done it so carelessly, so happily, so smugly, because he had felt slighted. Had felt wronged by this man who had ceaselessly wronged him.

Slowly, Harry looks back up at Voldemort, who is watching his tears with an expression of keen interest. 

“Has it made you sad to give your enemy your pleasure, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asks, gripping his wrist and drawing him near enough that Harry barely keeps his bottom on the desk rather than Voldemort’s lap.

“It makes me sad to treat you with such cruelty,” Harry corrects, “when I know you will never allow yourself to experience such pleasure again.”

“Would I not?” breathes Voldemort, eyes still dark instead of bright.

“You won’t,” whispers Harry. “It'd require you to trust someone. To have faith in them. And that, I know you’re incapable of, because you are a man but don’t see yourself as one, and gods do not have friends, nor equals.”

“Equals?” Voldemort’s breath brushes Harry’s brow, his stinging scar. “But what if Lord Voldemort were to draw you from the depths, Harry? Raise you from the pale mortality until you, too, are exalted? Then you may give Lord Voldemort what he so deserves; give me pleasure, Harry Potter,” Voldemort enunciates awfully. “Give me it all.”

I wrote this one of the first times I ever drank, and just expanded upon it a bit. I'm honestly really fond of finding these little things I've forgotten.

[ashthewaterghoul]

Mushy May Day 4: Playing With Hair - Dew/Aether

Prompt list by @forlorn-crows can be found here All my Mushy May will be slightly shorter stories and can also be found on ao3 :) Words - 880

    It was a lazy Sunday afternoon like any other. Dew and Aether cuddling in their nest while doing fuck-all. Dew was laid with his head on his mate’s belly, managing to see his laptop screen where he was scrolling for his next project guitar to pass the long breaks between tours, or to work on while the music room was quiet and left him with plenty of free time. Aether was reading some old book he picked up in the library as he’d set himself the goal of reading through all the novels that humans call “the classics” as he’d endured Mountain’s verbal essays on them all and had to see what the fuss was about. Though he couldn’t really tell you what he was currently reading about as the hand not holding his book was combing through Dew’s hair. His claws raked through the long platinum streaks, smoothing out the frizzies and undoing the knots. Every so often he took a silky lock and twirled it around his finger before it fell back down to join the rest.

    Dew took a lot of pride in caring for his hair. As a Water Ghoul, it always flowed in the water in a way only described as ethereal; as if the current wanted it for itself and shaped it in a befitting way. After his transition to Fire, he had a long journey of helping it heal as it gained the texture of straw and often fell out in clumps. He was very protective of it since getting it healthy again and now Aether was the only one allowed to touch it.

    Aether blinked as he realised as he hadn’t read the last… three chapters and decided to put the book down for the day as he couldn’t focus on a single word any longer, only his mate’s gorgeous mane. He used both hands to comb through it and delighted in the purrs he got from the Fire Ghoul, even bringing a little Quintessence to his fingertips for a bit of a scalp massage.

    “Mmm, that’s good…” Dew said, eyes shut as he let his mate do whatever he wanted.

    “Yeah? I’m glad, Dewbear.” He said, kissing the top of his head and continuing his ministrations.

    When he’d finished with his massage, he loosely separated his mate’s hair into two and did some little braids, lifting them up on either side.

    “You’re Cindy-Lou-Who! No, wait. Dewy-Lou-Who!” Aether laughed, a little too proud of his own joke.

    Dew shook his head with a smile.

    “You’re so stupid.” He said, his voice full-of-affection.

    “If I’m stupid, then you’re completely brainless.” Aether teased, moving the braids to lay across Dew’s eyes.

    “Hey!” Dew said, slapping Aether’s shoulder with his tail.

    Aether laughed as he let the hair down and combed out the braids and kissed his mate’s crown.

    “I love you.” He said with as much of a sickly-sweet, saccharine tone he could muster.

    “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dew said, rolling his eyes as he looked at his mate with a smile.

    Aether booped his nose before he turned back to his laptop, his mate rambling on about complex guitar lingo he could never dare to understand. He just loved seeing his mate get so happy over it all.

    Dew’s screen was split between a document detailing all he wanted in his next guitar and the other half was a web browser with many open tabs for all sorts of pick-ups, wood types, hardware, string metals, EQ options and all other specifications.

    Aether simply played with Dew’s hair even more as he rambled, even getting a neat little French braid going around Dew’s ear, down to the bottom of his scalp and continuing right down the length of his hair. By the time he’d finished talking about the colour of this next guitar, Aether had gotten two braids lined up next to it.

    Dew started talking about the tools he’d need to craft his next masterpiece and the method for such a task and the Quint had recreated the three braids on the other side of the Fire Ghoul’s head.

    Dew knew Aether didn’t really pay attention during his rambles but he never expected him to. He loved that his mate would simply be present while he rambled and talked his ear off about whatever he could think of. He, of course, repaid the favour whenever Aether wanted to yap on about some topic Dew would never understand too.

    As Aether tied off the last braid with one of the hair ties that are always scattered everywhere, he gathered the rest up and pressed it between his palms.

    “Could give you a massive mohawk.”

    Dew laughed at that. “What? Like ‘Frit used to have before Zeph made him cut it off?”

    “No, this would be way taller. You might even be as tall as me with it.” Aether evaluated as he let it tumble down again.

    Dew shook his head and shut his laptop off, putting it to the side and turning around in the Quint’s arms so he could bury his nose into his mate’s chest.

    “Thanks for the braids.” Dew smiled.

    “Of course, Dewcifer.” Aether smiled, kissing his mate’s horn as his hand started combing through Dew’s lengths of hair once more.

[concreteangel92]

Thou Shalt Not Kill - Chapter 2

AU Noah Sebastian x female detective reader

18+

Summary: Reader is a detective and is assigned to a murder case which she soon connects with previous killings and figures out the religious affiliation, proving there is a new serial killer within the city. Reader soon becomes obsessed with the killers mind and methods and won’t rest until she figures out who the killer is. All while she gets used to working with her new partner on the case, detective Noah Davis.

Warnings: none in this chapter

This chapter is pretty much a filler but I promise things definitely get more interesting moving forward as they are now working together on the case and the killings continue.

Again please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!!

Tags: @Ima1986 @hayleylatour @reyadawn @thatchickwiththecamera @thefallennightmare @calleyx13 @english-fucker @darling-millicent-aubrey @malerieee @ithoughtbynowidfeelbetter @softvgold @lilhobgobbler @glccmreid @badomensls @madomens @loeytuan98 @iluvmewwwww75 @rosebushjhj @livingdeceasedgirl @lilrubles @samanthasgone @blackveilomens @hellayeahsworld @lookwhatitcost @doomhands-jr @nojoyontheburn @poisongirl616 @bakanerd @sacredthefran

Chapter Index Here

MASTERLIST

A coffee was sat down in front of you on your desk causing your eyes to go up to see Detective Davis in front of you.

“You look like you need this”

You smiled, mumbled a quick thanks and took a small slip while taking your eyes back to the gruesome scenes before you.

“You know, you can take a break detective, it won’t kill you”

“No but it could kill someone else”

Noah smirked and pulled out the chair in front of your desk.

“Come on. 15 minutes”

You stared into his dark brown eyes and sighed while slumping back into your chair.

“Fine. 15 minutes and then back to it, we can’t afford to waste a single second”

You pushed the photos and various papers away and held your coffee in your hands. You looked over at your new partner, it had been two days since you’d been assigned with each other, so far you had been working together well. You’d brought him up to speed on every last detail of all the killings and had started to put together a profile of the killer, that was proving to be more difficult.

“So detective Davis….”

“Noah, call me Noah please”

“Noah….what brought you to LA?”

Noah took a slip of his coffee and leant forward onto your desk.

“It’s the city of angels right? Who doesn’t want to come here”

You couldn’t help but giggle at the irony of his statement.

“Found any angels yet detective?”

Noah smirked slightly and never let his gaze fall from yours.

“Maybe”

You cleared your throat and took another sip of your drink, you looked over your new partner, taking in his many tattoos, it was refreshing to see a detective as covered as he appeared to be, you could see colour peaking out from his white shirt collar and on the back of his hands and fingers. You wondered how far they went over his body.

“Let’s keep it professional” a statement meant for both you, Noah definitely wasn’t shy to flirt with you, even if it was subtle. Something you wouldn’t allow yourself to be distracted by.

Noah chuckled, still not removing his eyes from yours - he certainly wasn’t afraid to hold eye contact you noted, something that proved he was very self aware and confident.

You couldn’t help but psychoanalyse Noah, he was very hard to read, he’d come across friendly enough while you’d been working together but he was definitely a closed book. Something that you wanted to break through.

“Ironically I doubt you’ll find any angels here Noah, fallen angels maybe, but this city isn’t known for its innocent.”

“Well it’s probably more exciting then where I’m from back home”

“What made you move then?” You couldn’t help but press the question again.

“Most of my family have passed away and I fancied a change, see what exciting prospects the city offered me”

“Well exciting is one word for this I suppose”

“I live for a challenge detective”

You finished your coffee and smiled.

“Then I’m happy to say that this case should be that for you”

You pushed your mug to the side and pulled back the case files you’d already spent hours and hours going over.

Noah leant forward and picked up a file.

“You know, I’m really impressed that you figured this out, that they were all connected, I doubt anyone would have seen that”

You felt your cheeks go warm.

“Thank you…someone would have seen it if it wasn’t me however”

“After how many more deaths though? To have seen it this early, that’s raw talent detective, don’t sell yourself short”

You smiled and brushed some of your hair behind your ear, the blush still evident on your face when Noah continued.

“Are you religious at all detective?”

“No. Never been one for fairytales myself”

Noah smiled “ahh but sometimes they make for great bedtime stories”

“I believe in the here and now, what I can see and hear and piece together. I don’t have time for bedtime stories detective Davis”

Noah let out a small laugh “I understand that. My family were religious but I never took to it, as you said, I believe in what I can see, hear, smell….touch. Somethings I don’t think god would approve of”

Your eyes went up to his again catching his underline meaning and you couldn’t help but smile yourself.

“I’m sure we have all done things that god wouldn’t like, we are in LA for a start”

You were both startled by your phone going off.

“Detective Y/L/N”

The smile was pulled off your face as you looked at Noah.

“We’ll be right there” you put the phone back on the hook. “There’s been another murder”

Chapter 3

[storiesofsvu]

The Nanny w Benefits Ch 4

Rita Calhoun x Rafael Barba Warnings: language, sick day, illness.

You let out a little grumble, attempting to bury yourself deeper into the pillows at the low cries coming through the baby monitor. You could barely hear it, and you knew it wasn’t because you were trying to hold onto your sleep, whether it was Isabella or Damian, they’d cry it off and be back asleep before anyone knew it. You rolled over, tugging the blankets tighter around you, only for the cries to increase and you let out a huff, so you rolled back to face the monitors to assess who was crying, and how bad it was. You squinted in the dark, your eyes adjusting to being awake for a moment as you realized it was Isabella, normally Rita was pretty quick to get her, the mother instinct kicking in, or she’d send Raf moments later if the crying sounded like more than just Is being cold, lonely, or awake when she shouldn’t be. 

You rolled onto your back as the cries continued, you knew both Rita and Rafael had very heavy caseloads right now, neither of them were home often, and when they were they were trapped in their offices. Rita was representing a scum of a live comic, who even drove her insane and kept making things worse, while Rafael was working on a triple homicide, as much as you wanted to stay burrito-ed in your bed on this chilly New York night, you knew it would be much better if you were the one up the middle of the night. Both of them needed their sleep, rest and brain power for work, meanwhile yours was to colour, turn on iPads and the tv if it was a lazy day. 

You frowned as Isabella’s cries became louder, whatever was going on wasn’t just the regular nighttime cries, so you quickly tossed your blankets aside, pulling a hoodie around your frame as you jogged up the stairs.

The moment you picked her up you realized what was going on. She was burning up, with what felt like a decently bad fever. Holding her tighter to you, you did your best to shush her in order to not wake her parents or Damian, grabbing a handful of things from her room before you made you way downstairs. You’d dealt with toddler fevers before, this was nothing new, but you didn’t want her to wake up anyone else for them to get all worried. Upon getting back downstairs you figured you were far enough she would be quiet enough to not wake anyone, pressing gentle kisses to her head, trying to calm her down. You removed the wrap and her onesie, tossing them into the wash as you could feel them soaked through, and grabbed a tee from the clean stuff so she wasn’t too cold. You were hoping you could break the fever without having to actually medicate, not being sure what it was from, that maybe the room upstairs was just too hot and she’d cool down, down here.

You paced through your room, keeping a cold compress on her forehead as her cries minimized, though still weren’t completely silent. She sniffled and cried into your shoulder, leaving snot and no doubt all the germs of whatever she had all over you, something that simply you knew came with the job at this point. You thought you’d had her finally calmed down, and either able to put down in your bed, or to go back upstairs but she let out a wail the instant you put her down. Once that you winced heavily at, nearly sure it had woken up the entire apartment. Instead, you did what you used to do with your niece when she was sick, pulling Is close to you as you climbed into the tub, turning the shower on, peppering cool, not hot, but not cold water, you weren’t completely under the stream, just close enough to it that it would hopefully cool her down. This was only step one, hoping the at home methods would help whatever Is was going through before you called the doctor. It was barely passed midnight right now, and you figured it was better to do what you could before waking literally everyone up for a medical emergency that might be nothing.

*

Rafael woke up to his alarm quietly sounding off through the room, he let out a huff, wishing he could silence it, but knew that Rita had a later start time today. She was far more exhausted than he was, she’d already been lagging the past couple of days, he had to get the kids up, hopefully with your help. As usual, he went to Isabella’s room first, creaking the door open, his brow furrowing as he found it empty, no toddler, no nanny, though the side of the crib was pushed down, maybe you got in there before his alarm had gone off. So, he moved over to Damian’s room, gently waking the boy and urging him that it was time for breakfast. They made their way downstairs and he was surprised to find the kitchen and main area empty and quiet but placed Damian with his toys and iPad as he started on coffee and breakfast, knowing Rita would be down soon and she needed a good start to the day.

Damian was relatively quiet, but Raf could still hear the upstairs shower start as Rita began moving around, her soft footsteps soon moving into the kitchen, she only paused to press a sleepy kiss to his cheek before mumbling a soft ‘thank you’ about the coffee. He replied with a returned kiss on the cheek that breakfast would be ready soon and she cast him a very warm smile as she moved around the kitchen island, noticing that only one of their kids was in the living room.

“Bella with y/n?” She asked groggily, her voice more hoarse than normal and Rafael shrugged, 

“I’m guessing so. Her room was empty.” Rita glanced towards your room; there wasn’t any light coming from under the door and she frowned.

“Are you sure?”

“What’d ‘you mean?”

“It looks dark.”

“Rita,” he nearly scoffed, “we live in a building with two doormen, cameras and elevator fobs, there’s no way one of the kids went missing.”

“I know.” She laughed back, placing her coffee on the island before she made her way down the hallway, knocking gently on your door, “y/n?” Her voice was still quiet, not wanting to disturb you if you’d managed to get back to sleep with Is, but she heard a small grumble of a reply from within. “Sweetheart?” She asked softly, pushing the door open, noticing there was a smaller light from the ensuite illuminating the space.

“Oh god, I didn’t realize what time it was.” You replied when you checked your watch, your voice echoing through the open space, and Rita crossed to the bathroom, pushing the door open.

“You have no reason to worry.” She assured, her brow furrowing as she took in the sight of you still in the tub, Isabella curled in your lap as you pressed a cool compress to her forehead. “Is she okay?” Rita’s breath caught in her throat.

“Yes!” You nearly shot up from the tub, trying not to wince at the pain from the way too many hours cramped in the porcelain, “she’s gonna be totally fine, it’s just a fever.” You assured and Rita let out a soft sigh before she took your appearance in.

“No offence, but you look exhausted.”

“It’s been a long night.” You admitted, stepping out of the tub, trying to hold back the yawn, “she woke me up at midnight. I tried to wait til her fever broke naturally, but it took way too long. I tried some methods I used to with my niece; they seemed to be okay but even then, she only stopped crying for half hour chunks, and god forbid I try to put her down.” You paused to let out another huff of a yawn, “sorry— I called 311 to triple check, gave her a child’s Advil to break the fever, but I think she needs to be held to stay asleep, she keeps crying otherwise.”

“Let me take her.” Rita held out her hands, “you need to get some sleep.”

“Don’t you need to be at work? I thought you were in the middle of a big case?” 

“I can rearrange and get a continuance at least until this afternoon.” She assured you as you passed over the half-asleep coughing child, Rita pressed a kiss to Isabella’s forehead, “I’ll take her this morning, watch the kids while I get some at home work done. You get some sleep, set your alarm for noon and as long as you’re feeling better you can take over for me to go to court.”

“Are you sure?” Your brow furrowed, “I mean, isn’t it my job?”

“Sweetheart…” she nearly smirked, squeezing at your hand, “it is, but your health is important too and right now you look like you haven’t slept in days... Get some rest, I’ll see you for lunch.”

“Fine.” You grumbled, trudging back to your bed before you collapsed into it as Rita swept from the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. 

Honestly, you let out a happy sigh as soon as she was gone from your room, your entire body ached from not getting any rest and sitting in the tub for so long. Your joints ached, you low key wondered if maybe you were getting too old to be chasing after kids all day, but that was a problem for another time. Right now, was time for you to pop in background noise ear plugs and burrow into your pillows, thankful for the incredibly comfortable bed and extra hours of sleep if Rita hadn’t been so understanding.

* Your Apple Watch buzzed at eleven thirty, pulling you slowly out of your sleep, you’d truly slept like a rock, either Rita was a fucking godsend at keeping the kids quiet, or you had been just that tired. You checked your phone quickly in case anything was in dire need and jumped in the shower for a super-fast clean before pulling on comfy clothes, tugging your hair back out of your face.

Upon leaving your room you could hear the t.v on in the living room, a little bit of clattering that sounded like legos, and you weren’t surprised to find Rita behind her desk in the shared office. She had her left arm wrapped around Isabella, holding the toddler to her shoulder while the other one worked through paperwork, her glasses perched on her nose as her eyes glanced towards the movement of you pausing in the doorway. 

“I thought I told you noon.” She greeted softly and you let out a small laugh.

“I wanted to shower and get started on lunch.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She let out a soft sigh, removing her glasses to place them down on the desk, “I put an order in.”

“You put an order in somewhere that would please both you and the kids?” You raised a brow and she nearly challenged you for a moment before submitting.

“Okay, okay, I put two orders in. Technically two and a half, I wasn’t sure if you were feeling McDonald’s or Forlini’s.”

“You know, you’re a bit over the top sometimes…”

“I..”- she scoffed and you laughed.

“You been in here all morning?”

“Aside from a couple of coffee top ups, yes.” She let out another little sigh, flipping a case file closed and stacking things up the best she could with one hand, trying not to jostle Is. “I hope it doesn’t make me an unfit parent to leave Damian with LEGO’s and colouring.”

“You left a toddler unsupervised with crayons?” You nearly laughed.

“What?” Her brow furrowed, thinking for a moment that you did think it wasn’t a very motherly thing to do, but when you laughed again, her face relaxed.

“I’ll just say this…it’s a good thing you’ve got the money to reupholster the couch.” Her lips pursed at your comment, but you knew she was taking it all with a tease, “how’s she doing?” You nodded toward Isabella.

“I think better?” Rita smoothed at her hair, kissing her head gently, “I gave her another half a Tylenol an hour ago, she’s been asleep pretty much since then.”

“I can take her to get changed?” You offered, “get you some time to get ready for court?”

“Thank you.” She smiled softly as you crossed the room to pick up the snoozing toddler from her arms. 

It didn’t take you long to get her changed, there was a second change room set up just off the downstairs laundry to make things easier for everyone. You heard Rita chatting with Damian as you walked back down the hall, so you figured the living room walls and couch weren’t covered in his creations. He was still perched on the edge of the couch, engrossed in a game on his iPad, but he did give you a wave, a bright smile and hello when you walked into the room. Rita was fully dressed sans stilettos, sipping on another cup of coffee, but she did pause to give Isabella a quick snuggle and kiss on the head now that the girl was actually awake and not crying. Though she had a binky in and was heavily nuzzled into your shoulder, clearly not feeling a hundred percent yet. 

There was some small chatter, Rita poured you out a mug of coffee and you were pleasantly surprised when she dressed it to exactly your liking without any questioning. Isabella still in your arms, you were thankful she was lethargic and not trying to shove her germy hands into your coffee, and a burst of noise at the front door caught your attention. You were both expecting a knock, surprised when it swung open to reveal Rafael, multiple bags in his hands on top of his work briefcase, a bit of an exasperated look on his face.

“What are you doing home?” Rita asked, a curious expression on her face and he let out a huff in response.

“You really had to order an entire buffet, didn’t you?”

You let out a small laugh at his response, immediately turning away from the two of them before you ended up trapped in the middle of some marital quarrel. Once he’d managed to actually get into the apartment and out of his shoes, the takeout bags on the counter you and Rita started to dole out everything.

“Here..” you handed him the happy meal box for Damian, followed by the takeout from Forlini’s Rita had ordered you, “I’m fine with fast food, take this and eat with Damian.” You nodded towards the living room before gesturing towards Isabella, “we don’t know what exactly this little bug’s come down with and I’d hate to spread it to everyone.”

“Smart.” He replied, thanking you for the plates and cutlery as Rita once again asked why he was home and he finally turned to her, “defence pulled a surprise witness, got granted a continuance. I know you’ve got to get out there this afternoon, figured we’d switch off rather than leave y/n with everything.”

“Considering her opinion on not wanting the entire apartment to get sick, I think that’s probably a good idea.” Rita replied, though she did quickly peck his cheek at the gesture before glancing at her watch, rolling her eyes, “I’ll eat in the car.” She gave you a small wave and warm smile, “thank you. I’ll see you both tonight.” After stepping into her shoes, she picked Isabella out of your arms, giving her a tight hug, murmuring some gentle words to her, pressing more than a few kisses to her skin before finally handing her back to you, managing to make it out of the apartment before Damian noticed. 

* The afternoon went by pretty easily. Once you’d gotten some chicken nuggets into you, and some baby food into Isabella, making sure she wasn’t hungry anymore, but had had enough to eat, you managed to get her down for a nap. During that time, you did some dishes, making sure to wipe down as many surfaces as you could with Lysol, fully cleaned out Isabella’s room, and made sure most of the common areas would be okay. You were serious about keeping whatever infection she might have to as few people as possible, it may have just been a little cold, but even that would keep Damian out of going to the park or play dates. And from your experience, you knew how annoying it was to be the nanny of one sick kid, who then got the other kid sick, and you were out of any outside engagements for over a month. It gave everyone a little bit of cabin fever, and you didn’t want that at all.

Rafael kept Damian occupied in the living room for the entire afternoon, only leaving you to keep a watchful eye while he changed out of his work clothes and did a little bit of paperwork. The rest of the time he was perched on the edge of the couch, colouring with the boy, fully engaged in whatever half babble story Damian was telling. Or the boy was snuggled into his lap as they enjoyed a movie or a couple of books together.

It was the days like today that made you really realize how incredibly lucky you were to find a set of parents that truly loved their kids and wanted to be parents. There were so many nannying jobs, especially on the upper east side of New York that everything was left to the help, and with such career driven people like Rita and Rafael, you had been wondering how things were going to turn out with them. You hadn’t had too many worries once you’d met them and seen them with the kids, but moments like Rita pushing work aside to make sure her girl was taken care of, and giving you the morning off, and now…Rafael laughing and playing with Damian through the afternoon instead of shutting himself in the office? You knew you’d found a family full of love and adoration that you were pretty sure you didn’t want to be going anywhere anytime soon.

* Rita got home later than expected, though she admitted that she ended up having dinner at the office, working through a mountain of motions, and apologized to Rafael for doing so. He simply assured her that she was just doing her job, and everything was more than fine here. She asked about Isabella and he said that you’d done a perfect job with her. That you’d kept her either in your room, or hers, keeping an eye on her while she napped, or pulled out the iPad and gave her all the snuggles she needed. Damian was currently watching some post dinner cartoons and you were upstairs giving Isabella her bath, changing her, and getting her into some jammies alongside the next dose of meds to make sure her fever wouldn’t bother her overnight.

It was just as Raf gave Damian the ‘last episode’ warning that they heard you padding down the hallway towards the kitchen. Obviously, it was still pretty early, and you hadn’t actually had dinner yet, so it wasn’t a surprise that you’d be coming back to the shared area of the apartment.

“Did she go down okay?” Rita asked as you rounded the corner and you winced.

“Uhm...not yet…” Isabella was still wrapped around your body, her head nuzzled into your shoulder, though she was out like a light.

“Is she alright?” Rafael half stepped toward you and you nodded your head immediately.

“She’ll be fine. And I’ve already booked an appointment with her doctor for tomorrow morning. But I need to ask you guys something, and you need to answer honestly, I’m not gonna judge—well...honestly, I will personally judge you, but I’ll pretend I’m not.”

“What?” Rita asked.

“It’s chicken pox…” you lifted up the back of Isabella’s shirt to show the couple of marks that had already shown up.

“Are you sure?” Raf cut in and you nodded, 

“This isn’t my first time nannying with a kid who picked them up. You said something about vaccinations coming up, Is is too young to have gotten one yet, but does Damian have at least one?”

“Yeah.” Rita replied, glancing towards her son, “he’s got his first, the appointment on the twelfth for his second, and her first.”

“Okay.” You let out a little sigh as Is shifted in your lap, nearly pulling her head up as if she knew she was being talked about, her sleepy eyes glancing between the three of you, “and…you two are both vaccinated? Or had it as a kid? Cause shingles can be a bitch…”

“Yes.” They both immediately replied, looking between each other.

“And you are, right?” Rita asked, a very concerned expression on her face, “I mean, I’d hate for her to pass it on to you now.”

“Rita…please…” you laughed, “I’ve been working with kids for years, I’ve had every shot imaginable. Besides,” you turned to gently prod at Isabell’s side, “little bug and I have been together all day, I’m sure any and all germs she has she’s already given to me.” It was nearly on cue that Is let out a disgusting sneeze, you winced, feeling literal wetness and probably snot hit side of your neck. 

Rita let out a very audible gag, turning away from you as she practically hunched over herself, “sorry…” her hand still over her mouth as she spoke to you, though she let out a couple more gags or dry heaves before she’d really gotten her voice back, “I can get that dry cleaned for you.”

“This shirt is from Target...” you barked a laugh, “but thank you.” You added on another thanks as Rafael held up the box of Kleenex to you and you wiped Is’ nose and the snot away from your neck as you shrugged, “it just comes with the job.”

“You’re sure she’s going to be alright?” Rafael asked softly and you couldn’t help the sympathetic look you gave him in return.

“I’ve seen younger kids with much worse illnesses. And considering she made it through the first portion of the fever pretty well and is now at the sleeping it off and medication phase, she should be perfectly fine. The doctor will know more tomorrow, and I’ll make sure to immediately update the both of you. We’ve managed to keep things pretty separate so far, so I’d suggest continuing doing that going forward.”

“Okay.” They both agreed and you let out a little sigh.

“I’m gonna take her up to bed now. I’ll get up with her if she wakes up at all.”

“Thank you.” Raf gave you a warm smile before you turned back down the hallway. Honestly, neither of them was too worried at this point. You definitely knew more about kids than either of them did, and you were either putting on one hell of a show, or you weren’t worried (you weren’t). 

After putting Isabella down, you made sure the baby monitor was turned up all the way, you could hear Rafael reading Damian his bedtime story down the hall. Back downstairs, you ended up sharing a couple glasses of wine with Rita, talking both about her day, and your reassurance that the kids would be more than fine. Rafael had retired to the office to get some work done that he hadn’t been able to finish while playing with Damian. 

Eventually, you and Rita realized it was nearing midnight, and that she had a pretty full day ahead of her, and you had a relatively early doctor’s appointment to get to. You’d discussed Raf dropping Damian off at Lucia’s the next morning if he couldn’t manage to swing things in his favour to work from home, knowing you wanted to keep the kids separate for the next bit, and you didn’t want to heavily interact with both of them and Rita agreed it was probably in the best interest. Finally, you said a soft goodnight, and Rita thanked you for your fast thinking and natural maternal instincts that had probably saved the day before she headed upstairs to collapse into her bed.

[anam-mana]

what’s your painting process?

THIS IS A HARD QUESTION! Because I am a lil chaotic in my personal work. My best personal pieces can vary wildly from me painting randomy shapes in black and white and slowly turning it into something by getting more and more detailed in every pass at it, like I did here:

To an almost completely 3D render with a paint over, like I did here:

Or anything in between those to processes that you can imagine, tbh, I've probably tried that as well. BUT, I'll tell you what I've been doing lately in my professional stuff to keep the quality and style a lil less all over the place.

Step 1: Plan a pose and lighting in Daz 3D.

The models I usually use for this are modified Victoria 9 and Michael 9 because those are the most anatomically correct. But you can totally just use the free Genesis 9 or Genesis 8 models that come packaged with the free software and it souldn't really give you any issues.

Step 2: Posterize your refrence until it's 3 Values, then use that a reference to create a 3 value thumbnail, planning the arrangement of element in your painting and the lighting, midtone, and shadow colours.

Step 3: Create a duplicate of the thumbnail and apply a black and white filter. Put the original thumbnail in a seperate window or on a reference board or something to look at, so you don't stray too far from the points of contrast and lighting in that. Define your hard and sharp edges in the black and white painting, using your favourite hard edged painting brush and your favourite soft smudging tool. then fil in the values that exist in between your 3 key values. You can usually find these correct in-between values by eye drop selecting from the gradient in your newly softened edges.

Step 4: Detail and paint until your black and white painting looks like it would be a passable greyscale painting by your own standard. This one is hard to give specific instructions on how I detail because I just look at things I dont like and fix them until the things I don’t like are minimal.

Step 4: Add base colours using gradient maps, colour balance, selective colour, or curves. If you don't know which out of these is your favourite method for colouring greyscale, I encourage experimenting. Sometimes I myself use different methods even withing the same painting, because they all have their lil quirks of how they work and the colour results.

Step 5: Render. This one is, again, hard to discribe as it's mostly just looking at things you don't like and fixing them until you're happy.

Step 6: Add lighting effects. Here you can see I added bloom, jittered the hue in the shadow and light affected areas to be warmer or cooler, added glare to the glass, and then, dust particles being hit by the light, a VERY transparent colour dodge layer where the light is coming down from an off screen chandelier, then since all these lighting effects washed the character in the dress out too much, I went in with a softlight layer and a low opacity brush to do colour correction.

Step 7: Post processing. Add a noise layer, smart sharpened the image, added a high pass filter on overlay and set it to 20% yada yada now if one were to print the full res it would look nice.

And that's basically the process right now. But if you ask me again in a month I'm probably going to have changed the way I do things again because I'm always developing the process more and more as I go. I hope this answered some questions for people, was informative, or in any way helped.

[townofcrosshollow]

Y'know I'm really hoping that someday we'll get a version of generative AI that's actually, like, useful and ethical. Imagine a future where you could do a lineart pass in your favourite pen, then waffle about in an lineart editor that uses a model trained on different styles of lineart to let you modify it in post to say, a scratchy pencil or charcoal or adjust the thickness or whatever. That would be pretty cool. Or imagine an addon for Blender that could analyze a photo and recreate the lighting setup. Sick.

The problem is that in this capitalistic hellscape we've sort of lost the ability to use new technology to better humanity. A lot of people compare it to traditional art and photographs, but like... photography added new ways for traditional artists to work. We developed new methods to increase the ease of certain tasks, like rotoscoping animation or tracing photos. Somebody looked at a part of the artists' workflow, said "that could be made more efficient," and then built it.

And we're not really getting that with this wave of generative AI. We were getting it before the tech bro invasion- like for example I remember AI powered vocal synths way before the explosion of generative AI and they were awesome, using machine learning to improve the output of programs like Vocaloid and SynthV and make them sound more realistically human. Where is that for art? Hell, who is making that for music or anything now?

It's like in the past the typical flow was design new technology -> research the market -> come up with ways to implement the tech in the market -> perfect the implementations -> profit, but now it's design new technology -> put the unfinished technology into everything -> profit (?) At no point in the process is anybody actually stopping to think of interesting ways to implement machine learning into the real workflows of professional artists because they're all skipping like 15 steps in the product development pipeline to make max amounts of money.

If these companies were doing things the normal, traditional, useful way and trying to actually develop high quality products, all of the backlash and hostility would never have developed. If you got a focus group full of senior artist directors into a room and asked them about ways to implement AI into their workflows you would immediately come up with a better product.

Just off the top of my head...

Program that can take a 3D scene and convert it into a sketch. Immediately cuts down on workload for comic layout artists and storyboard artists

Tool that analyzes your lineart and generates basic cell shading. Pretty sure the new version of CSP has this but idk if it uses machine learning or if it's good. Makes shading way more efficient

Tool that can take basic airbrush blending and change it to different blending presets. Imagine being able to just hit a button and switch your blending to use different brushes.

Post-proces colour jitter, higher quality colour blending, easier posing for 3D rigs, all sorts of small shit

But we aren't getting any of those things because the people designing these programs fundamentally don't care about making a good or useful product

[ratwithhands]

Since I finished the manga a few days back, I wanted to revisit my two demon slayer OCs I made last year. Here's Yoshi and Syougo ^^

Syougo and Yoshiaki are childhood friends who both ended joining the Demon Slayer corps after being separated earlier in life. Yoshi spent his years training under his retired slayer father before passing the final examination, while Syougo ended up having to figure his own methods out after his first teacher made it so he couldn't use a true breathing technique again.

As an overview of the techniques they use:

Field Breathing is a technique Yoshi's father came up with over his career in the corps. When he retired, he continued to polish the forms and taught them to Yoshi. Both the name and the forms it utilizes are based on the flora around the rice fields he was raised and later retired to. The technique emphasizes speed, flexibility, and applying pressure to the opponent as much as possible. It's fluidity and aggressiveness leads Yoshi to be quick in handling threats since he pushes opponents around

Spirit Breathing (or if you're using archaic kanji, Vengeful Spirit Breathing) is a breathing technique Syougo made as a way to regulate his body and state of mind after losing the lung capacity to use Total Concentration or other methods. It's based around his base breathing rate so he doesn't overexert himself, which means to an extent he is always using it. In combat it's intended to psych out opponents and help highlight their weak points. Since it's mostly a distraction/intimidation technique, Syougo uses a secondary weapon to get the jump on opponents when they're not focused.

For some bonus design notes, here's some details for how they dress:

Yoshiaki's samue is based on what he'd wear when working at the rice fields with his family. The light green colour comes from being dyed with wisteria leaves, a precaution his mother took hoping it would protect him

Having nostalgia from weaving baskets with his mom when he was younger, Yoshi tends to use dry reeds for securing things. He ties his hair with it, decorates his equipment with it, and though his legs aren't visible, he ties reeds in a crossed pattern over his kyahan

The brown cotton sageo and tsuba he uses are handed down from his father. The scar on his cheek is also there for the same reason, his father had one and Yoshi decided to cut his cheek to look cool and match 💀

Syougo's haori has kogin-zashi embroidery across the sleeves and shoulders. He sewed it himself in between his training as a way to decompress and slow down. His kyahan have a matching stripe across the front

Syougo's tsuba was gifted to him by his current mentor who thought he would enjoy the oblique patterning to match his outerwear. His current mentor also requested a nichirin style tanto for him to use for his secondary fighting technique

The ragged look of Syougo's hair comes from him prioritizing training over all else, even appearance. The only instance where he will fully comb and dress his hair is for important meetings and ceremonies. He does maintain the part of his hair though, modelled after his mentor's (much shorter) hair. This is one doodle with clean hair

I'd write more about their character but this is getting long as it is 💀

I have a piece with Syougo that I'm going to put up soon, and at my sister's request I'll try doing a matching one for Yoshi

Hope you guys like these fellas ^^ I'll see you later