#but the small twitching shape in his dreams calls to him

[semiotomatics]

sooo is anyone gonna write a daemon!au set in TØP's dema-verse or am I gonna have to do it myself?

#twenty one pilots #TØP #his dark materials #the citizens of dema have no daemons of course #have only the faintest concept of a Time Before Vialism when everyone was haunted by a wild animalistic figure #one that tempted and tricked them and pulled them from their True Path #before the bishops in all their glory freed their beloved citizens from this lifelong torment #trapping the beasts in long glass vials #only then could the people of dema fully focus on and commit to their Life's Purpose #of course clancy is different. clancy dreams. and in every one he dreams of an animal in the shadows #and at first hes afraid. he thinks hes somehow been corrupted #but the small twitching shape in his dreams calls to him #and then!! #he sees a bandito for the first time!! #maybe they're helping other citizens escape or just sowing the seeds of rebellion/trying to get people to think #but as clancy watches them he sees movement at their side #and there it is #some small creature mirroring their every move. their every thought. #and clancy is enraptured #anyway eventually he escapes dema and meets the banditos/the torchbearer and learns the truth abt dema/daemons etc etc #he gets dragged back and/or returns to dema out of fear/brainwashing a couple times bc Cycles #but eventually he manages to ??? break his Vial?? man idk but he's reunited with his daemon and its beautiful #also theres an epic (platonic) love story playing out between him and the torchbearer all along. natch #he helps bring down the bishops and free the city yada yada everyone gets their daemons back #the sheer POTENTIAL here folks! #anyway too bad i dont write anymore

[theemporium]

[5k] neither of you considered the possibility of your family and friends finding out about your relationship. however, in a series of events, they discover you and quinn are together. but it's fine as long as luke doesn't find out, right?

part one // series masterlist

.

When the season started, you thought it would be easier to hide your relationship from everyone you knew. Never once did either you or Quinn expect to be caught. 

And never once did you think the first person to learn about you and Quinn would be Trevor fucking Zegras of all people.

Before the semester had even started, it had been an unspoken agreement between you and Quinn that you would fly out during reading week. It would be difficult to avoid questions—mostly from Luke who would be offended you weren’t going to fly out to New Jersey—but it was doable. It just took a few weeks of you dropping hints and clues about flying out to Canada to your best friend for him to not really question it when you said you were going to visit your brother. 

And after months away, it was a fucking dream to have this week with Quinn, to settle that uneasiness in your chest that had been lingering since you left the lakehouse that summer. 

You both knew the hockey schedule was insane. You knew neither of you could really leave his apartment. But with a string of games at home for the week, it seemed worth having that week together. 

You didn’t think anything could go wrong.

“What are you thinking in that pretty head of yours?”

Your fingers paused the random shapes they were tracing on his bare chest, moving to lift your head to find him already staring at you with a fond look. 

“You. Us. This. Everything.” You listed off, your lips twitching upwards when he rolled his eyes. “What? You asked and I answered.” 

“I think you’re holding out on me,” Quinn retorted, his hand squeezing where it rested on your hip. “Wanna share what things you were thinking about? More specifically, those thoughts about us.” 

You snorted. “Get your head out of the gutter, Hughes.” 

“Maybe you need to get your head down there,” he countered and, before a witty response could even pass your lips, he had flipped you both over until you were laying on your back with him looming over you. “It’s fun down here, I think you’d like it.” 

You tucked your lip between your teeth. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” he hummed as his fingers traced up and down your bare thigh, a small grin on his face when he felt your body shiver in response. “Gave me a few ideas too.” 

You swallowed harshly as you noted the dark glint in his eyes, the way your stomach twisted in desire as his fingers kept moving upwards. “Like what?” 

Quinn’s smirk widened a little. “Like—” 

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! 

Your brows furrowed in confusion, feeling as though your body had been doused in cold water as you sat up a little. “Were you expecting someone?” 

Quinn frowned, sitting up himself as he tried not to show his clear annoyance at the interruption. “No, I told the boys to call me if they needed me outside of practice. I don’t know who that could be—” 

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! 

“You should probably go get that,” you murmured, trying to bite back your smile as Quinn grumbled something under his breath. 

“If it’s any of the boys, I’m making them do bag skates at practice,” he huffed, crawling out of the sheets and reaching for an abandoned pair of sweatpants on the floor before he left the bedroom. 

He could feel his annoyance brittle when the person knocked for a third time, this time hitting the door over and over again until Quinn reached for the handle and yanked the door open. 

The last person he expected to see was Trevor Zegras on the other side, grinning at him like it was a totally normal thing for him to be on Quinn’s doorstep on a random Tuesday. 

“There’s my favourite Hughes!” 

Quinn blinked once. And then twice. And then a third time just to make sure he was actually standing there. 

“What the fuck, Zegras?” 

“I wanted to surprise you! We didn’t have anything on before the game on Thursday so I thought I’d head up a day earlier than the others and—” Trevor paused, seeming to catch on to the way the older boy was glaring at him. “Geez, this wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“I—” Quinn took a deep breath. “And what reaction were you expecting?” 

“At least a hug, I mean—” Trevor moved to take a step forward, his arms open like he was going to reach to hug the other boy, only to pause. It was like he was finally taking in Quinn’s attire for the first time—or the lack thereof—before his eyes focused on the blossoming bruises along his neck and collarbone. 

It was scary the way the grin spread across his face.

Quinn frowned. “What? Why are you doing that with your face?”

“You got a girl in here, Huggy?” Trevor grinned, not even giving Quinn a chance to react before he was pushing his way into the flat. “Aw shit, Jack never told me you were seeing someone! Is it new? What’s her name? Is it a dude? Listen, I don’t judge! I’ve seen the edits with you and Pettersson.” 

Quinn blinked. “I—what?”

He was still standing in shock, trying to process the words that just left Trevor’s lips before he realised the boy was walking deeper into his flat. His eyes widened, his brain shutting out whatever random rambling that was coming out of Trevor’s mouth as he tried to reach out to stop the boy—but it was useless. 

It was like the whole world froze when Trevor shoved the bedroom door open. His words came to an abrupt stop, his jaw hanging open as he looked at you sprawled on Quinn’s bed with a sheet covering your clearly-otherwise naked body. He looked at your face, then back to Quinn before they settled on you again.

“YOU’RE BANGING LADY HUGHES?!”

Quinn winced. “Why do you have to say it like that?” 

“I…oh my god…you…WHAT?” Trevor spluttered out, looking between the two of you like you were aliens to him. “How long has this been going on? Why the fuck did no one tell me? What the fuck?”

“Well, we can’t tell you something nobody else knows,” you supplied with a sheepish expression.

His eyes widened further. “Nobody else knows? Like at all?” 

You shook your head.

His face instantly brightened. “So I’m the first?” 

“Not by choice,” Quinn grumbled under his breath.

“You can’t tell anyone, Trev,” you said, a pleading look on your face. “Especially not Luke. We are gonna tell him…just not yet. You cannot tell a soul, not even Jack.” 

“I won’t. Scout’s promise.” 

Quinn glared at him. “Were you even a boy scout?” 

“No, why do you ask?” 

“I—” Quinn just shook his head. “Can you just…wait outside whilst we get dressed?”

“Aw, I knew you’d be happy I was here, Huggy,” Trevor beamed, patting the older boy’s cheek before he bounced out of the room, most likely helping himself to whatever was in Quinn’s fridge. 

Quinn turned to you, looking exasperated but you just grinned. 

“Guess that’s one less person we have to worry about hiding from?” 

He just sighed deeply in response. 

…

Trevor ended up keeping his word, not telling a soul. Though, he did go out of his way to bug you and Quinn—mostly Quinn—about your relationship.

You would have thought the situation with Trevor would have prompted the two of you to be more careful. You thought it would have been your lesson learnt that not even the season being fully underway would be distracting enough for you to be as laid back as you were. You thought it was the small reality check you needed. 

As it would turn out, it wasn’t even two weeks later when the next slip up happened. 

It was a stupid, drunken promise that led you to the Hughes’ family home in Ann Arbor, bright and early on a Saturday. When the boys had revealed to you that all three batches of the cookies they had meant to make for a charity sale the university were holding had burnt to a crisp because all of them were incapable of baking, you had offered up your amateur baking skills to make a few batches. 

You were drunk and emotionally compromised and it was really hard to say no to the pleading eyes of Ethan Edwards.

However, with your kitchen barely being big enough to hold two people, Ellen had kindly offered her kitchen for you to use. Plus, she had been wanting to catch up with you since the semester had started, especially considering it was the longest time you and Luke had been apart.

It was somewhere in between the second and third batch when your phone started ringing on the counter. 

“Hey Ellen, could you grab that for me?” You called out over your shoulder, your hands preoccupied in rolling small balls of cookie dough to place on the tray. “Just answer it and put it on speaker.”

There was a beat of hesitation. “Are you sure, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah, just place it down on the counter beside me,” you said offhandedly, frowning at the batch of cookies as Ellen pressed the little green button and let the ringing stop.

You were elbow deep in a bowl of batter when a familiar voice echoed through the Hughes’ kitchen. 

“Hey babe, quick question: did you say you were coming up for Christmas break or not?” 

The whole room fell silent as you looked over your shoulder, finding Ellen already staring at you. She had an amused glint in her eyes, her lips twitching upwards in a smile that was a little mischievous—it reminded you so much of Jack. You dared a glance at the doorway where Jim stood, eyebrows raised in surprise but something quite happy in his expression. 

“Uh, can I call you back? I just have to…deal with something real quick.”

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, just…” You trailed off again, your cheeks burning as Ellen and Jim stared at you. “I’ll call back in ten minutes when I’m finished with these cookies, okay?” 

“Okay, miss you.” 

“Miss you too.”

The sound of the call cutting sounded through the kitchen and none of you said anything for a few seconds. And much to your surprise, it was Jim who spoke first. 

“God dammit, kid, you cost me twenty bucks!”

You blinked. “Huh?” 

Ellen smiled fondly, taking a few steps until she was beside you. She gave your elbow a soft squeeze, something knowing in her gaze. “I always knew you’d end up with one of my boys. Jim was just convinced it would be Jack.” 

Jim huffed. “I bet your parents twenty bucks each.” 

Your eyes widened. “My parents?” 

“We aren’t blind, kid,” Jim retorted, something soft and fond in his voice. 

Ellen snorted. “Clearly you are since you thought it would be Jack.” 

“I—” You started but you weren’t even sure what to say.

Ellen turned back to you, smiling like the whole conversation was normal. “I always knew it would be Quinn. I saw the way he looked at you, even when you were young.”

Your brows furrowed. “Quinn barely liked me when we were kids.”

And Ellen just laughed like that was the funniest thing you could have said. It wasn’t exactly the way you wanted either of your parents—Quinn’s and your own—to find out about your relationship. 

But, unlike Trevor, Ellen and Jim understood the unspoken rule and just how…complicated the situation was, despite Ellen’s insistence that her eldest son had been crushing on you for a lot longer than you believed. 

Nobody tell Luke.

…

It was your fault for leaving the room.

When you had enrolled in Michigan, there was a small part of you that was worried college would be the thing to tear you and Luke apart. In retrospect, it was a stupid thought to have. But you were young and scared and entering this unknown era of your life, and you just wanted to cling onto what you knew, what you were used to—onto Luke.

You realised pretty early on that the thought was stupid when the hockey team had practically adopted you. You were an extension of Luke, but it never felt like that. They were your friends as much as they were Luke’s, and you found yourself fond of these boys who had wiggled their way into your heart. 

Knowing you still had them despite Luke being in New Jersey made coming back alone so much easier. 

However, the life of a D1 athlete was an intense one, along with the fact classes were getting harder and assignments were getting longer. But the boys had practically demanded you come over at least once a week so you didn’t ‘forget who your new best friends are’, as they so kindly liked to say over and over again. Mostly just to annoy Luke.

It was one of those nights. You had made your way to their house after your last class, faceplanting down onto the couch until the group of you had decided on ordering pizza. You had some random comedy movie running on in the background, just senseless noise to accompany whatever random debates Ethan had managed to drag up. It was nice and easy and relaxing, and made you feel a little more sane in what was turning out to be a gruelling year. 

You were in the middle of showing Rutger a random video Jack had sent you of Luke decking it on the ice during practice when the doorbell rang. 

“I’ll get it,” you told them without missing a beat, leaving your phone in their hands as you collected the pizzas from the delivery man. 

What you weren’t expecting was to come back and find all of them staring at you with creepy matching grins on their faces.

You froze, eyeing them suspiciously. “What? What happened?” 

“You are a sneaky lil’ thing, aren’t you?” Rutger spoke up, looking far too smug over something you were still in the dark over. 

You glanced between them before your eyes settled on Rutger again, your confusion clear on your face. 

Rutger continued, “when were you gonna tell us you have a boyfriend?” 

Your body froze. “I don’t know what—”

“And when the fuck were you gonna tell us it’s Quinn Hughes?” Mark jumped in, turning your phone around to show a picture you and Quinn had taken during your last visit. 

He had taken the photo in an elevator mirror, your back to the camera as you wrapped yourself around the boy. But he was grinning, so big and unbothered and it was one of your favourite sights. It was one of your favourite photos of him. 

And it certainly wasn’t the photo you left them with.

“Did you go through my phone?” You finally managed to blurt out when words found you again. But the damage was done and you knew there wasn’t much you could do considering the last time they were aware, you barely spoke to the oldest Hughes brother.

“I can’t believe you kept this from us!” Ethan huffed out, shaking his head like he was genuinely offended. He probably was. He tended to be the more dramatic one. 

“I can’t believe Luke allowed this,” Mark snorted. 

You flashed them a sheepish smile. 

“Oh, dude,” Rutger murmured with a shake of his head.

“You can’t tell him. You can’t tell anyone.” You shifted in your spot, something a little desperate and pleading in your voice, and it was enough for the boys to sober up a bit. Become a little more serious. “We didn’t wanna tell anyone yet and I just…”

“We won’t tell a soul,” Mark reassured you, a soft smile on his face that eased some of the anxiety in your chest.

“As long as you tell us everything,” Ethan added, a knowing smirk on his face. “And I mean everything because how the fuck does any of the Hughes brothers have game?”

And you couldn’t help but snort in response.

…

Jack didn’t accidentally find out more than he put it together. 

It wasn’t often that the Devils and the Canucks met during the season but when they did, it was a family affair. You had decided to join the Hughes parents on their trip up to Vancouver, each of you wearing your hybrid Canucks/Devils jerseys that Ellen had custom made for these occasions. 

The game itself went by as you expected. There was a lot of media coverage on the ‘Hughes Bowl’, meaning each of the boys had been dragged into interview after interview before the game. It was a good game, a clean one too. You tried not to wince too much when the final buzzer blared through the arena and it was a Devils win. 

You knew Quinn would be a little gutted, even if he wouldn’t fully show it in front of his family.

The group of you had decided to head out to one of the Canucks’ favourite bars, something that Luke had whined a little about considering Ellen and Jim insisted they join. But it was wholesome and sweet and made you crave the summer weeks a little more than the current early January weather.

You were settled at the bar, laughing at Jack’s attempt to catch the bartender’s attention to order another round of shots he had dragged you into doing when you felt the warmth of another body settle beside you. For a short moment, you smiled thinking that maybe Quinn had snuck away from whatever conversation he had been stuck in with Petey and Jim. But when you turned your head, you found a stranger standing beside you. 

“Hey gorgeous,” he smiled, and something instantly unsettled deep within your chest.

“Hi,” you replied, short and blunt as you tried to shift away but there wasn’t much space by the crowded bar.

“Hey, where are you going? I just wanted to chat,” he said with an easy smile on his face, his hand resting on your elbow and you instantly jerked away from his hold. 

“I’m not interested,” you answered.

He laughed and the sound grated on your nerves. “That’s a bit presumptuous that I wanted something, sweetheart. Think you’re all that, huh?” 

“Just leave me alone,” you said as you took a step back. A part of you wanted to turn your head and try to catch Jack’s attention, try to ask for help. Another part of you didn’t want to look away from this man. You didn’t trust him.

He huffed out a chuckle. “Don’t be like that—”

“She said no. Fuck off now.” 

A mix of relief and surprise washed over you when you felt a body settle behind you, and you didn’t need to turn your head to know it was Quinn standing behind you, but you still did just to settle the tightness in your chest. 

His face was set in a blank expression, but you recognised it well enough. When he got angry—truly angry—he didn’t have a frown on his face or a crease between his brows. His face just looked…blank. Like he was so lost in his own rage that no expression could really encapsulate how he felt. 

You rarely saw it. He rarely showed this side of him.

His hands were on your waist, pulling you closer to his body as his eyes never left the stranger’s. He tilted his head to the side when the man opened his mouth again, and that seemed enough to shut him up again. 

“Go.” 

The man decided to do the smart thing and scuttle into the crowd of people, disappearing with a blink of an eye until neither you nor Quinn could see him. But even with him gone, you couldn’t shake the uneasiness in your chest.

A second passed before Quinn moved, now standing in front of you with your face in his hands as he tore your gaze away from the crowd to look at him instead. His brows were furrowed together in concern, his lips turned downwards as he glanced over you to make sure you were okay.

“Hey, you with me?” He murmured, his voice soft and comforting and you clung onto it.

“Mhm,” you nodded, flashing him a shaky smile. 

His frown deepened. “Don’t lie to me—”

“I’m not,” you told him honestly, your hands fisting the material of his shirt like you were scared he was going to step away. “I just…you make me feel better.” 

His face softened and the last of his resolve went out the window as he wrapped his arms around you, hugging you close until you were pressed into his chest. You nuzzled your face against his sweater, letting the familiar smell of his cologne wash over you and calm the last of your nerves. 

And when you opened your eyes, you found Jack standing a few feet away from you. Quinn hadn’t noticed he was there and Jack made no move to announce his presence. But he gave you this smile, one that was kind and knowing and felt like a stamp of approval you didn’t know you wanted or needed from the middle Hughes brother. 

But Jack smiled at the sight of you and his older brother, raising his shot glass like a promise to keep your secret and knocking it back without a moment of hesitation.

…

You had no plans on telling Luke about you and Quinn the night it actually ended up happening. 

There was a mutual agreement between you both that you couldn’t keep it from Luke any longer. It wasn’t fair on him to be left in the dark, it wasn’t fair on you two having to sneak around and it wasn’t fair on the people who already knew having to keep your secret.

And with the normal season coming to an end, it felt like a clock was running against you to tell your best friend you were dating his brother before you were all locked in the lakehouse for the summer together.

When you had imagined the moment in your head, it was the three of you. You would sit Luke down, explain your feelings and hope that he wouldn’t feel too betrayed. You imagined he would say something stupid like ‘yeah, I already know, losers’ and you could live your lives happily ever after.

It was probably never going to happen like that, but you certainly didn’t expect it to happen like this.

After a rough season and a streak of rough games for Luke in particular, the news of the Devils’ head coach stepping down felt inevitable and, truthfully, it was a relief when you saw the news come through. Luke had called you, far too smug and giddy for someone whose team was technically without a key member—but you guessed it was mostly second-hand from the other boys. 

You swore you could hear Jack and Nico talking about popping open a bottle of champagne in the background when he called. 

It felt like an unspoken agreement for you to fly out when Luke told you about a huge party they were throwing that weekend. Not for the recent retirement, obviously. If anyone asked, it was a simple bonding experience for the boys to motivate them through the last leg of the season.

And somewhere between the beer pong game Luke dragged you into and the really strong margarita Simon made you, you had snuck off into a small bathroom to call the one person your drunk self craved to see.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

You grinned at the sight of your boyfriend’s face on your screen, his hair tucked under a beanie as he walked around his apartment. “Hey, baby.”

He took in your flushed cheeks and glossy eyes, snorting a little. “Having fun?” 

“So much fun,” you giggled before letting out a heavy sigh. “I wish you were here.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, like he was counting the days. He probably was. You knew you were too. “Spring break, remember?” 

“Hmm, I can’t wait to have you all to myself,” you mused, sinking back against the wall of the bath you were currently leaning on. “I’m sick of sharing my boyfriend with Petey.” 

Quinn laughed. “I thought you loved Petey.” 

You sighed deeply. “I do love that big, blond Swede.” 

He shook his head in amusement. “I’ll let him know. I’m sure he loves you too.”

You perked up a little. “Really?”

“Really, baby.” 

“Woah,” you breathed out, your eyes falling shut as you leaned against the cool ceramic of the bathtub. “I know I said it before…but I really wish you were here.”

Quinn’s face softened. “Me too, babe. Me too.” 

You opened your mouth to say something, probably some random drunken thought that you felt the insistent need to share with your boyfriend before knocking on the bathroom door interrupted you. 

You froze when you heard Luke calling your name on the other side. 

Quinn frowned at the way your face paled a little. “Baby, what’s happened? Who is it?” 

You heard shuffling on the other side before Luke’s muffled voice sounded through the door. “Are you talking to Quinn?”

You could have hung up. You could have told him you were talking to someone else entirely. You could have done a million and one other things that made more sense. However, for some fucking reason, your drunk brain panicked. 

“I don’t know a Quinn!” 

Quinn furrowed his brows in confusion.

There was a pause on the other side of the door before Luke tested the handle, finding the door unlocked. He let himself in, standing by the entrance as he stared down at you curled up beside the bathtub with a frown.

“Why are you hiding in here? I need another beer pong partner and Holtz sucks so—”

And because the universe liked to fuck with you, it seemed like there was some sort of lag on Quinn’s side because his voice was echoing through the small bathroom before you could even warn him about Luke’s presence.

“Baby, what’s happening? You’re starting to scare me.” 

Your eyes widened as silence suffocated the small room. You looked at Quinn before looking at Luke, who was looking at your phone with a mixed expression. 

“Did…did he just call you baby?” 

“No?”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on? Why are you on the phone to Quinn? And why are you hiding in the bathroom? And since when do you talk to Quinn?” 

You flashed him a sheepish smile. “Since we’ve been dating,”

Luke blinked before he snorted. “No, I’m being serious.” 

You swallowed. “So am I.”

Luke let out another laugh, but this one was a little less convincing. “I…no, you’re messing with me. Jack put you both up to this, right?” 

You stayed silent. 

“Right?” Luke asked again, a little more desperate.

Your eyes shifted down to Quinn—the lag thankfully gone—before you looked back up at Luke with a nervous expression. You shifted so your phone screen was now facing him, watching as his eyes dropped down to his brother’s face. 

“We wanted to tell you—”

“You,” Luke sneered, his eyes narrowed. “You have been planning this.” 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

“He’s been planning this!” Luke said with such confidence, though that might have been the mix of rum and tequila talking. “He’s been planning this since the sour patch kids!”

Quinn shot his brother a look. “You think I’ve been planning to date your best friend since you were seven?” 

“Yes.” 

You didn’t have to look at the screen to know Quinn was rolling his eyes at his younger brother.

“How long has this been going on?” 

“A while.” 

“That’s not an answer,” Luke frowned before looking at you.

“Since last summer,” you whispered.

“Summer?!” Luke spluttered. “You two have been dating for eight months and no one knew?” 

You winced.

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “Who knows?” 

“Just Trevor,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. 

He deflated, blinking. “Oh, well I guess—” 

“And your parents and my parents and Ethan and Rutger and Mark and Jack,” you blurted out quickly, your cheeks heating up as Luke stared at you like he didn’t know you.

“So everyone but me?” 

“Luke—”

“Everyone but me knows?” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

“This is just a bad dream,” Luke murmured to himself before nodding his head, a little more confidently. “No, yes. This is a bad dream influenced by Nemo’s shitty bartending skills. A bad dream where my older brother is stealing my best friend. It isn’t real at all.” 

You blinked. “Luke—”

“Just need to play out the rest of the bad dream and I’ll wake up,” he continued muttering away as he reached for the door handle, ready to leave the small, cramped bathroom. “Just a bad dream.” 

“Luke—” 

But he was already gone before you could say anything.

“Well, he’s gonna have a brutal reality check in the morning.” 

You turned your phone to glare at your boyfriend. Though, much to your surprise, he was grinning in response. 

“Quinn, this is serious.” 

“Baby, I know.” His face seemed to soften a little, but the smile remained. “But now he knows. This is what we wanted. And now we don’t have to hide.” 

Your annoyance melted away at his revelation, a warmth settling in your chest that only Quinn seemed to bring. “Stop being cute.” 

“I’m being realistic, baby. Now you can come up any time you want.”

You snorted. “I still have classes.”

“I’ll find a way around those too. You can’t stop me, baby, gonna tell the whole world how much I love you.”

Your face softened with a smile. “I love you too.” 

Quinn’s smile mirrored yours. “Now go make sure my brother doesn’t do something stupid whilst he thinks he’s in a dream. Mum will kill me if his face is plastered on a tabloid in the morning.”

“Pretty sure Jack will go out of his way to make sure that happens.”

“Please don’t let it happen.” 

You gave him a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain.” 

He shook his head with a fond expression. “I’ll call you later, okay?” 

“Okay. Bye, I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

“And I love Petey.”

Quinn snorted. “Yeah, I love him too. Get in line.”

.

#quinn hughes #nhl #vancouver canucks #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

[toxophilitis]

Spread, Auntie, Spread

CHAPTER ONE

Lori Holmes was very excited.

It had been a surprise when her sister had called her just the day before, asking if she could leave her son and daughter with her for a week. The notice had been short, but Lori was quick to agree.

This is a dream came true, Lori thought.

She had allowed the young boy and his sister to stay with her last summer, and those few days together still caused her cunt to twitch with pleasure even though they had not fucked then.

Lori was in her mid-twenties, unmarried, but had enjoyed the company of a man two years older than her. She had no desire for marriage but craved sex. She liked Marty well enough, but she wasn't in love with him and no way would she marry the man. He was tall, good looking, and had a beautiful cock -- a nice, thick, very long cock. That was all that was important to Lori, his cock... or any cock. Marty knew this and accepted it. Lori was a fantastic fuck, uninhibited, and more than willing to do anything to feed that burning desire within her tall, slender body.

Lori was a beautiful young woman. She attracted men more than the average woman. Yet she didn't really enjoy that much of a variety. She was selective in her men, very selective. In the past ten years, she probably had not fucked more than ten men. But one thing she knew, those ten men had enjoyed the time of their lives while with her. All of them had gone away happy, well-satisfied, knowing they would search for a long time before finding another girl with such hungry sexual desire.

With her chestnut hair and blazing blue eyes, her thin, small nose and wide mouth with moist lips, with her slender neck and straining tits, tits that were almost, but not quite, pointed, she was a true classic beauty.

At the moment she had just come out of the bathroom, her gorgeous body wrapped in a huge, soft towel. Marty was still on the bed, smoking, almost exhausted from the wild, frenzied fucking she had just given him. He sprawled with his head on a pillow, looking at her.

Lori gave him a wicked wink as she stood before the mirror, shaking out her long hair with her fingers. The reflection of her was in his view, and he watched her shapely tits rise with her hands. The towel, short enough to begin with, lifted just past the sweet curves of her swelling ass. Lori stood with hr legs slightly apart, and Marty saw the long curls of her cunt between them.

Lori's thighs and legs were long, very long, smooth as they could be, creamy in color and texture. Her hips were not large, but fit her body perfectly. Her waist, he knew, could be spanned by his two hands.

Looking at her ass, he remembered how, just a few minutes ago, she had been twirling it wildly, sending thrill after thrill throughout his overheated body. His cock tingled from the tight heat of her gripping cunt, and there was a small pleasant ache in his balls. He grinned to himself and ran a hand down to caress his balls gently.

She saw him in the mirror, flashing a lewd smile as she saw him cradle his balls tenderly. The nipples of her tits were still firm, very long and a dark-pink color. Lori knew what his balls felt like. She was very much aware of her skills, of the ability her cunt had of nibbling and sucking on a cock that was fucking deeply.

Teasingly, she allowed the towel to slip from her body, the cheeks of her delightful ass bunching for his pleasure. In the mirror, she saw the stirring of his cock, and she licked a pink, wet tongue over her full lips.

Leaning over the dresser, she arched her ass out in his direction, her asscheeks parting slightly. The fuzz of her pussy became more pronounced and his eyes showed renewed interest. Lori was pleased by his reaction. It always pleased her when she could make a man's cock hard so soon after fucking him wildly. She made her ass shake invitingly as she watched his cock in the mirror. She licked her lips again as his prick swelled into throbbing hardness. Then she turned to face Marty.

She leaned on the dresser, her shoulders back and her flawlessly shaped tits thrusting out and up, the nipples hard. She smiled wantonly at him as she spread her feet and arched her hips in his direction. Her thick triangle of dint hair almost, but not quite, concealed the moist pinkness of her pussy lips. Lori slowly twisted her hips in a tight circle as she gazed body at him.

"See anything you like?" she murmured in a low, throaty voice.

"I like everything," he groaned as his cock throbbed in his fist.

Lori's eyes smoldered with her bubbling inner heat as she gazed hungrily at his unusually long thick prick. "I wish we had more time, Marty," she said, her voice not changing. "Oh God... I'd love to fuck that hard-on again, but my niece and nephew will be here in half an hour. We just don't have time."

She turned back to the mirror, applying a faint coat of lipstick to her moist lips. Marty watched as she pursed her lips, and remembered how they could devour a hard cock greedily. The remembrance caused his prick to throb powerfully, dripping from the piss hole. He lowered his eyes to her enticing ass, looking at her creamy smooth asscheeks, her inviting thighs.

He swung his legs over the edge of her bed and stood up, his cock thrusting outward from the mass of dark hair at the base. Lori looked at his prick in the mirror, jutting her beautiful ass back again in a teasing manner.

Marty came to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his cock between her thighs. Lori felt his prick between them, and she squeezed her thighs together. She loved the way his cock throbbed against the burning lips of her cunt, the hardness of his prick, the strange way his cock looked as the swollen prickhead poked past the luxurious growth of her cunt hair, giving her the appearance of having a short cock growing there.

"Oh, God!" she mewled as Marty began to fuck his cock back and forth, sliding the hardness of his prick between her hotly pressing thighs, rubbing his cock along her twitching cunt. "Ohhhh, you know I love it, Marty! Damn you, you know I can't resist that cock!"

Lori shoved her ass back and braced herself with her elbows on the dresser, gazing into the mirror at him. Her tits, although dangling, still maintained their firm shape.

"Put it in me, Marty!" she screamed in a thick voice. "Fuck me! Fuck me fast!"

Marty drew his cock from between her thighs, and looking down, ran his swollen prickhead about her asscheeks. Lori felt the burning moisture on her flesh and shoved her ass against him. "Fuck me, damn you! We don't have much time! Stop playing around, Marty! Stick that cock in my cunt and fuck me -- now!"

Her body was still damp from the shower, and the beads of water on her flesh increased his excitement. He placed the head of his swollen cock against the pulsating wetness of her pussy and shoved.

"Ooooo!" Lori moaned with pleasure as his cock went into her cunt. "Ooooo, yes, Marty!"

She felt his prick go deep, stretching her sensitive cunt lips deliciously. She loved the deep throbbing of his cock, the way that enormous prickhead seemed to stuff every bit of her pussy. Her eyes became glassy with passion as his fingers dug into her hips, his cock fucking in and out of her clinging cunt. As soon as his prick had entered her cunt, Lori began to feel an orgasm swelling inside the pit of her stomach. It was always that way... Lori usually came as soon as a cock penetrated her cunt, then she would build up slowly to a powerful explosive orgasm when the man gushed his come juice into her. Lori seldom failed to come at least twice when she was fucked.

"Ohhhh, ram that cock to me!" she moaned in a thick voice, shaking her naked ass, twisting as he fucked in and out. "Oh, God! Oh, God... I can't get enough of that hard cock! Fuck me, Marty! Oooo, fuck me!"

Her eyes, glazed with the pleasure rumbling through her body, tried to see his expression in the mirror, but her vision was blurred. She was turned just far enough so she could see her hips dancing lewdly as his cock fucked in and out of her blazing cunt. She loved the feel of his lower stomach slapping upon her naked asscheeks as Marty fucked relentlessly into her quivering cunt. Her shapely tits jiggled with the power of his thrusts, her nipples brushing the surface of the dresser. Her pussy tightened around his cock as he pulled back and seemed to relax as his prick went in deep.

This was something her cunt did of its own volition, something that Lori had nothing consciously to do with. She was aware of this ability, and she accepted it because it created such intense pleasure for not only her, but whatever cock was fucking her. Some man, somewhere, sometime, had said her cunt was a mouth-sucking cunt, that it felt like he was getting a blow job at the same time he fucked her.

"Harder, Marty!" she whimpered as her ass twisted furiously. "Ohhh, please, fuck me... harder!"

His fingers gripped her writhing hips and he banged furiously against her asscheeks, his cock going all the way into her burning, wet cunt. He grit his teeth as the pleasure burned through his body, centered at his cock and balls like a roaring fire.

Lori was gurgling hotly, her eyes half closed, savoring the deliciousness of his cock fucking into her tight, wet cunt. The way his prick throbbed between her stretched cunt lips sent her mind reeling with the erotic sensations she loved so much. Her cunt was so sensitive that she could feel each groove and ridge of his hard prick, feel when his cock throbbed. Her clit had become a swollen, hard knot of tingling pleasure as he fucked her. Her tits and nipples ached, and her ass shivered with delicious goose bumps that flowed about her creamy flesh. The nerves of her succulent body were tingling with so much pleasure that Lori could hardly stand it. Fucking was always that way, and she loved it.

She felt him speed up the thrusting of his cock, and she writhed her upturned ass tightly. Her orgasm was on the surface now, threatening to blow apart. The heat inside her cunt was becoming unbearable, and the only cure was a mind-shattering orgasm.

"Oooo, hurry!" she screamed at him. "Hurry and come in my cunt! I'm about to... about to... ohhh, there! I'm coming, Marty! Oh, God... I'm coming!"

Lori's cunt convulsed in ecstasy. Her pussy squeezed in reflexive waves at his fucking cock, drawing at his prick with hot velvety walls. Her naked body shuddered as though she were having a seizure of some kind. A loud wail of ecstasy came out of her throat as she threw her head back, eyes tightly closed, her mouth wide open.

She felt his cock as it began to spurt. Again she screamed, feeling thick come, juice gush into her pussy, splashing about the hot walls of her cunt. Her pussy closed about his prick, sucking and nibbling as they both came.

Marty withdrew his cock tiredly from her gripping cunt, slumping down on the floor, sitting on his heels as he gasped heavily. Lori remained where she had been, leaning on the dresser, still glowing from the power of her orgasm. She panted, her tits jiggling.

She felt Marty's lips against her asscheek, and sighed happily. She loved it when her ass was kissed and licked. She loved it when a moist, eager tongue lapped up and down her thighs. Lori loved to use her tongue on a man, too, licking and tasting his legs, his ass, his cock and balls. She was very oral and loved to have a hard, throbbing cock between her lips.

"Mmmmm," she murmured lazily as Marty kissed the cheeks of her ass. "Lovely, Marty. I love to have my ass kissed. Oooo, you're wonderful!"

Marty's tongue raced about the swell of one asscheek, then down the back of one trembling thigh. Lori arched her ass back, twisting and trying to get his tongue between her thighs. She gave a soft squeal of delight as his tongue scraped over the sensitive lips of her cunt. Then she jerked her ass away from him.

"Oh, my God! Look at the time!" she yelped. "They'll be here in five minutes! Damn you, Marty!"

He chuckled as he stood up. "Why damn me, baby? You wanted to fuck as much as I did."

She turned and smiled at him. "I know," she said, caressing his cheek. "I'm just nervous, that's all. I haven't seen Stevie and Janice for over six months. You know how much I care for them."

"I wish they weren't going to be here so damn long," Marty complained. "I can't do without a piece of your hot ass for a fucking week, Lori."

"We'll be careful," she said, kissing him quickly. "They won't be any trouble, don't worry."

Promptly at three o'clock, the doorbell rang. Lori silently cursed her sister for always being so prompt. She drew a loose robe on and, looking to make sure Marty was dressed, left her bedroom with him to answer the door.

"I'm sorry about the last-minute notice," her sister said when Lori ushered them into the living room. "But Bob has to fly out this evening. Are you sure these kids won't be any trouble for a week, Lori?"

"Of course not," Lori said. "I love to have them with me. You go and enjoy yourself and don't worry about these two monkeys. I have a nice big paddle if they get out of hand."

Stevie and Janice giggled, knowing their Aunt Lori was teasing. They loved her and loved being with her. Lori was almost a kid herself, being ten years younger than her sister. She didn't treat them like little kids. She let them drink coffee and stay up late. She was fun to be with.

Lori saw her sister looking at Marty. "Oh, this is Marty Horn. We were talking about his new play he just finished."

"Are you in the theater, Mr. Horn?" Lori's sister asked.

"Not yet." Marty smiled. "I'm still trying, that's all. Lori is a big help with her suggestions."

"He was just leaving," Lori said, knowing her sister could be a suspicious bitch. "I'll look your script over more carefully, Marty, and give you a call."

"You do that," he said, then left.

Stevie and Janice had already gone into the kitchen, searching for the goodies that Lori always seemed to have at her house.

Her sister quickly left, trying to give instructions about her children's bedtime and other silly things. "I know all that," Lori said. "Go on and have fun. We'll get along just fine."

She closed the door after her sister had gone, leaning against it. My sister can be a pain sometimes, she thought. So prim and moralistic, always giving advice no one wanted or took. She was forever forcing her moral attitudes on others.

Going toward the kitchen, Lori smiled to herself, pleased to have Stevie and Janice with her for a whole week. She didn't like the attitudes their mother was drilling in those young minds, making them ashamed of their bodies and sex. She wished she could teach them the real joy and happiness of living.

She stepped into the kitchen, then stopped, eyes wide.

Stevie was in the refrigerator, concealed by the door, seeking out the goodies. But it was Janice that Lori had seen.

The beautiful little girl was on her hands and knees, her head inside the cupboards. Her short skirt had hiked up in back, and Lori found herself gazing at the sweet thighs and tightly pantied ass of her niece. The view sent a sudden, unexpected thrill racing through her veins, and her cunt began to pulsate with that feeling of hunger again.

Janice was wearing pink panties, and they were very tight. The unusual thing about her panties was the sheerness of them. Lori could not recall ever seeing Janice wearing any kind of panties but little-girl cotton ones. Now she could easily see the crack between Janice's small asscheeks.

Lori wondered about this. She was certain her sister, Karen, would not allow Janice to wear such revealing panties.

Janice pulled her head from the cupboard and twisted to look over her shoulder. She saw her aunt looking at her, and she giggled.

The sound, to Lori, of that giggle, was almost lewd. Janice's eyes were gleaming in a strange way, and Lori felt a sexuality radiate from the pretty little girl. Her cunt throbbed, and she wondered why she felt so drawn toward Janice, drawn toward her lovely little body. Girls had never turned her on, but at this moment she was feeling a wild, almost irresistible desire to feel her niece up.

[swampstew]

Luffy, N36 ~ Anal Beads

Summary: Drabble of Incubus Luffy getting his pretty ass fucked. @writing-yarn-goblin this is all your fault tbh!

Warnings: GN reader, pure smut, Incubus Luffy getting dommed, milked, and railed by reader. Anal play (Luffy receiving), breeding kink if you squint. Poor guy, it's his first day on the job. Word Count: 492

Monkey D. Luffy – Incubus in training, ready and reporting for duty! First day officially on the job and a human has already summoned him. With a sly smirk on his face, the horned demon with small scar under his left eye answered the summoning.

It was…unexpected. Usually, a summoning involved a human summoner calling out to them in their wet dreams, or intentional rituals for more experienced practitioners. This one was the latter. Luffy didn’t quite understand the request but once he was bribed with something called a ‘shark coochie’ board that held various meats, cheeses, and crackers, he was down for anything.

Plus, those pastel colored anal beads had smiling faces on them, it couldn’t be too bad. They kind of reminded him of the ones he kept back home. In his favorite color.

He wasn’t inexperienced to anal pleasure, however it had always been a personal preference to do himself with his toy of choice. But this human had been so so generous with their food and they had such a honeyed voice that he was just about sure he’d agree to anything they’d ask of him. And when Luffy told their human of their favorite toy, they had squealed so deliciously that Luffy practically hoisted his hips higher in the air to receive.

Luffy was in over his head, eyes bounded and ears plugged, swimming in exotic pleasure. Incubi were meant to be leading the sexual intercourse, not being bent to a human’s will as he was currently being twisted and bent over in pleasure. The ropes and harness weren’t a surprise. The monster shaped dildos with intimidating ridges, cones, and bauble shapes kind of were, especially as they had stared at him from their position on the kink shelf before his human tied silk around his eyes. Thank the sea devil his body possessed rubberlike qualities and he could stretch out so as not to experience pain like others.

He had no idea what to expect or when to expect it, all he had were his human’s soft hands tracing around his body, teasing, and pleasing him, brushing the objects they wanted to use against his hip and he would let out a yes or no. He hadn’t said no yet. And he wouldn’t, not when he was a panting mess, his wrists tied together above his head, his body bent over a rubber coated table as his human slowly pulled the pastel beads from his ass, one by one. 10 beads in all, and 8 to go as he whined from the taut pull – his cock twitched against the silicon cup that was secured on his tip. Collecting his seed, literally milking him.

For hours.

As the last bead was pulled from within, Luffy’s head threw back as he howled in pleasure with drool running down his mouth. His cock twitched and jerked, his seed shot into the hold and slowly filled the collection cup once more.

23 tiles to go, 5 calls made so far.

#kinktober 2023 #kinktober #kinktober 2023 masterlist #raven's bingo board #raven's halloween party #one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #monkey d. luffy #tw dark content #swampstew stories #swampstew bedtime stories #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x you #luffy smut #incubus #cw breeding

[astxrwar]

drops of blood [3/4]

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

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11k

CONTENT WARNINGS: masturbation in this one. stalking, exhibitionism. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes really starting to settle in. Weird psychological elements kinda. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". there is a playlist and it's got hozier and the songs are sooo mood.

Thanks for reading!

Read on AO3

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

It's been snowing, on and off, the last few days; the gutters on your apartment complex are ancient and decaying, and meltwater pools in the rusted divots along them. The runoff from the rooftop freezes overnight, forms these jagged, spindly icicles on the overhangs, like fingers reaching down towards the street below. You can hear them outside your bedroom, water sliding off the sharp pinpoint ends and hitting the ledge of the window, wearing divots into the brick.

The sound follows you to sleep, the steady drip-drip, drip-drip, drip-drip, staccato and rhythmic and spaced like a heartbeat. In your dream you wriggle out from the tangle of your covers and pad to the window and part the curtains. You look out at the dark night sky and watch the droplets as they fall, glittering flashes of light reflected in the beads of water from streetlamps or the headlights of passing cars somewhere on the street below.

When you look down to the windowsill, the water gathered there has turned color, glittering like rubies, like pomegranate seeds. Like blood, dark and rich and red.

~

“It’s called starfruit. Carambola, technically.” 

It’s just the two of you, and it’s late, the sky black and the street nearly empty and the lights inside the coffee shop reflected back by the windows, the both of your reflections mirrored there. Barnes has been here since seven-thirty, but you’d been busy again, and you feel bad; he must have been horribly bored, just waiting that whole time. If he was, he doesn’t look it– he looks just as neutrally impassive as ever, leaned back in the chair, watching you dump the grocery bag out on the tabletop and pull another chair over to sit across from him.

The fruit is yellow and ridged and weird-shaped, and he prods at it with one hand; the left one, gloved. His mouth twitches. 

“Dunno if you’ve ever seen a star,” he says, “But I’m pretty sure they don’t look like that.”

You flash him a smile, dragging the chair a little closer. Under the table– the cheap square of laminated plastic that suddenly feels far too small– your knee brushes against his, and he starts, jerks back a fraction of an inch and straightens, this sharp frisson of tension that reverberates out through his whole body like tremors from a stress fracture. His reflexes are much faster than yours, all of them, and he’s able to compose himself and carry on as if nothing happened before you can respond to whatever that was; he’s already leaning to draw his knife from his boot and setting it on the table by the time any of it has even registered in your brain.

Hyperreactive startle response, you reason; that’s not abnormal. He’s a veteran. Multiple times over. You’d spent a long time researching it, combat PTSD, wanting to know, wanting to have the information to be able to— meet him halfway, or something. You don’t know the details of his life these days, not outside of these slivers of time he spends with you, and you’d never ask, but a part of you still wonders how many other friends he has. How many other people he even talks to, besides you and his therapist. The thought makes something ache, in your chest, something soft and melancholy and a little bit painful; it does something else, too, makes you feel determined to not mess this up.

You figure right now, what would help the most is for you to not mention it. The way he’d– flinched, or startled, or something, jerked back from less than half a second of contact like you’d burned him.

Barnes lays out the starfruit lengthwise across one of those flimsy recycled paper napkins and aligns the knife to cut it right down the middle, which conveniently gives you something to say that’s entirely unrelated to whatever just happened. 

“Hold on, wait,” you say quickly, “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Doing it wrong,” Barnes repeats, and maybe you imagine it, the way his shoulders relax. Like he’s relieved. He looks up from it, at you; his eyes crinkle up at the corners, just a little bit, humor glinting in the precise and magnetic blue of his irises, and something strange lights in your stomach in response. “What, because there’s a right way?”

“Yes,” you reply, with a teasing sort of cadence like, duh, obviously. 

Whatever that feeling is, It buzzes in the pit of your stomach at the barest amount of warmth in his expression; something like adrenaline or anxiety or frayed nerves, only multiple times brighter. A sensation that’s not unfamiliar, not unrecognizable, either, and also not something you really want to think about or examine too closely, right now. Or— ever.

Barnes opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then doesn’t. He closes it again, and he glances down and away from you, drums his fingers against the table. Taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap. When he looks at you again, the brightness that had been in his eyes before is gone, snuffed out like somebody’d blown out a candle, and whatever it’s been replaced with is something else entirely.

He sets the knife down. The handle clicks against the laminate and your pulse does something weird at the sound; stutters, maybe, or skips, or just stalls outright. He nudges it with the tip of his finger, at the base, makes it spin in a slow, juddering circle, until the blade is pointed towards him, and then he slides it across the table. 

When your heartbeat picks up again, it’s too-fast, thudding quick and insistent in the hollow of your throat, like rabbit’s feet.

“Here,” he says.  “You want to, this time? Since– since there’s a right way, and all.”

There’s a roughness to his voice, a strain that makes you think of last week, please do it, I just want you to be safe, makes you think of the blood by the dumpster in the back, how he’d looked when he’d come back inside, they were just drunks, it’s fine, it’s all fine, and that warmth inside of you dissipates.

(No, it doesn’t.)

“Sure, yeah,” you hear yourself say, warbly and far-away, like maybe somebody else is speaking. Somebody who isn’t you. But it’s your hand that reaches out to drag the edge of the napkin across the table, and it’s your hand that closes around the knife, too. 

The handle is still warm. Something deep inside of you coils in on itself, in the pit of your stomach or the base of your spine or maybe lower, twists and tightens and pulses like a heartbeat. You think about his hand, being where yours is now, the way that he’d spun the knife a few weeks ago, how he handles it with this unnervingly practiced ease, this familiarity, like it’s something more than an object.

 Like it’s an extension of his body.

(Again, you think about the blood.)

Carambolas are long, oval fruits with five- or six-point ridges; you cut it into slices the way you’d slice a banana, and the pieces fall over one another shaped like stars. 

“Huh,” you hear Barnes say, and when he reaches for one, the glove probably in his pocket, you swallow around nothing at all, suddenly aware with startling clarity of how close his hand is to your own. How much bigger it is than your own. “Starfruit. No kidding.”

You wait for him to pull back before you move to take your own piece, his flinch replaying in the back of your mind, and something else there, too, that you determinedly continue to ignore. The skin on the carambola crunches between your teeth and the juice floods your mouth, sour-sweet and unfamiliar; you’re aware of it, the mechanical action of eating, the taste, but you’re not paying attention to that.

He hasn’t moved to take the knife back. It’s sitting on the table still, closer to you than it is to him. You don’t even really make the conscious decision to reach for it, you just do, dragging it closer to you and turning it lengthwise; up close, there are flaws that you couldn’t see from a distance, chips in the matte black coating of paint over the flat of the blade and the handle, divots worn into the edge from use.

(You wonder if he’s ever killed anyone with it.)

“How sharp is this thing?” you ask absently– idly– inanely, operating on some stupid and unthinking whim, the same impulse that has you reaching out and touching the tapered point of the knife with your thumb, pressing in, just a little, the skin indenting around it until–

Until something entirely predictable happens. Something that anyone with a modicum of common sense could have guessed at, that most people, you figure, probably would have known well enough to avoid, because most people, you think, possess a rational understanding of actions and consequences that would have kept them from doing what you’d just done. 

“Okay,” you say, watching the blood beading up along where the sharpened tip had cut into your skin. It’s just a little, no more than you’d get from a pin-prick or a paper cut, just enough to well up into a drop that grows until the surface tension breaks and it spills onto the flat of the blade, oozing sluggishly down the pad of your thumb. “Pretty sharp.”

You’re not going to wipe it off on the napkin, because there’s food on there, so you bring it to your mouth; the second your hand is clear of the knife, Barnes reaches for it, snatches it back, so quickly that it feels like both things happen at the same time, even though you know, rationally, that isn’t possible.

Barnes is staring at you.

“Sorry,” you blurt out reflexively, “Sorry, that was— pretty stupid of me, don’t know what I was expecting—“

“No,” he cuts you off, “No, you’re— it’s fine, you don’t need to apologize, I shouldn’t have—“ he stops and he stammers and then he cuts out into silence and his expression flickers through a whole bunch of things, some that you recognize and others that you don’t; he looks plaintive and stricken and ashamed and worried and scared and something else that you can’t find the words to describe. “Are you— you’re okay?”

“I— yeah, of course,” you reply, feeling again like there’s something you’re missing. Like whatever puzzle you’re constructing of James Buchanan Barnes—it has this hole, right in the center of it, a silhouette in the shape of whatever it is you’re unable to figure out, and like if you could just find it you might be able to fit everything together, and that it– that he– might finally make sense to you.  “Not your fault, I was being— dumb. And look, see? It’s fine.”

You hold out your hand to him. He glances down at it for a fraction of a second and then looks back at you, eyes wavering and glassy and filled with that thing you can’t name. 

 All that’s left is a thin, red line where the knife had pressed in. 

No blood.

~

 You finish late, almost midnight. 

It’s your own fault, you’d gotten distracted, neglected clearing out the pastry display case and cleaning the espresso machine and prepping the brewing stations for the next morning in favor of sitting with Barnes for— way too long. He’d left at eleven, on the dot, and you hadn’t asked him to wait because he’d already been there a while, spent most of it just waiting there for you as the steady tide of customers ebbed and flowed and ebbed again, always just busy enough to keep you occupied and unavailable. So when you strip off your apron and your uniform hat and shrug your coat on over your sweater and finally flick the lights off in the shop behind you, you expect to come out to— nothing. Nobody. 

But he’s there, standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, expression flat and clear and calm. He makes eye contact with you and something tightens, his brow, maybe, just for a half-second, but then you smile just on instinct, stopping on the sidewalk a few feet away, and his expression, it– softens, again.

“You stayed,” you say aloud, aware of how pleased you must sound and wondering again, somewhere in the back of your mind, if that’s really how you should feel. 

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing down at his feet, scuffing one foot against the concrete. “Yeah, sorry, I, ah—“

“No, I wasn’t– I’m glad,” you interject quickly, back turned from him as you lock the door behind you. “I just— I didn’t ask today because I knew I’d be out late, and I don’t want to— take up all of your time, I guess, I already feel like I made you waste so much of it just, like, sitting, so—“

When you turn back to him, he’s staring, the way he does sometimes— the way he does a lot, precise and unwavering and intense enough to make you feel like you’ve been pinned to the spot– and whatever you’d been saying dries up somewhere in the back of your throat. 

“No,” Barnes says, takes all of an aborted half-step closer, and then he tears his eyes away, like he’d maybe realized and tried to correct it, the way that he’d been looking at you. “It’s— you’re not a waste of time,” he says, looking at the ground. 

The warmth you can feel in your face, you decide, is because of the cold, and nothing else.

~

He tells you to lock up again, and you tell him that you will.

It’s the very first thing, after pulling the keys from the door, before you hang them up on the peg nearby or strip your coat or take off your shoes— you always flip the deadbolt, and the flimsier lock on the door handle. Force of habit, deeply ingrained.

The windows, though—

It’s the third floor, you reason. There’s a fire escape outside the one that looks in on your bedroom, but the ladder can only be released from the second-story landing, some fifteen feet in the air. You have nothing to worry about. And maybe that’s why you just never get around to it; the fact that the urgency’s not there. It’s not a part of your routine. You mean to do it, because he asks and because you’d said you would, but somewhere between stripping from your work clothes and washing off the smell of stale coffee after a long and annoying shift and padding into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your chest and water still dripping from your hair and onto the floor—

You always end up forgetting.

~

You have those dreams again. A whole bunch of times.

The ones with the broken pavement, the darkened street, the heartbeat. 

The blood.

~

His birthday is March 10th. He hasn’t told you this. You know, though. You’ll see him on the 8th, the Friday he always comes in, and that’s close enough, you figure. Probably better that way; with how he is, so closed off, you think he’ll probably want to spend the actual day alone.

There is an Etsy shop that makes pocket-knives. Fancy ones. Objectively cool-looking ones.You place the order at two in the morning Saturday night, operating on some half-awake impulse. It’s four inches long— street-legal— with this wood-paneled handle and a flat-grip hilt and three letters engraved on one side. JBB. You figured that was better, the initials; the interpretation being left up to him, whether it’s Buchanan or Bucky. It’s just a keepsake. Something you thought he might— like. 

“What’d you get this time?” he asks, that brightness in his expression again; your heart is beating too fast, and you’re anxious and doubtful and feeling a little bit sick, spiraling and suddenly certain this was all a massive mistake. But it’s in your hand, in a reusable grocery bag, and you hadn’t even brought anything else to fall back on in case you ended up losing your nerve about it like you are right this second. 

You pull out the chair across from him and sit down and drop the bag at your feet, awkwardly folding your hands on the table. 

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The silence drags out for what must be only a few seconds but still somehow feels like so much longer, thick and oppressive and borderline uncomfortable.

You open your mouth to speak—

Whatever small amount of courage you’d managed to work up evaporates from you completely. 

“Nothing,” you say, nudging the bag with your foot until it’s under your seat, “It’s, um— it’s nothing.”

Barnes stares at you some more, and then raises one incredulous eyebrow. “Okay, well, it’s definitely not nothing.”

“Yeah, or, I mean– no, it’s just— “ You grimace and shift in your chair, suddenly realizing how uncomfortable it is, flimsy and straight-backed and too hard. “I had an idea, but it was a bad one, and— just, nevermind. It’s really— it’s nothing.”

Barnes pulls a patently disbelieving face and leans back and straightens out until his legs are just a little bit past yours under the table, his heels angled against the tiled floor on either side of your calves. There’s still a lot of space between the two of you, he’s nowhere near close enough to be touching, but the awareness of it— his body almost bracketing your own, even if only a little— it lances right through the pit of your stomach, a bright shock of electricity that hums somewhere in your whole body, like it’s leached right into your blood.

Barnes is still staring at you. 

“Just spill it, come on,” he says. “I’m not so old that I can’t tell when you’re full of shit.”

You swallow, half-nervous and half— something else.

(Something worse, maybe.)

“It’s your birthday this week,” you blurt out, so quickly that the words all sort of blur together into one continuous block of sound. “I remembered from– you know. History.” 

You regret saying it before the words have even completely left your mouth, because something in his expression just– shatters.

“You didn’t��“ He sits up straight and shifts back and shuts his eyes, his brow pinching together in the middle. When he speaks again, it’s soft and small and remarkably plaintive. “You did, didn’t you? I can’t— you shouldn’t have— no. Just— no.“

Your mouth twists into this tight little frown.

“See, I knew it was a bad idea,” you say, aiming at sounding dismissive in some light-hearted and trivial way, and unsure how close you get to achieving that. “Don’t worry, I can just— I’ll return it. I should have asked, but I—well, I saw this thing online, and I thought of you, and I didn’t, you know, actually think, and—“

You’re trying, pretty hard, to not sound like you’re a lot of things—self-conscious, embarrassed, a little disappointed— but it’s clear you do a fucking terrible job at hiding all of that, because his eyes snap open and that furrow in his brow worries deeper and before you can even finish he’s leaned forwards again and cut you off completely.

“No, hey, it’s— it’s fine, you can still— if you want—” he starts, stumbling over the words, like he’s saying it faster than he can even think, “If you really want to, then I’ll— it’s okay.”

You’re not looking at him anymore, looking at the table instead, the places where the laminate is cracked and peeling along the edge closest to you. Whatever you feel right now is cold and slimy and awkward and bad, but you figure this is the time to suck it up and get the fuck over it. No gifts. That’s—fine. It’s a totally reasonable boundary, and you should have known better; you should have asked, you should have thought of it earlier so that you would have even been able to ask, but you didn’t. And it’s fine.

When you finally do look back at him, he’s doing that thing again, his eyes gone all wide and glossy and sad. “Just forget about it,” you reply, a lot more firmly than before, “Seriously, it’s fine, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s okay, really,” he interjects, with a strange urgency. “Really, all right? It’s– I— I just didn’t want you to feel like— like you have to. You’re— you already—“ 

Barnes cuts off mid-sentence, and falls silent like he’d decided whatever he was going to say wasn’t actually worth saying, after all. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and then he laughs, this short, sharp, self-deprecating sound, and his mouth twitches at the corners, just a little. It’s not like a repressed smile, not really; it’s rueful and distant and a little too sad. 

“It’s just—it’s been a really long time since anybody’s—“ he starts, trailing off, clearing his throat, like that might make his voice steadier. Less hoarse. “Since I’ve had a birthday. Guess I kinda forgot my manners. Last time I had to use ‘em was way back in 1942, so. Kind of— rusty.”

Something in your chest— it aches, like somebody’s stuck a hand in past your ribs and grabbed your heart in a fist and squeezed it. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I thought– I figured somebody would have– since you’ve been back, I didn’t know–”

“No– hey, c’mon, don’t be sorry,” he says quickly. He leans forwards a little bit more, rests his elbows on the table, arms folded over each other. “What do you have to be sorry for? It’s not– it’s not like it’s your fault.”

You manage a kind of watery approximation of a smile at that, and maybe you imagine it, the way that the tension around his eyes and his mouth eases, his expression going just a little bit softer. 

(But maybe you don’t.)

“Kinda makes me wish I’d gone all out,” you say quietly, your mouth curling up further at the corners, despite itself. “Sheet cake and everything, you know? Candles. Balloons, even.”

Barnes makes another sound, another laugh, maybe, except not really. More like the kind of thing somebody does as a placeholder, instead of something else. Maybe something worse. “I definitely don’t deserve all that,” he says, with this kind of lightness that feels— feigned. Performative.

And all of this, you think, with this soft sad sinking feeling; all of it suddenly starts to make a lot more sense.

“It doesn’t work that way,” you tell him, before you can think better of it. You’re looking down at your hands, and your voice comes out small, but steady. Certain. “People don’t— deserve anything from anyone, not really. I just— I wanted to do something nice for you.”

You still don’t look up. Whatever might be in his expression right now— you think if you looked at him, if you saw it, you might lose your nerve again. “If— if that’s okay, I mean,” you add, after a while, painfully aware of his silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “That’s— it’s okay.”

When you do finally glance up at him, his eyes are wavering and glassy and strangely delicate, like a sheen of ice frozen over window panes. The way he’s looking at you; he’s never looked at you like that before. You don’t think anybody’s ever looked at you like that before, soft and fond and fragile and like you might be able to break him wide open, if you tried. If you wanted to. 

(And maybe you do want that. Just to get inside, just to see, you think, in some part of your brain buried so deep you can almost pretend you don’t think it at all. You’d do it gently, put him back together after, piece by vulnerable piece, and maybe you want to do that, too.)

You reach for the bag under the table and take out the box inside, wrapped up neat in brightly-colored paper, the cheesy kind they sell at the dollar store, with a pattern of multicolored balloons and ribbons and HAPPY BIRTHDAYs written in this big, overdramatic font plastered all over it. 

“Here,” you say, kind of timidly, sliding it across the table. 

Barnes stares at it for a long time. He blinks, and clears his throat, and then finally reaches for the package, pulling it closer to the edge. 

 “You put a bow on it,” he observes, nonplussed, pressing down on the glinting silver loops of folded plastic with his index finger until they flatten against the box.

The corners of your mouth twitch up, just a little. “I did,” you reply, watching as he peels the square of adhesive-lined cardboard off from where it’s affixed to the wrapping paper, mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like what the fuck as he examines it; it occurs to you that they’d probably actually tied bows by hand, way back in the 40s, and that this might be his first time encountering one of the shitty little mass-produced stick-on ones that you can get at the dollar store.

It’s kind of funny. And then it’s also kind of sad. 

He sets it on the table and spins the package until he finds the edge with the tape and pulls that free, working it open that careful way that you’ve seen old people do, when they’re trying not to tear the paper, and that, too, is absurd and endearing and has you pressing down on the beginnings of a soft smile. “Just rip it, I don’t care, it’s going in the garbage anyways.”

“Oh, yeah,” Barnes mumbles, and then tears right through it. “Old habit.”

With the wrapping paper gone, there’s just the actual box the knife came in, made of dark, varnished wood, spartan and simple. It props up, with this mechanism on the inside, doubles as a display case; you’d fooled around with it when it had arrived in the mail.

He flips open the lid and his breath catches.

You shift, nervously, in your seat, careful to not lean closer or brush his calves with your shoes, just trying to fidget enough to dispel whatever apprehensive wave of tension has washed over you at the face he’s making, the worry lines folding deeper and his brow furrowing in again. 

He pulls the folded knife free of the case with his fingers, so carefully, like he thinks he might break it just by touching it at all, and turns it over in his palm.

“It has— those are my initials,” he says, blankly. 

You clear your throat and duck your head and look at the table again. “Yeah, um— the guy I bought it from, he does custom engravings, too, and it was free, so.”

Barnes pulls down on the release mechanism with his index finger and the knife flicks open with a soft click. He hasn’t looked at you, and you’re not sure if that’s good or bad. 

“It’s, like. Damascus steel?” you continue, painfully awkward, painfully aware of how awkward you’re being and somehow also unable to do anything to stop yourself, “It’s this weird thing where they take two steel alloys and they fold them together a whole bunch of times, and that’s how they make it, that’s why it— looks like that.”

He makes this sound, holding it in his left hand so he can touch the flat of the blade with the tips of his fingers, running them across like he thinks he might be able to feel ridges, or something, evidence that the two contrasting shades of metal are actually distinct and separate parts, but there’s nothing. It’s smooth. You’d done the same thing yourself, just to see; you can’t feel the individual alloys at all, can’t even tell where one ends and another begins anymore. It’s all just one piece, complete and inseparable. Whole. 

“How much did this cost?” he says, his voice wavering.

You pick at the spot on your side of the table where the laminate is peeling, working a fingernail under the edge and pulling it up more. “Only two dollars,” you say, keeping your own voice as light as you can make it, hoping with a mounting sense of unease that you haven’t upset him. That it wasn’t as terrible of an idea as your brain is telling you it was. “In— you know. 1940s money.”

Barnes makes some sound that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, but it’s thick and rough and hoarse and doesn’t really sound anything like one. “You said when you saw this,” he begins, turning it over again in his palm, still just staring at it. “You thought of– me?”

“Yeah,” you reply, eyes still cast down. “I— yeah, I thought you might— like it.”

(That’s not a lie. Not really. It’s just not the whole truth, either.)

“Oh.” Barnes closes his eyes for a second. He swallows thickly, gives one jerky and abrupt nod before he opens them again and says, his voice shaking more than you’ve ever heard, “I do, I— I really—this is— thank you.” 

And just like that— all of your worry is gone, melted away like frost in the sunlight, and you’re smiling at him before you can even think to stop it, not sure if you would have been able to, anyways.

 “Good,” you say, “I’m really glad,” like maybe if you say it with enough insistence he might actually believe that you mean it; that it’s not about pity or obligation or any of that. You’d really just wanted this, nothing else. To do something nice for him. 

He gives you another one of those looks again, soft and fond and impossibly grateful.

You hesitate, just for a second, before you add, “Happy birthday, Barnes.”

Almost as soon as you say it, his eyes break from yours so abruptly that it takes you by surprise, feels like it physically jolts and forcibly recalibrates your whole nervous system. 

There’s a long, strange, fraught pause. 

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are, both of you leaned in with your elbows on this tiny little coffee table that’s a grand total of two feet across, and something inside of you feels like it ignites at the realization. His legs are stretched out underneath it again, longer than yours, larger, too, so you can fit easily in whatever space is left there, even with them straightened and taking up way more than half of it, and you’re aware of that, too, whatever had come alive in your belly burning a little brighter in response. 

In the soft orange light from the overhead fixture, as close as you’ve ever been to him, you can see flecks of silver glinting in the stubble along the sharp edge of his jaw; the angular planes of his face and the blunt curves of his cheekbones and worry lines setting in on his forehead. It’s not his birthday yet, it’s still two days away, and you find yourself wondering how old he’ll be. 

Thirty-seven, you think, completely arbitrarily; though you’re not going to tell him that. 

“Would you do something for me,” he blurts out; it’s a question, but it’s not really phrased like one, comes out pitched low and flat and monotone. His eyes are closed and his expression tense again, like he’s forcing himself to say it.

 “Yeah,” you reply, automatic, unthinking, “Yeah, whatever you need, what’s up?”

What he does in response to that could technically be called a smile, based just on description alone, but in reality looks nothing like one at all; the upturn of his mouth too sharp and his eyes too cold and the sum of it deeply self-deprecating. More like a grimace, you think. 

The silence stretches. Charged. Expectant. He’s staring at you again, and you’re thinking more stupid things about the color of his eyes, his irises that bright and blinding shade of blue, and you’re not paying attention as much as you should be. 

“Can you—” he clears his throat. Looks away. “I want you to call me Bucky.”

You blink at him for a moment, uncomprehending. And then your stomach does this weird and physiologically impossible fluttering jittery thing and your pulse speeds up or slows down or maybe misses a beat entirely. Maybe misses several. 

“Oh, I– okay,” is all you say, momentarily too stunned to manage much more than that. Suddenly your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy and uncooperative, like you’ve just somehow managed to forget how to move it with the dexterity required to actually form syllables and say them aloud, and it takes way too long to snap the fuck out of it and stammer through all of three words in a voice that sounds way too soft and way too shy to actually belong to you, “Happy birthday, Bucky.”

Something flickers in his eyes, too fast for you to examine in detail, and then—

He smiles. Really smiles, small and soft and entirely too fleeting, the kind that reaches his eyes and transforms his whole face and softens his expression into something open and honest and so fundamentally different than the way you’re used to seeing him that it almost feels wrong to be seeing it at all. Like you’ve been sucker-punched, or something. Like you’re staring, wide-eyed, into the sun. 

For a second, he looks— happy. But just like with anything else you’ve ever seen from him, it’s only a second, and then it’s gone.

~

“Listen, ah, next week,” Barnes— Bucky— says, stopping at your apartment building; he’s not looking at you, looking at the ground, head ducked down, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “How about— maybe I could bring something. Y’know, for— for a change.”

You’re standing on the first step of the staircase up to the lobby door; you think it must put you almost at head-height, compared to him, but it’s hard to tell. He’ll let you sit across from him, at that one little table, but he always stands so far away. 

“Yeah,” you say, looking back at him; you’re maybe still kind of running on the high of before, the thought that you might have done something that made him happy, even if just for a second, and you blame that and the fact that it’s nearly midnight for why even something as small as that has you smiling, bright and wide and embarrassingly genuine. “Yeah, that’d be– I’d like that.” 

“And don’t forget to lock your—“

“I know, I know,” you cut him off, fighting back the mostly good-natured urge to roll your eyes. “I will.”

He looks uncomfortable, maybe uneasy, but it’s brief and fleeting and less important than the number of other things you’re still thinking about.

 You stand there for a long, lingering moment, just looking at him. 

He stares right back at you, expression unreadable. 

Finally, he clears his throat. Looks away. 

When he says goodnight, he says your name, too, and a frisson of— something, it shivers right down the length of your spine at the sound of it.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say back, a part of you kind of hoping that you’ll get another smile from him, even just a split second of one.

A  flicker of something soft and satisfied flashes across his face, but it doesn’t last, and he doesn’t smile again.

~

It’s all because of that, you’ll think later, having woken up for no reason at some ridiculous hour Saturday night and found yourself unable to fall back asleep, staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dark. 

You’d been thinking about him, because it’s past midnight, technically Sunday. Technically his birthday. And you keep thinking about that smile, all of a split second of one; some stupid part of you had been strangely captivated by it, the way that you’d almost been able to see that twenty-eight-year-old guy from Brooklyn way back when, the ghost of him still in his mannerisms, sometimes, but never as clearly visible as it had been right then. Maybe it was the contrast, the superimposition of that younger, happier, safer self over the face of somebody who wasn’t really any of those things anymore— but you’d been reminded, painfully, of a fact that you’d been doing a great job at ignoring, until now.

The fact that he’s— handsome. That you had, at one point, found him attractive. The crush was brief and surface-level and fleeting, the dead Sergeant James Barnes functioning as a suitably unobtainable receptacle for what was, at the time, your tenuous grasp on the concept of attraction in general. You had realized pretty quickly as you’d gotten older that your type, the kind of people you’re actually interested in, the kind you would actively pursue in real life, are not anything like he was; sweet and charming and boyish and—

And young, a particularly hedonistic voice in your head supplies unhelpfully.

But Barnes— Bucky, your brain corrects, which is also unhelpful and has your stomach doing another one of those weird little flips— he’s not any of those things, anymore. He’s older than he’d been then, by an amount that is not-insignificant, and he’s thorny and standoffish and intense and even a little bit scary, sometimes. That childhood crush had been on a guy who was essentially fictional, a memorialized facsimile of a real person, and that had felt safe, idealized and superficial and well beyond your reach. Whatever your little relationship with Bucky is now— whatever it’s turning into— it’s not like that at all. Sergeant Barnes was some long-dead historical relic, but Bucky is alive, he’s a real human being, someone that you know.

It’s strange to think about, and your mind drifts there, next; the fact that you actually know what he looks like, not just in frozen split-seconds from photographs, but in person, up close. You’ve seen him with a five o'clock shadow and with scruffy days-old stubble and you know that he sometimes nicks himself shaving; you know what he looks like when he’s well-rested and when he’s dead tired with bruise-dark bags under his eyes, you’ve seen him with hair all messed up by the wind and chapped lips when there’d been that cold spell back in February and the air had been freezing and bone-dry for weeks. You know that he takes up way too much space when he’s relaxed, slouches in his chair and stretches his legs out as far as they’ll go, and you know that he’s taller than you, larger, too, that his chest is broad and his shoulders are broader and sometimes when he sits leaned forward his leather jacket bunches up around the tops of his biceps like the sleeves are just shy of being a little bit too small, and you know that his right hand— the only one you’ve ever seen without the gloves on— is tanned and calloused and a lot fucking bigger than yours, that it looks like it might be just a little bit rough, if he were to touch you—

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you mumble, out loud, feeling your face burn with some awful and deeply embarrassing warmth; you try to just roll over onto your side and smush your face into your pillow and will yourself back to sleep, to not fucking think— whatever the fuck you were even thinking. But it’s two in the morning, that horrible hour when nothing seems real and your impulse control is languishing somewhere hopelessly out of reach, and you’re barely half-awake and verging on delirious and as much as you try to think of anything else— literally, literally anything else— the thoughts just seem to sharpen, defiant. Like some part of your brain that you can’t access or control is all the more interested in bringing these things to mind, now that you’re working so hard to ignore them.

Like the fact that you know he runs hot; if he were to touch you his hand would be rough and it would be warm and it would be able to cover such a large span of your body, effortlessly, without even trying. And the other one— you know that it’s metal, even though you’ve never seen it, and that horrible part of your brain suggests that that one might be cool and smooth and if he were to touch you it might make goosebumps spill down the backs of your arms from the chill, from the contrast; he could span your whole ribcage with both of them, your brain supplies traitorously. Could probably close his palm right around the bones of your wrist, maybe even both at once, could cover the whole soft sensitive stretch of the insides of your thighs, could fit one, easily, around your throat—

You make another sound, a wavering and ashamed and deeply self-reproachful one, but it’s really fucking late and you’re really fucking tired and your brain is doing that stupid thing where it decides to hyperfixate on something specifically because you don’t want to think about it, and you rationalize, with a dull pang of guilt, that you might as well just— get it over with. Give up and give in and then get some fucking sleep and be entirely back to normal tomorrow and never have to think about or address any of it ever again.

You shift again, onto your back, and you squirm your way deeper under the coverlet until it’s up around your shoulders and shove your underwear down with the heel of your palm and you ignore the visceral stab of something like shame if shame had fucking teeth that burns in your belly at just how wet you already are, your fingers slipping and sliding and sticky and rubbing light little circles over your clit.

You stop trying to fight that part of your brain that’s insisting on thinking about it. 

His reflexes, they’re so much faster than your own, so inhumanly fast that it sometimes feels supernatural; the things he could do to you, you think, helplessly, how strong he is, how he could probably move your whole body like you weigh nothing at all, how he could keep you from moving, and it wouldn’t even be hard. You think about the shadow of perpetual stubble on his cheeks and jaw and how it might feel, coarse and prickly and rasping against the corners of your mouth or the spot where your neck meets the slope of your shoulder or the sensitive insides of your thighs, and then you think about the sound he sometimes makes, the sharp little exhale of breath, an almost-laugh, imagining it in a wildly different context–

Some kind of awful traitorous little whine of a noise almost escapes, the pressure building behind your voice box, but you crush it into silence instead, pressing the flat of your forearm across your mouth, the muscles in your thighs already starting to twitch and tighten and that pressure in your belly rising way too fucking fast. 

You think about his face twisting up and going tense and his eyes screwed shut so tight the little muscles around them tremble with the effort, and you think about the all of a handful of times you’ve ever heard his voice shake. Heard it crack. You think of his fingers winding in your hair and his hand tightening into a fist and how the muscles and tendons there would bunch and flex and the skin stretched across his knuckles would turn pale and taut and bloodless, his expression going finally, blissfully fucking slack, images your brain conjures with a terrifying degree of accuracy because you’ve seen all of this from him already. You know what it looks like, in person, up close, you know what he looks like and what he sounds like and you even know the smell of what must be his aftershave or maybe his cologne, warm and woodsy and a little bit sweet, and it’s so easy to take those memories and separate the details out and rearrange them into something else, a horribly vivid fantasy.

You think about standing on the first step of your apartment complex and looking at him and how he’d said your name.

It takes you by surprise, when you come, how easily you do, quick and sweet and warm and shamefully satisfying, a shockwave of heat that ripples out through all of your limbs and shivers down your spine and pulses in the fibers of your muscles, constricting your breathing and forcing your heels to dig divots into the mattress and your thighs to close up around your hand and a single muffled shuddering sound to finally break the silence you’d imposed on your vocal cords and escape from your open mouth.

Outside your window, the fire escape creaks, like maybe there’d been a sharp gust of wind through the alley where the apartment complex dumpsters are lined. That’s the first thing that registers, as your body relaxes and your breathing steadies and slows and your brain reorients around things that are— real. The sound of swaying metal. Your darkened bedroom. The faint sheen of sweat you can feel starting in the dips of your collarbones. The haze of perpetual city light leaking in from outside, a dim, slanted rectangle of it cutting across the floor under the window, your curtains not quite drawn all the way shut. Exhaustion hits like a fucking freight train; your eyelids are heavy and your pulse is slowing and your limbs feel warm and weighed down like molten lead and your brain is, thankfully, finally, silent. 

You hear it again, right before you drift off; the creaking outside. And maybe there’s a shadow, one that cuts across that block of gray-blue light on the floor, as quick and as sure as a knife— but maybe there isn’t. Maybe you’re already asleep. Already dreaming. 

~

This time, you’re down on the street again, walking from the other direction. Not like you’re coming home from work, but maybe the grocery store or a friend’s or the park that overlooks the East River, or something. From this way, you can see your bedroom window; you can see the fire escape, too, a spindly, narrow set of iron staircases affixed to the side, painted black by the landlord a few months back to disguise how it’s all rusted to shit. It’s wrong, though, the whole thing is twisted and mangled like a broken spine— like somebody had torn it straight off the building in places, grabbed some part and pulled until the railing bent and the stairs warped and the brackets ripped right out from where they’d been cemented into the wall. 

When you wake up the next morning, it’s deceptively easy to make yourself believe you had just gone to bed at midnight and stayed asleep straight through until your alarm had gone off. 

That all of it had just been part of that strange, surreal dream. 

~

Passionfruit is another South American native, about the size of a kiwi, maybe a little smaller; the rind on the outside is this mottled kind of purple color, and the edible insides are soft and jelly-like and weird-looking. 

“I had to go all the way to Whole Foods on Houston just to find something new,” Bucky’s telling you– complaining, from the sound of it, but from his face and the curve of his mouth you can tell he doesn’t really mind– dragging a plastic spoon around the edge of the peel. He’d brought two, split the first one in half with the knife you’d bought him for his birthday, and you’d grinned like an idiot, seeing it. “Took a train and everything. Wasted a whole hour.”

“Yeah, well, ” He’s not wearing the glove, not on his right; he usually doesn’t, anymore. You’re trying not to look at his hands, trying to make eye contact like you normally do, trying to even remember how much eye contact you normally make, trying to stop thinking about the tiny little two-foot table or his legs on either side of your own underneath it or the way that he’s staring at you. “There’s only so many fruits out there.”

You take a spoonful of passionfruit out of your half, focus on that. It’s less sweet than it looks; more tart, not exactly citrusy, but close. He’s still watching you, which isn’t unusual, but it’s making you feel weird, jittery and off-balance and unseasonably warm for mid-March.

“I’m gonna have to come up with a whole new gimmick pretty soon,” you say, just to fill the quiet. Just teasing. “Or else you’re gonna get bored of me.”

Bucky makes this flat and disbelieving sound in response, a scoff, dry and short and incredulous, like it’s really that bizarre, for you to even suggest it. Even as a joke. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, sarcasm evident, and then something else about the store, something he’d seen maybe for next week. But you’re not paying attention, just watching him, that warm thing in your belly again, the one that feels like some terrible and badly-kept secret. 

The one that just keeps getting harder to ignore.

~

There really aren’t that many things left; you hadn’t been kidding about that. 

Persimmons, most of which are imported from Japan. One of the men in my unit was Japanese, Bucky says, picking out the blood-red seeds with the point of his knife, From San Francisco, Jim Morita. He was a funny guy. Lychee, native to China, the first thing that he dislikes, people eat these things? tastes like— fancy soap,  and then figs, something else he’d had back in the ‘40s, when they’d be in season down in California. Those you eat only after carefully inspecting the inside, telling him, you know wasps lay eggs in these things, right? And, no, he did not know that, and I didn’t really want to, either, but thanks, dunno if I’ll ever be able to eat ‘em again, that’s– gross.

“When I was maybe about nineteen,” he says after that, some rainy day in mid-April, the sky still not quite black even after eight, the pavement slick and dark and reflecting back shards of white and yellow from the streetlights turning on above it. “There was this wasp’s nest outside my bedroom window. Steve’d just moved in when his mom died, and he’s– well, he was– real allergic to bee stings, right?”

He pauses, finishes his coffee. The way the light is, right now, the blue twilight from outside and the artificially bright gold from the coffee shop— he looks—

You swallow, glance away.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, setting the cup down, “Anyway, I was all worried he’d get stung by these things so bad he might really die, or somethin’, so I made him stay inside and went out with a whole three layers of clothes on, a slingshot, and a trash can. Still got stung seventeen times. Supposed to go on a date that weekend– she bailed on me, ‘cause my face was so swollen up.”

You lose the fight to not laugh somewhere long before he finishes; he gets as close to smiling as you’ve seen since his birthday, watching you fold into yourself, giggling. 

“Oh, yeah?” he says, “What’s so funny, huh?”

You are, you want to tell him, you’re funny and I like you a lot and you’re probably my favorite part of this stupid fucking job.

“Nothing,” you say, ducking your head with a grin, “Nothing, just– you know people who are allergic to bee stings aren’t usually allergic to wasps, right?”

He blinks at you, and then makes some exasperated noise and leans back in his chair and throws up his hands, like he’s annoyed, except for the corners of his mouth twitching higher. “Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know that? It was the thirties, doll, not like there was the internet.”

And there it is again, like an echo, like maybe it’s really 1941 again and he hasn’t gone off to war yet and he’s just a few years older than you, some twenty-seven-year-old playboy from back before the Playboy magazine had even been founded. You’re strangely endeared by it, and then even more by the fact that he’s not that at all, that it’d come from the mouth of someone older and stranger, who’d been through hell and back in some haphazard approximation of a decade spread out over almost a whole century and come out of it still the same, in a lot of ways, and different, in a lot of them, too.

He’s so stunned by what he’s said it doesn’t even matter that his reflexes are faster than yours multiple times over; he’s still just staring at you, struck dumb and unspeaking and frozen like a deer in headlights, by the time your brain has processed what’d happened. 

“I like hearing you talk about it,” you say, smiling softly,  “Sometimes you get so caught up it’s like�� watching somebody travel in time.”

Bucky seems to relax at the realization that you’re not going to be weird about it. You won’t– you’re not even going to think about it in any amount of detail. Right now you are going to put it in a little box inside your head where you put all of the things about him that you don’t think about anywhere except the privacy of your room, in your own bed, staring up at the ceiling fan blades spinning listless and slow in the dark of the evening or the gray light of pre-dawn. 

“That’s really just a nice way of saying you sound like a fucking geriatric,” you add, sidestepping all of those thoughts with a practiced ease and hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. “I bet the old ladies would love you down at the bingo hall.”

He shoots you this rueful look, “Yeah,” he says, self-deprecating, “Yeah, they probably would.”

~

It’s not that you forget, not really, the two sides to the coin, just that you stop thinking so much about the other one. You just get used to the weird things, and they all kind of fade into the background– the staring and the subconscious fidgeting with the knife and the way that Bucky moves, sometimes, so fast and so precise that it’s unsettling. 

The warning. Lock your door. Windows, too.

He always says it. It starts to feel normal. He’s just worried about you, your safety. Hypervigilance, again. He’s a little bit paranoid, and you don’t blame him for that— how could you. It’s not his fault.

And you do remember to lock your door. You always do, you always had, even before he’d started reminding you. You have a routine, to wind down after a closing shift and go straight to bed; you get home and lock your door and hang up your keys, take a shower and brush your teeth and gor right to bed.

By the time you get to your bedroom, you’ve always forgotten about it completely— that he’d said to lock your window, too.

It’s not like he says it the exact same way every time. Sometimes he says remember to lock everything, other times don’t forget to lock up, sometimes he says lock your door, windows, too, always a little different. 

Which is why you almost don’t notice, when what he says one night is;

“Really do lock them, this time. Your windows.”

Something flashes in his expression as soon as he’s said it. A flicker of realization, sharp and volatile and impossibly fast, and then his whole face does something you’ve never seen before– it hardens, and it shuts off, and it goes cold.

Your heartbeat pitches up in your chest until it feels like it’s beating in the hollow of your throat, fluttering there like bird’s wings, and your breath catches. It’s only the smallest amount, so little that you can barely hear it, but you know— somehow— that he can. That he notices. That he can tell. Even though his expression stays utterly empty, frozen still and serene like the unbroken surface of a deep, depthless lake— you just know. It’s something in the pit of your stomach, or the base of your spine, or maybe neither of those places, maybe starting in your hindbrain, that base and unthinking instinct that can sense the presence of a threat even before the rational parts of your consciousness have registered it. Whatever it is, it’s flooding your body with adrenaline, like somebody had pulled a fire alarm in a multi-story building, the warning siren wailing and the emergency lights flashing and the inhabitants all scattering towards the exit signs.

 Except, in this analogy, you’re not the people, you think. You’re more like the building; stationary, unable to run. 

“Okay,” you say, slow and small and strangely calm, “You always say that. Why?”

A muscle in his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, silent, like a statue, his eyes flat and cold and devoid of anything at all.

You think of a lot of things you haven’t in a while. The knife and the blood and the Winter Soldier.

Inside of you, something twists— something that, you think, might be fear.

(Something that isn’t.)

Your mind is racing. Your thoughts— they’re scattered and fragmentary and moving so fast you can’t hold onto them, connected by some subconscious thread of understanding that you can’t see. 

What you can see, though, is how Bucky’s still looking at you, his eyes vacant and empty and his expression so lifeless he looks catatonic; it’s not like he’s forced himself into some impassive and impenetrable detachment as much as it looks like he’s torn out everything inside and crushed it into nothing, ground it into the dirt, anything he might think or feel. Left this emptied-out imitation of himself, like a shell. Like a skeleton. Like that very first time, the husk of the pomegranate, the wilted, waxy skin, with all of the red stripped clean—and it startles you, how vehemently some part of you reacts to it. Thinks, a little desperately; no. Please don’t do that. Please come back. 

“Bucky,” you say, on purpose, after he’s been silent for a long time, careful to keep your voice soft; he flinches, a brief, slight thing that’s almost imperceptible, a fissure splitting across whatever facade he’s put on. Something inside of you clings to it, evidence that he’s still even there at all, that he hasn’t shut himself off from you completely. 

He makes this low sound, and he finally moves, just a little, shifts his weight and drags his palm down the lower half of his face. 

“I just want to know that you’re–  safe,” he manages, his voice carefully flat, not really admitting to anything, not explicitly, but this weightless trembling shock of adrenaline pierces right through your belly, anyways.“That’s– that’s all.”

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, your chest, too, like your muscles have all constricted, like your lungs can’t expand fully. You’re suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing, aware that something must be off about it, that it’s coming too fast or too shallow or just somehow wrong, because it feels like you’re not getting enough air. And maybe that explains it, the way that you feel right now, dizzy and breathless and strangely numb, like your brain is just– shut off. Or, no, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s the opposite, maybe it’s working so fast you can’t make sense of any of it, all of your thoughts blurring out into this long indecipherable stretch of white noise.  

Maybe, you think, distantly, maybe you’re just– overreacting. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe you’re overworked and overtired and all of this is just a very long, very strange list of uncanny coincidences.

(But also— maybe not.)

“But I’m not, like–” your voice cracks, and you have to clear your throat, force yourself to focus on steadying it when you continue, “You don’t think I’m– in danger, or anything, right?

Bucky opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. 

“No,” he says, his voice something worse than hoarse, like it’d been ripped to shreds, like you’d carved the word right out of his mouth.

He looks like he might say something else, but you cut him off before he can. The way that he seems right now– you’re afraid that if he speaks again it might be something terribly final. I shouldn’t, he’d said, once, and meant it like he should go, and not come back. Meant it like goodbye.

“Okay,” you blurt out, before you can even think; because, you realize, you don’t want that, you do not want that at all, and that matters to you much more than whatever may or may not be happening right now. You don’t want him to leave and you don’t want things to change and you want everything to stay exactly the same as it’s been, and you would do anything– rationalize anything– to make sure of it, to have the assurance that he’s not going to just disappear, that you wouldn’t just wake up tomorrow to a world in which you'd never see him again. You’d do it in a heartbeat. 

(You’ve done it already. Ignored things that, you think, maybe you shouldn’t have. Lots of them, that perpetual voice in the back of your head supplies– so, really, even if you are right, even if you’re not being paranoid, what’s one more?)

“Then it’s fine,” you tell him, forcing your voice to be as steady as you can make it. “It’s— I’ll lock it, I will, as soon as I get inside, and– and everything will be fine, okay? You won’t have to worry anymore.”

You glance down at your feet, the pavement, huscuffing your shoe against the sidewalk, toeing at a crushed, dirt-caked bottlecap wedged into a crack in the asphalt, just to give yourself an outlet for your nerves. Waiting for him to say— anything. 

He doesn’t say a word.

“I gotta go to bed, it’s pretty late,” you say, after a while. You look back up at him. You wonder if he’d even taken his eyes off you at all. “I’ll—I’ll see you next week, though?”

His face twists up, just for a second, his brow raising, furrowing in, his eyes gone wide and round and stricken, before he seems to notice the shift in his expression and forces it to smoothen out again. “If— if you still do,” he says, “Then— I’ll— yeah.”

He starts saying something else, but you say, “I do,” before he’s even got the first syllable out. 

He stares at you for a long moment before he responds, and it takes everything you have to hold his gaze, not to blink or flinch or look away. 

Maybe you should, you think. 

Maybe you should have been doing that the whole time. 

~

At night, you replay everything, alone in your bedroom. In the absence of that nervous adrenaline you’d felt down on the street, it all kind of seems silly. Bucky knows you; he knows that you’re a terminal procrastinator and he knows that you’re always really tired after work and he knows that you never really took it seriously, the thing with the windows. It’s not so outlandish to think he’d just– guessed, and guessed right, and then felt bad about having anxiety, the way he, historically, feels bad about ever having any kind of visible emotion that’s considered less-than-palatable. And all of the things about his behavior that your brain had taken as evidence otherwise, it had been so subtle that you could barely be certain that there’d been anything there at all. He gives you so little to go off of, it’s like it renders your rational mind utterly useless, the scraps of information you feel like you have to fight to even get in the first place arranging themselves into absolutely nothing.

All you have, then, is your gut. Your instinct.

You glance over at the window. The curtain is open, and you can see the moon between the silhouettes of the buildings across the street, hanging pearlescent and full against the backdrop of the night, like the globe of an eye. Milky and opaque and sightless. Blind. 

You really should lock it.

Yeah, you think, yeah, you probably should. But– just because you’d promised. Tomorrow you’ll do that, before you go to work, and then Bucky won’t have to worry anymore, and everything will be fine.

You tell yourself this, firmly, like that will make it true.

Everything will be fine.

~

In your dream, the eye of the moon in the window has a pupil, endless and blacker than the night sky, blown out so wide the iris around it is just this slender, paper-thin ring of color.

Blue.

You wake up in the middle of the night with a start, your blanket kicked down into a twisted heap at the foot of your bed, your bare legs and the stretch of your exposed stomach where your shirt had ridden up in your sleep staring back at you accusingly, every inch of your skin burning up and running hot like you’re fighting a fever. You’d fallen asleep without getting up to close the curtain, something you normally do in the spring and summer when the sun rises before you wake up; you tell yourself it’s just that you’re not in the habit yet, haven’t gotten used to needing to bother, because it’d been winter. But it’s the middle of the night and your body temperature feels like it’s skyrocketing and your pulse is so loud in your ears you can hear it, and when you try to lie to yourself it’s like your brain just won’t let you.

You’re shaking, you realize. 

You’re not even a little bit cold.

You force yourself up out of bed on unsteady feet and you move to the window and you don’t lock it, you don’t even think to, but you do, shamefully, draw the curtains closed. 

When you lay back flat in your bed you pull up your blanket, even though your skin is sticky and glinting with a faint sheen of sweat. You draw it up over your whole body, your head, too, and only when it’s covering you completely do you finally slip your fingers past the elastic of your underwear. The thoughts rush back again and you fall right into them, his name in your mouth; even if you can’t quite bring yourself to say it aloud, just holding the silent shape of it on your tongue and so close to your teeth, feels like this terrible, bloody secret—Bucky. Bucky. Bucky—

You come quickly, so quickly, well before the air starts to feel thin, but you still gasp for a breath when you throw off the blanket after, like you’d been suffocating. You force your lungs to expand out far past what feels natural, filling them until your chest starts to burn and then holding it for as long as you can.

You exhale, horribly unsteady, and draw in another, slower breath–

There’s a sound, from outside, like something scraping against brick, and your breathing— it catches, so hard you nearly choke on it.

You burrow deeper into your blanket, trembling, your whole body alight with adrenaline and your brain telling you that you’re being paranoid and something deeper telling you– or wishing, hoping, which is maybe even worse– that you’re not. That it’s–

You can’t bring yourself to think it, not even in the privacy of your own head, but you don’t even have to. Whatever brief and shallow feeling of satisfaction you’d felt– it’s already gone, like it’s evaporated, and that feverish, trembling warmth has flooded right back.

-

You think you might be afraid of Bucky Barnes. You’re pretty sure you should be.

(You know, though, deep down– you know you’re not.)

#bucky barnes x reader #fic; drops of blood #please tell me why this is going to finish at like 4 chapters/45k #HOWWWW! #it does not feel that long when I'm writing it

[my-writings-and-musings]

Earthspark Bumblebee x Medic!Reader

It's time for more soft Bumblebee x Reader content because the world always needs more. This one has Medic!Reader patching Bee up after the events of episode 18, so if you haven't seen that far ahead then spoilers!!

You'd never seen him remain in power down for so long, but considering the shape Bumblebee had been in when you first saw him, you didn't begrudge the Scout a well deserved rest. Even if it had come at the expense of your own…

Unable to sleep for many reasons, you checked your phone for the time, and couldn't stop your tired eyes from widening as you saw it was already close to five in the evening. Considering the Maltos had called you around six or so in the morning, that meant you'd been in the Dugout for over ten hours. It was impossible to believe so much had happened since that first slightly panicky call from Dot; just her synopsis of the series of events that had led to an unconscious, injured Bumblebee in the Dugout had taken the entirety of the half hour drive from your home to theirs. You'd pushed the terrifying details of underground bot fights to the side in favor of focusing on your patient, who only had you until Ratchet could return from his current mission across the globe and find a way to meet him somewhere clandestine for more secret repairs.

Though you were far from confident working on your own, you'd patched up the worst of the Scout's injuries to the very best of your abilities, and were at least certain it would cause him no further pain. Unfortunately you didn't have the tools to repair his armor completely, and GHOST would have had questions if you dropped by on your day off to grab the necessary supplies. Technically that meant you'd done everything you could for Bumblebee at the moment, but you still couldn't bring yourself to leave. A subtle twitch along his frame from what you assumed was a dream made you smile, affection and protective instinct rising up inside you.

In your defense, you hadn't seen Bee much since the events at the Racetrack. Between your job patching up the bots and the need to keep GHOST in the dark, you'd had little time to speak over covert channels and none to arrange a meeting of any kind. All you'd really been able to confirm was that he was alive, and that Optimus had a distant optic on him. This chance to sit with him on his berth and ensure he got the care he required was something you needed more than you cared to admit.

Not especially concerned about your own sleepiness, you pushed down a yawn and walked to the head of the berth where the Malto kids had lovingly piled a mountain of pillows beneath their beloved teacher's helm. You couldn't help but smile again at the utterly adorable sight and everything that had led up to it. Goodness, the kids had been so worried for his sake, asking repeatedly if there was anything they could do to help. It had taken a solid five minutes of assurances before they'd finally left you to your work, and that was only after you'd allowed them to ensure he was tucked in and comfortable. Looking over the mass mosaic of human sized blankets they'd stacked over the scout warmed your heart. 

A soft murmur in his sleep and a resulting twitch of his arm prompted you to check your work for the umpteenth time, lest Bumblebee wake to any pain or discomfort that you might have missed previously, and you kneeled by his side without a word for a better look. Using as little pressure as possible, you brushed your fingertips over the warped metal with a small cringe of sympathy as you traced the outline left by the massive tooth that had cracked right through his armor. It wasn't the only ugly injury he'd endured since your last meeting. You had noticed countless others at various stages of healing, telling you the Scout had been living a rough life since his recent fateful encounter with GHOST. The sympathy you felt was matched only by boundless hatred for your backwards employer.

Hearing a small hitch in his peaceful snores, you withdrew your hands in fear you'd caused unwanted pain, but a shift of his helm and a twitch of his doorwings signaled the mech was waking up regardless. Before you could move back to a more respectable distance, Bumblebee opened his optics with a bit of a start.

"Who's there?" he slurred in a rush, accustomed to waking up on alert but still far too bleary to be intimidating. You merely waved and remained where you were, giving his optics a moment to adjust to the dim lighting before they settled on you and lit up in recognition. 

"Hey, sleepyhead." you greeted gently, trying so hard to keep the overwhelming emotions out of your voice. As happy as you'd been to see him at all, being in his presence again for the first time in weeks had your heart absolutely aching. Goodness, it was impossible to put into words just how deeply you'd missed him. 

"Y/N?" he said with more clarity, the shock of seeing you bringing more of his processor online. Catching himself, he cleared his vents and backtracked into the far more formal register you two used when others might overhear, rolling onto his side and lifting his upper body to face you at a more respectable distance. "Sorry, I mean, uh, Doctor Y/N." 

You held up your hands to encourage him to relax, chuckling softly at the little song and dance the two of you maintained to keep your relationship secret. "You can drop that, it's just us."

Bumblebee sighed in a small measure of relief, doorwings relaxing on his back as he looked past you to the dim room beyond. "Where-?" he cut off as soon as his sharp optics traced the details of his private room, which had been left untouched after his sudden departure. A flurry of emotions passed over his face, confusion chief among them, and he furrowed his brows in concentration as he searched his still halfway offline processor for answers. Questions started spilling forth when he turned back to you. "How did I get back to the Dugout? Isn't GHOST keeping this place under wraps? What about the-?"

Talking through his thoughts allowed enough memories to resurface for Bee to connect the pieces, and before you could offer any kind of explanation or assurance his face lit up with alarm and he sat upright with enough force to send multiple blankets and pillows flying across the room.

"The kids!" he cried out in a near panic, looking ready to throw himself off the berth and charge out to face any potential threat to his family. "Are they okay? The last thing I remember is Mandroid-"

Medical training to keep a patient calm kicked into gear. You stood upright and held up your hands to get his attention as quickly as you could, trying not to slip on the tangled nest of blankets in your hurry.

"They're all grounded, but they're fine!" you explained as soon as his optics were on you, quieting your voice when the news allowed him to sigh and sit back in open relief. Considering how his night had gone, you didn't blame him for the panic. Between his injuries, Mandroid returning, the danger to the kids… It seemed best to give him a very simplified summary of what had happened after he'd passed out.

"They had to tell Dot and Alex about you so they could call me, but you only needed a patch job and a few infusions." you explained, leaving out the whirlwind of emotions you'd pushed through while providing his care. Seeing the bot you adored after weeks apart, only to have him presented unconscious and dangerously low on energon with fresh injuries to boot, had been a little much for your exhausted brain to endure at the crack of dawn. It hadn't helped that you'd been unable to get any sleep since thanks to your nagging concern, and you had to smother a yawn just to finish talking. "Thankfully I'm off duty for today, so I've been able to keep an eye on you."

Bumblebee went quiet for a moment to process, optics averting in thought before the information settled and he shook his helm with a somewhat heavy sigh. Returning his gaze to you, he replaced his thoughtful frown with a soft and somewhat bashful smile, emotions reserved as always.

"Sorry about your day off." he said quietly, somehow conveying his boundless gratitude for all you'd done in the form of a humble apology. 

You chuckled, but the words broke a dam within you, cracking right through your efforts to stay strong and allowing a flood of emotions to wash over your heart. The two of you had been close for a while, had been more than friends longer than anyone knew, but these past few weeks and especially the previous twelve hours had made it abundantly clear just how deeply you cared for this mech. Though you weren't quite ready for the "L" word yet, you weren't sure how you'd ever handle losing him, and even this brief scare had made it abundantly apparent the very idea terrified you. It was far too much to process on so little sleep.

Thankful for the dim lighting, you bit down on a quivering lip for as long as you could before the ache became too much to bear. Abandoning a playful quip in reply, you threw your arms about his neck for a hug, something you'd never before been brave enough to do. Bumblebee startled and made what sounded like a gasp of surprise, but made no effort to move away. The hum of his spark was tangible against your skin, and you welcomed it with a sound of pained relief. You allowed your voice to crack as you drank in every little bit of his presence. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Before embarrassment could make you doubt the gesture of affection, a sizable arm tenderly wrapped about your tiny form, his warm armor all but enshrouding you as he pulled you close. You allowed a few tears to splash against his yellow paint, sighing as the world finally seemed to make sense for the first time in weeks. It wasn't clear how long the two of you stayed like that before you rediscovered your voice. "It's really good to see you again, Bee. I missed you."

"I missed you too." he replied softly, thumb stroking comfortingly up and down your back as he took his time letting you go. When he finally did so it was only partly, his grip loosening but his hand staying on your back as he leaned away to look at you while he spoke. Regret was heavy in every syllable. "I would have tried to send more messages, or visit, but-"

"I know, Optimus has kept me in the loop." you said, interrupting only to prevent him from blaming himself further. You allowed your hands to linger on his shoulders, the divot of a somewhat fresh scar bumping against your fingers as you did so, bringing back a host of worries that had followed you for weeks. "I've been so worried they'd hurt you, or catch you, or-"

It was his turn to interrupt out of concern. "Hey, I'm fine now, right?" he said playfully, slipping a hand beneath your chin. The touch warmed your heart, especially as he guided you to look up at him with the gentlest lift of his digits. His face softened in the way it often did when he opened up, optics brightening and flicking away as the faintest hint of a pink flush bloomed across his cheeks. "Thanks to you, anyway."

The praise hit its mark, and you dropped your gaze to hide a reciprocal blush, unsure how the two of you had gotten so soft for one another. Perhaps the absence had made all your tiptoeing around seem foolish now that the stakes were clarified. If the two of you could lose each other any day, what good did it do to hide and delay?

In addition to melting your heart, his words pinged a medical protocol in the back of your mind, and your concern couldn't help but gently steer the conversation to his care. A careful hand on his guided the attention there first. "You'll still need some reconstruction, I'm not big or strong enough to handle that without my tools." you explained, being a bit more openly tender than usual as you traced your fingers over the welds you'd applied to clean up the mangled armor and mesh. Bumblebee looked ready to reply with a compliment to counteract your matter of fact assessment, but you cut him off, the strain of so much emotional turmoil on just a few hours of sleep making you quite weary. It took everything not to yawn as you spoke. "You should also keep resting up, I can tell you've been pushing it lately."

Bumblebee didn't argue, but you knew from experience he would catch that you were tired, and as soon as he opened his mouth you were proven correct. "Maybe, but I bet you could use some sleep too." 

"I'm fine. I'll sleep later." you assured with a wave of your hand, hoping to get him back in power down before it became too difficult to hide the full extent of your exhaustion. You knew it was futile now that Bee had figured you out, but you still had to try. It was simply impossible for you to just admit you had needs without being pushed.

"If I need rest, so do you." Bumblebee countered as expected, and for once his gentle concern cut right through your walls. Before you could nod and suggest grabbing some of the many pillows and blankets to construct yourself a makeshift bed in the corner, the Scout cleared his vents and made a small space beside himself, one perfectly sized for you. His voice faltered through an adorable attempt to sound smooth. "There's… plenty of room on this berth."

It was impossible to deny how perfectly you'd fit in the space between his arm and his chest, or how warm and safe you'd feel getting some much needed sleep beside his spark, but before you could reply Bumblebee finally noticed the ridiculous abundance of blankets and pillows that had been layered around him. "There's also plenty of… pillows and blankets too… why… why are there so many-?"

You laughed before you could stop yourself, a bit too loopy from a lack of sleep to explain how his students had gone to great efforts to ensure he was comfortable. "Very long story." 

"Sounds like something for after we wake up." he said with a soft chuckle, able to hazard a guess as to how he'd ended up cocooned. Nodding in agreement, you allowed yourself to yawn and give your eyes a sleepy rub, suddenly unable to resist curling up and letting your body get the rest it needed. It hardly mattered that your sleep schedule would be a mess when this was done. 

Bumblebee shifted backwards to make more room, awkwardness returning as he tried to ensure you had a comfortable spot with plenty of space. "Here, let me uh… oh!"

Too tired to feel any kind of embarrassment, you plopped down just beside his chassis, facing his front and resting your head on his shoulder. It was perhaps the closest the two of you had ever been, and nothing had ever felt more right. The hum of his spark quickened from the contact, but from the way he curled protectively around your smaller form you knew it was far from unwelcome. Still, you looked up to him for explicit confirmation before getting settled. "This okay?"

"Yeah, definitely." he replied easily, helpfully offering all the blankets and pillows you needed before getting comfortable at your side. You didn't fail to notice how he adjusted your bedding after you'd settled into the crook of his arm, his digits lingering for the shortest fraction of a second on your arms before he laid his helm back down with a whisper. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Bee." you replied just before sleep claimed you, your last sensation the warmth of his frame curled lovingly around your own. 

#transformers #maccadam #earthspark #transformers earthspark #tf earthspark #bumblebee #bumblebee x reader #transformers: earthspark #es spoilers #tf earthspark spoilers #tfe spoilers #earthspark spoilers #spoilers #human reader #self insert #medic reader #ghost agent reader #tf imagines #tfe

[come-on-shitty-boys]

// The Rules of K. Ink. inked 03. //

prev << 03 >> next

*The nature of this series may be not be appropriate for all readers. Content warnings include: vulgarity, heavy swearing, and implications of adult relations.  Due to these themes, this series may not be suitable for readers under the age of 16.  Reader discretion is advised.*

Kuroo Tetsurou knew he made a mistake when you came waltzing in with that cocky grin plastered on your face.  He was hoping that, at the very least, you would have some humility with the situation, but you just proceeded to sidle right up next to him at the counter, eyes trained up at him as if you were the one giving him the opportunity of his dreams.

“Well, well, alley cat.  I had a feeling that you wouldn’t be able to resist me,” you say low and smooth, the corner of your mouth twitching up into a teasing smirk.

He could already feel the steady drum of a headache settling in behind his temple and he had a sneaky suspicion that it wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.  His bright eyes blinked slowly, almost unamused, before he pushed away from the counter, walking off further into the shop leaving you behind. 

“If you’re going to work with me, kid, you better learn to move those damn legs,” he shouts, leaving you to scramble in an effort to catch up to him.  This was everything that you’ve been hoping for ever since you first stumbled across his Instagram feed all those years ago.  He had just been starting, no more than 200 followers and maybe a dozen likes on his posts, but the talent and the seeming mastery of the craft was all there, even if he was only 20.  His page had grown with him as an artist and you had been right there every step of the way, admiring from afar, picking up his techniques and incorporating them into your own work.  He was, to put it simply, your biggest inspiration, your push in the right direction.

You clutched the strap of your bag.  It had been in the back of your car, waiting patiently for the call that you knew was coming.  Sketchbook, pens, pencils, inks of various colors, everything that you could possibly need to make the most out of your tattoo artist apprenticeship.  You felt like a kid wandering around a toy store.  Frames upon frames of artwork were displayed in the front window of the shop, each piece signed with an extravagant ‘KT’ in the bottom corner.  Paintings of various sizes littered the walls depicting various landscapes and buildings, each one seeming to carry an essence of home between the brush strokes.  It has you slowing to a stop, leaning in close for a better view at all of the tiny individual shapes that pulled the full picture together.

“Did you make these?”

“Rule number one.  Don’t ask pointless questions.  You’re here to learn, not uncover my life story.”  Kuroo doesn’t even bother to look back at you.  He just pushes open a door to a small supply closet, taking something down from a shelf.  His smile was almost too kind when he turned back to you, but his eyes didn’t carry that same sentiment.  They were almost cruel, narrowed to a point that you could barely make out any color at all.  “Welcome to K. Ink.  It is K dot Ink and you will call it as such.”

“But your sign says-”

“I know what it says!”

“And your instagr-”

“K.Ink was taken!”

“So you chose k-”

“Rule number two! Do not call my shop or anything associated with it Kink!  Now, I have some work to finish, so I can’t deal with you right now. Bokuto took a massive shit earlier and now the bathroom fucking reeks, so I’m going to need you to take care of that for me.  Unfortunately, our toilet brush is having some technical difficulties and had to be taken to the repair shop, but luckily for you, we do have this toothbrush.  I’ll see you in a few hours, kid!”

“Hours?!”

“I told you.  Massive shit.  Remember, if you breathe through your mouth it won’t smell as bad!”  Kuroo pushed the toilet cleaner and the small plastic toothbrush into your hands.  “Gloves are in the cabinet.  Have fun, kid.”  He gives you a firm pat on your back that has your body lurching forward as he walks by you.

“Wait!  Kuroo!”  If he heard you, he sure didn’t act like it, because he didn’t even acknowledge you.  He just kept moving, black boots tapping rhythmically against the tiles as he disappeared back into his own work space.  You stared down at what he had given you, not exactly the materials you were expecting to need for your apprenticeship.  Accept defeat or march in there and tell him no? Accept defeat and you’re left on your hands and knees scrubbing a disgusting toilet bowl, nose deep in a smell you could do without.  But, telling him now, could just result in him telling you to leave again.  He wouldn’t even give you a second chance.  Taking on an apprentice was already out of his comfort zone, surely one fuck up would just have him shooing you away with your tail between your legs.

You pushed your sleeves up, reaching for a pair of gloves in the cabinet and letting them snap down against your wrist with a satisfying noise, holding a tight grip on the handle of the toothbrush. 

Defeat it was.

Hours seemed to pass and each time you heard a set of footsteps, you could only hope that it was Kuroo coming to finally tell you to stop scrubbing.  But he never came.  Those bells above the door just kept chiming as clients arrived and left, satisfied with their K. Ink experience.

“You’ve had them scrubbing that bathroom since 2 p.m., Kuroo.  I’m pretty sure it’s cleaner than it’s ever been,” Akaashi stated, peering up at Kuroo over his glasses.  It was almost 5.  With walk-ins unwelcome and only a handful of piercing appointments scattered over the next few hours, the work day was closing down and the other two staff members of K. Ink had to have a proper introduction with the newest member of the team, who apparently was just doubling as their janitor.  

“They’ll be fine.  It hasn’t been that long.  Besides, you smelled that bathroom!  It needed a good cleaning.”  Kuroo shrugged, leaning against the front counter, typing away the caption to an Instagram post.  

“Kuroo, you’re supposed to be teaching them how to be a tattoo artist, not how to clean toilets.”

“I didn’t teach them how to clean, they figured that out themselves.”

“Kuroo-” Akaashi warned.

“What?”  There was not another word from the desk clerk.  He simply shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose, turning his attention back to the computer.  “Akaashi!” Kuroo whined, sinking down against the glass countertop.

“I just cleaned that.  Don’t get your fingerprints all over the glass or else I’ll make you clean it.”

“Then I’ll just make-” he paused.  Akaashi could practically see the gears spinning inside Kuroo’s head.  “Do you remember their name? Kid, apprentice, I don’t know, whatever their name is- they can clean it when they’re done in the bathroom!”

Akaashi rubbed his face over his hands, bringing his coffee mug up to his mouth.  No amount of caffeine was going to get him through this day, hell, through the span of your time at the shop.  “You don’t even remember their name and you have them scrubbing our toilets?  You’re absurd, Kuroo.”

“You’re going to give me hell over this forever, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to give you hell about it until you see that this is ridiculous.”

Kuroo just sighed and rolled his eyes, stepping back from the counter with his hands up in surrender.  “Everyone has to go through some sort of shit when they get an apprenticeship.  It’s just how it is.” 

The smack of his palm against the door made you jump, had you scrambling for the toothbrush that had long been forgotten and had been traded for cycling endlessly through the same three apps for nearly two hours now.  The door teased open just as you had dipped your hand back into that disgusting toilet bowl to at least pretend like you had been scrubbing away this entire time.  

“I’m not going to lie, this is a pretty disgusting thing to watch.”

If you weren’t so determined to keep this damn apprenticeship, you would’ve smacked the absolute shit out of him with that nasty toothbrush.  You could just slump down against the wall and look up at him.  “It’s not exactly the most glamorous thing to do either.”

He leaned against the door frame, arms tucked over his chest.  “Come on, wash up, and let’s go.  I got another job for you.”

“What?  Am I going to be polishing your tiles with your gym socks?”

“You know, that’s really not a bad idea.  Maybe some other day.  Just move your ass and get up.”  He waited in the doorway just long enough for you to scrub your hands under the running water of the sink before stalking off back towards the front of the shop with you having to almost run to catch up with him.

“Kid, this is Akaashi Keiji, he’s the front desk clerk, you know, the one you blatantly ignored this morning.”

“Hi.  Y/N.  It’s nice to meet you, Akaashi,” you state, reaching your hand across the counter for a greeting.

He nods, giving your hand a firm shake.  “It’s a pleasure.”

“Bokuto!” Kuroo shouts as if he wasn’t ten feet away from the piercer’s room.

“He’s with a client right now.  You’ll have to give him a few minutes,” Akaashi says, eyes darting from you to Kuroo and then finally settling on you, studying you like a textbook, steel eyes tracing over every inch of your face before finally nodding in contentment.  

Kuroo hummed as he leaned back against the counter.  “Well, we have some rules to finish up anyway.  Where were we?  Four?”

“Three.”

“Right.  Rule number three.  There’s a shop a few doors down.  You know the owner’s name, you’ve almost said it.  We don’t talk about him here.  You keep that snake-ass bastard’s name out of my shop.”

“Snake ba-? Oh! Do you mean Dai-”

Kuroo raises his index finger up to your lips.  “What did I literally just say?  Rule number four.  Listen.  You have ears.  You better use them.”

“What’s your problem with him?  He’s cool,” you pause, eyeing your new boss up and down, letting a smirk pull at your lips as you watch him start to unravel at the mere discussion of he-who-shall-not-be-named.  “Cooler than you.”

His voice is low, almost a growl as he leans into you, stooping down so he’s right in front of your face.  “Tell me rule number three, pip squeak.”

“‘Keep that snake-ass bastard’s name out of the shop.’  Yeah, got it, boss.  It was just a question, damn.  What?  You two have some secret romance going on?  Are things not good between you two in the bedroom, is that what this is?” You ask, mock sympathy painted over your face.  “You know, it’s actually really common for men your age to have perf-”

Kuroo looks at you completely exasperated and utterly baffled that that’s where your mind instantly went.  “Do not even finish that sentence.”

You turned to Akaashi and gave him a teasing smile.  “That’s a yes.”

“Rule number five.  Do as I say.  If I want you to rewire the electrical, you’re going to rewire the-”

“No, they aren’t.  That’s how you get a fine from the fire department.  You already have a health code violation against you.  Don’t be stupid,” Akaashi warns.

“Fine!  No electrical work! But, rule five still stands.  For these next few years, you better be ready to be at my beck and call whenever I need you during business hours.  Which brings us to our sixth and final rule.  Do not contact me outside of business hours.  We are not friends.  I do not want to be your friend. This is a strictly work relationship and it will remain that way, are we clear?” Kuroo finishes, raising an expectant eyebrow at you.

“Alright, that should get you all finished!  You wanna pay cash or card?  Cash?  Great, then I can go ahead and take that from you.  Remember to just give me a call if you have any questions or concerns.”  The big man who had tried to stop you during your desperate attempt at gaining your apprenticeship emerges from a room, a client sporting a nose ring that was still a little red trailing behind him.  He smiles brightly and waves as the shop door closes behind them.  “Man, you never would’ve believed how much she bled!  I mean, I get it, you just got a needle jammed through your nose, but damn!  I haven’t seen one bleed like that since I did your eyebrow, bro!”  He turned his attention to you.  “Had blood dripping down his face like crazy.  Looked like someone had beat him real good upside the head.  I’d wipe it away and woosh! More blood.”  The man paused, finally getting a good look at you.  He leaned away from you to look you over.  “Do I know you?”

You shake your head, holding your hand out towards him.  “Y/N.  I’m Kuroo’s apprentice.”

“Oh! You were-” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  “Sorry about the toilet.”

{Taglist: @boosyboo9206 @universal-s1ut @zamorazz // never miss an update! send an ask or dm to be added to the inked taglist!}

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyuu x reader #kuroo #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsuro x reader #x reader #tattoo artist kuroo #gn reader #bokuto #akaashi #tattoo artist au #inked

[angelizs]

[Keep the warmth in - A lazy morning with Che'nya]

You can feel the sun rays behind your eyelids, the few ones that escaped the curtains grasp, trying to wake you up, as if biding you good morning.

Drowsy, your eyes open, blinking once, twice, thrice. A deep sigh leaves your lips, your chest heaving with it.

The room is warm, the body draped over you is warmer. The hot breath tingles your neck, the fluffy ears twitching slightly. There are legs tangled with yours, arms embracing you. 

You move your fingers, one by one, calling feeling back to your dormant hand. Softly, you caress the mop of hair under your palm, humming as you bask into the morning tranquility, a rare calm moment in your so busy life.

It's warm and tender. You watch your lover's sleeping face, even if you had to crank your neck a bit to do so. Che'nya looks incredibily innocent like this, no trace of his usual mischievous self. His mouth is slightly open and, up close, you can see his features better, how his eyelashes lay on his skin, how his cheeks are flushed in a cute pink tone, his hair tousled.

The smile that takes over your face is fond, your eyes drinking up the sight while it lasts. A sound of contentment leaves your throat, your free hand rubbing circles and tracing little shapes on Che'nya's back. 

You can feel a light purring coming from him. He nuzzles his head onto your shoulder, hiding his face from view. You adjust your head, exposing your neck to acomodate him better. Your hand doesn't leave his hair, petting it with care.

In the back of your mind, you wonder what time it may be. You make a mental list of what you have do to through the day, including what you should make for breakfast. Buttered toast with tea sounds nice and easy, so maybe you should go with that.

There's a feather light feel on your neck, lips grazing over it, close enough to touch but not quite doing it. You shiver, your hands stopping their motions as your breath hitches. "Hm, good meow-rning..." Che'nya's voice is rough from just having woken up, a raspy tone on it that mingles with his usual chipper one. 

A kiss is deposited on your neck, followed by a light nibble. You sigh, a sound filled with joy. You can feel his heart beating from where his chest presses against yours, a comforting feeling. Another kiss follows the last one, his hand reaching yours and lacing your fingers together. Your heart flutters as you squeeze it, chuckling, your voice barely a whisper.

"Good morning, love." Che'nya pulls back, his head coming in front of yours and blocking the sunlight. Above you, his hair is messier than usual, his ears without their usual earrings, his eyes lidded. There's a grin on his face, as always, but it's one he reserves just for you. Not the too big one, but not a too small one, either. It's just the right amount of both loving and teasing. You slide the hand from his hair to cup his cheek, feeling him melt into your palm, his eyes closing in bliss. Your thumb caress the skin, relishing on the contact. "Did you sleep well?"

"I had the craziest dream." He mewls, his forehead coming in touch with yours. You hum, encoraging him to go on. "There was a door, but it was very tiny, and I was very big." Your hand slips from his cheek, holding onto the back of his neck. "Then I became very tiny, but everything else was really big."

"Oh? What did you do then?" Your fingers graze his neck gently, his ears twitch, goosebumps appearing on his skin. He pulls back again, his eyes fluttering open to gaze down at you. His head turns to the side, very much like a curious cat, and his grin widens. 

"I'll tell you, but only if you give me something."

"How about a kiss?"

His head cocks to the other side, as if thinking it over, a pout of concentration on his lips. "Nope, won't do." He shakes his head, his hair getting more out of place, making you giggle.

"Two, then."

His eyebrows furrow, eyes closing. "No." He drags the word, dramatically. You can't resist it, so you poke the wrinkles, making him yelp.

"So demanding. Three it is."

He stares at you, giving a fleeting glance at your lips before looking up again. "I supposed it'll do for now." His hand releases the hold it had on yours and reaches your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Che'nya leans in and presses your lips together, tenderly. It's soft and slow, lazy, even. His teeth graze your bottom lip as he's about to pull away, but you stop him. The hand on the back of his neck leads your lips to connect again and you groan, pleased. 

There's a quick moment when your lips part for you to catch your breath before they are meeting once more, your hand traveling up to rum through his hair as he whimpers. Your free hand goes to his waist, holding him close to you, keeping the warmth in.

You separate but he stays close, hovering over you. His lips have an after kiss quality to them that makes satisfatction flow through you. Your hand trails from behind his ears to the back of his neck to his cheeks, mimicking his own.

"I passed through the door." He says, picking up on where you left the conversation about his dream. "But everything stayed big, and I stayed small."

"I see. That's a strange dream, but it's in accordance to your usual ones, right? It would be stranger if it wasn't."

"How odd that you try to find order in the midst of chaos." Che'nya leans down and gives you a kiss on the forehead, so full of affection you can feel it. He then rolls over to the other side of the bed and sits up, stretching his limbs. "You're right, it's still on brand for me!" 

You laugh from his sudden burst of energy. "Feeling awake now?" 

"After that? Of course I am! Although I could use an extra boost, just to make sure~"

You sit up as well, coming face to face with him. You give him a quick peck before getting up and ready to start the day, grin firmly in place as he follows you, asking for another kiss.

The sun enters the room and it's warm. You feel warm, down to the tip of your toes. Che'nya also feels warm, by the smile on his face. It's a warm moment, and it's yours.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #chenya x reader #che'nya #che'nya x reader #I present to you: #fluff #I'm. very soft. no one talk me. #also it's 3 am right now so I'm not proofreading this #I'm barely coherent as it is so I'll just leave this here #staying strong che'nya nation #twisted wonderland #oh to have such affection in my life #* posts this and procceds to pass out on spot * #wonderland wonder

[evanesdust]

The Snowball Fight

written as part of the 1000 cakes challenge for the sterek reverse challenges discord and for @sterekfests prompt: "Let it snow."

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Additional Tags: Meet-Cute, Snowball Fight, ST1000CC23, POV Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alpha Derek Hale Summary:

When Stiles launched the snowball, the last person he expected to hit was the man of his dreams. Oops?

Stiles crouched against the tree, chest heaving as he packed snow for snowballs. He peered around the tree, trying to catch sight of his friends who were hiding somewhere close, their laughter muffled by the winter air. With a quick motion, he scooped up another handful of snow, shaping it precisely, his breath forming small clouds that quickly disappeared.

All too soon, there was a faint rustling nearby.

Gotcha, he thought, packing up his newly created projectiles. He sprang from behind the tree, launching snowballs toward the noise with a triumphant yell. However, they struck a large, broad chest instead of hitting one of his friends. He couldn't help but check the guy out, taking in the way his henley and jeans were stretched over his muscles—the fabric damp from snow since he wasn’t wearing a coat. Though he did wear a scarf. One with little oranges roaming across it in a whimsical pattern that seemed at odds with his rugged appearance.

And despite his lack of appropriate winter attire, the man didn't seem bothered by the cold at all.

Werewolf. An alpha if the flash of crimson in his eyes was any indication.

"Shit." Stiles threw his hands up in surrender, looking at the alpha werewolf with apologetic eyes. After a moment, he tugged on his coat in a nervous gesture. "Sorry, man, I thought you were someone else."

There was a scowl on the alpha's face, but then the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, and a deep laugh rumbled from his throat, sending a chill down Stiles's spine—but not from fear.

Do. Not. Get. A. Boner.

Either the alpha didn't seem to notice the scent of Stiles's arousal, or he chose to ignore it because all he did was shake his head and brush off the snow as if it were mere dust.

"No harm done. My name's Derek," he said, his voice surprisingly warm.

Stiles cleared his throat and gave him a slightly awkward smile. Seriously, how was he supposed to think when Derek was a walking wet dream? The literal embodiment of the man of Stiles's dreams. "Stiles. My name. That's my—well, that's not my actual name, but it's what everyone calls me. Nice scarf, by the way. Are those oranges?"

Christ. Why the fuck was he rambling?

Oh right. Because Derek was ridiculously good-looking, like a Greek god who had decided to humor a mortal, turning Stiles into a nervous, babbling mess.

"Kumquats," Derek said, smirking as if he knew exactly what effect he had on Stiles. "So, Stiles…"

Kum-what? Fuck. The sound of his name coming out of Derek's mouth short-circuited his brain, rendering him speechless and unable to think. It was enough to make him melt into a puddle right there in the snow.

"This looks like a good game you've got going here. Mind if I join in?" Without waiting for an answer, Derek bent down, scooping up some snow and quickly forming his own snowball before throwing it at Stiles. It nailed him in the shoulder.

Stiles's mouth dropped open in shock before a grin quickly spread across his face.

"Oh, you're on!" he exclaimed, already reaching for more snow to retaliate. Derek fled and the pursuit was on.

The impromptu snowball fight that followed was one of the best Stiles had ever experienced. His friends eventually made their way over from wherever they had disappeared, joining in on the fun. Snowballs flew back and forth, and laughter and good-natured taunts filled the air.

Derek had quite the arm, his throws accurate and fast—not that Stiles expected anything less of an alpha werewolf—making him an exhilarating opponent. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so alive, adrenaline surging through his veins with each dodge and throw.

When his friends had enough, Stiles stayed, not quite ready to end the spontaneous fun. Derek didn't leave either, the two of them launching more snowballs and laughs until the sky started to darken—the temperature dropping even more.

"Okay, okay!" Stiles laughed, finally calling for a temporary truce as he panted, hands on his knees from the exertion. Not that he really wanted to leave.

"Truce accepted...for now," Derek said, his breath visible in the crisp winter air. He extended a hand to help Stiles up, their fingers brushing. A current of electricity seemed to pass between them, making Stiles gasp.

Heat rushed to Stiles's cheek and not entirely from the cold. Still, he managed to scoff in mock indignation. "For now? Admit it. I gave you a run for your money."

"Not bad—for a human," Derek added with a teasing grin, and it was as if a kaleidoscope of butterflies had taken flight in Stiles's stomach.

Derek's charm was disarmingly potent, dislodging Stiles's usual ease of banter. With a slight chuckle—and despite the cold nipping at his nose—warmth bubbled inside him that had nothing to do with the fading winter sun still peeking over the horizon.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles started, gathering the courage to speak his mind. He wasn’t ready for their time together to end. Maybe they could head to the diner for dinner or the cafe for hot cocoa. "Do you think maybe you'd want to…"

His words hung in the air, unfinished. But only for a moment because Derek nodded as if he knew exactly what Stiles was going to ask. "Yeah, I'd like that."

The simplicity of his response, genuine and unaffected, sent a wave of relief through Stiles. It was refreshing not having to dance around with words or wonder about hidden meanings.

"Great," Stiles replied, a broad smile stretching across his face, the previous tension melting away like snow in the sun. "It's a date then."

Sure, he had casually thrown the word 'date' out there, but the way Derek's eyes lit up, a soft yet undeniable spark in their depths, told Stiles everything he needed to know. It was a silent affirmation that they were indeed on the same page.

The thrill of the chase, the play of the fight, all of it had been a prelude to this moment. And as the air filled with the promise of something new, Stiles couldn't help thinking this would be one hell of a winter.

#sterek #sterekreversechallenges #1000cakeschallenge #sterekfests #sterekfestswinter2023 #sterekfestssnow #holy shit i wrote something

[starspann]

wouldn’t it be nice (pt. 2) | 18+

joe cooper x reader

fem!reader, she/her pronouns are used

★☆✵☆★

warnings: cursing, smut

coop ruins everything

★☆✵☆★

weirdly enough, the blonde had been keeping calendar.

exactly 4 months and 8 days.

that’s how long cooper had been battling the urge to confess his feelings to remer’s girlfriend.

to be even more precise, he’s been wanting to for as long as the lovely couple had been together.

sometimes he’d practice his confession in the shower. while lazily shampooing his hair, he’d talk to the tiled wall, and somehow still manage to become embarrassed. he’d muster up a few broken phrases before falling silent.

“what a fucking wimp.” he told himself. he couldn’t even tell her in an imaginary scenario, how could he grow the balls to tell it to her face?

he’d shake his head, disappointed in himself.

then the soapy suds from his hair would fall and slide into his eye, he’d scream and almost slip on the slick bathtub floor.

not only did he lack the courage, but she’s dating sir fucking swish. doug remer, joe coopers best friend since they were little kids. they did everything together. used to read comic books together, ride bikes together… now, they drink together. a lot.

coop and remer found themselves seated at what could only be described as a seedy bar, like so many other nights they had spent together. and just like every other night, remer felt compelled to talk about y/n.

“hey man, we should get out of here soon. y'know, since y/n's coming over tonight." he opened his wallet to reveal a condom.

cooper let out an internal groan, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed at the same time.

"yeah, yeah i’ll follow you," he sighed exasperatedly as remer pushed off the stool and slowly made his way towards the door of the bar.

as cooper stood there, watching remer walk away, a flash of light on the dirty bar floor caught his eye.

it appeared to be a small, square-shaped, laminated paper laying next to his feet.

figuring it slipped from remer’s wallet when he opened it, he Immediately stooped down and swept it up, ready to call out for his friend, but before he could even get one word out, cooper turned the piece of paper around with curiosity.

his heart beat quickened and his cock twitched at the image.

a hazy, half-assed taken polaroid photo of y/n, stripped bare and invitingly curled up on remers bed.

though it was a little blurry, he could still admire all the details. her fists gripping onto remer’s baby blue sheets that he always refused to change, her eyes gently shut, her mouth hanging slightly open, and worst of all, remers hand placed on her thigh, his hips snapping into hers.

the picture was obviously taken mid-fuck.

cooper face flushed hot. it was like an instant dream come true; he had admired her from afar for so long yet never had the courage to act upon it. now here she was, willingly on display right before his eyes.

instead of doing the right thing, and being a respectable human being; he stuffed the photo in his back pocket, following remer to the old car.

coop’s dick strained against his jeans the entire car ride.

back at the house, y/n cursed at her curly haired boyfriend for losing such a thing.

“jesus fucking christ, doug! one thing i ask you to do, one thing!” she smacked him on the arm, furious with his careless actions.

“i told you not to put it in a place that you’d forget about!” her arms were crossed as she angrily paced around his unkempt room.

“hey, okay, first of all, i didn’t forget where i put it, it must’ve slipped out is all!” he threw his hands up in defense as if being accused of a crime.

“holy shit.” her breath was no longer steady, in fact, it sounded like she was on the brink of tears.

any girl would be if they had just learned their boyfriend lost a naked picture of them, most likely in a public space.

“y/n, baby, relax! it’s somewhere, okay? i’ll find it.” he held his pinkie up, awaiting y/n to hook hers with his, “just trust me?”

a promise, again. exactly like how he promised her he wouldn’t lose the photo in the first place.

“..okay.” y/n gave in, lifting her hand towards his and pinkie swearing to another false vow.

remer smiled at her with a toothy grin.

“see? that’s more like it.” he stood up from the bed and patted her on the back, “i’ll find it. swear.”

in the room next to theirs, coop was slumped, perched on his bed with his head in his hands. he was staring down at the tattered polaroid grasped tightly in his palms, considering what he should do with it. he could chuck it away, but what would be the point of disposing a perfectly good photo? a sexy one of his crush at that?

he quickly placed it on the side table next to him. avoiding its gaze, he shook his head, disgusted with his own actions.

without a doubt it was wrong. so fucking wrong.

he knew it, too.

despite his unease at the moment, that did not stop his hand from reaching for the lewd polaroid and feverishly pulling down his pants.

he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt as he considered how wrong it seemed for him to give in to such temptation, but yet here he was, desperately trying to satisfy his untameable urges.

he collapsed back onto his bed, the springs inside the mattress making an irritating squeak as he threw his boxers off, kicking them to the side.

he was already pretty hard, the view of polaroid only causing his cock to throb even more.

he laid his head against a pillow and began to work on himself, nothing but y/n on his mind.

he pictured her on his bed, her legs spread for him, her body inviting him to join her.

the movement of his hand sped up.

he’d make her feel so, so good. god, if he only had the chance, he’d spend hours between her legs. till her eyes rolled back. till she forgot remer’s name. eat her out like she was his last meal and he was a terribly starved inmate on death row.

he thought about what she might say,

“fuck me, coop. need you so bad. need your cock inside me.”

“you’re tongue feels fucking great right there, keep going.”

“sh-shit coop—“

he pictured her stuttering through her moans, unable to contain the pleasure he would give her.

his finger glided over his tip, playing with the pre-cum forming at his slit.

he looked at the picture once more, hand shaking and unable to keep steady as the other one stroked himself.

his hips bucked into his fist, pulling a noisy whine from his throat.

he was practically mesmerized by the image.

he really couldn’t help it. her name just rolled off his lips so easily,

“shit, y/n.” he groaned.

loudly.

it really wasn’t his fault. he had no idea that remer and y/n were still in the house at the time. in his mind, he thought they went out. he was far too busy imagining hot, wild sex with her to hear them arguing next door.

he moaned her name over and over again.

that’s when y/n opened his door.

of course, coop had forgotten to lock it.

why wouldn’t he?

#joe u silly goose!! #wishing doug had a pic of me in his wallet :( #joe cooper x reader #joe cooper #baseketball #baseketball x reader #trey parker x reader #trey parker #matt stone x reader #matt stone #doug remer x reader #doug remer

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

"When he reached a displacement of eight he told us he was dead."

"He sees the wolves have formed up around him. Eight of them."

"The greatest gaiaforms of our solar system are eight in number—or, if you prefer, [N]ine—but asteroids and minor planets have them too. And in their sidereal generosity, these gaiaforms will protect us, if we ask them."

Fist of Eight Moons

"Only in the Ascendant Plane—where a well-defended idea is a reality—do these moons, in this small way, still exist."

"Eight Barons and an Awoken prince - and only one of you. I so dislike betting on the underdog… But you are resourceful…"

"The man turned to his left and saw a familiar, weathered face staring up at the eight Barons of the Tangled Shore."

[...]

"’Sundance’ appears to be the victim of a single, catastrophic wound from a Devourer Bullet, modified to fire from a Scorn launcher. Projectile classified as ontological.”

“Define Devourer Bullet.”

“Payload matches the ballistics of a Weapon of Sorrow or a comparable Hive implement.”

"We are all pinched silhouettes impaled on the twitching of infinitely long spiderlegs."

"You must reckon with yourself. Can you see the path ahead?

Do you know the shape of your trial?"

Auseklis

Ogdoad

Guñelve

Arevakhach

Schläfli

Compass rose

Isotoxal | edge transitive

Eightfold Path

The Star of Lakshmi

The Star of Ishtar

The morning star

First light of the new dawn

Venus

[Consult Cryptarchy's pre-Golden Age stacks for more information]

"Is it a simple answer? Perhaps none who serve you have the capacity to grasp your vision. And so, rather than waste more of your time and attention on explaining something they will never hold, it is enough that they act as you will. The Witch and her Hive carving single-mindedness out of the cloth of the universe, that whispering Nightmare seeking the fullest gamut of existence, the Upender destroying all differentiation. Shadows on the wall.

In this case, it would be hubris to think I have understood your work, that I alone among your Disciples have grasped what purpose it is we serve. All of us must see darkly reflected.

But there is relief in simplification. There is kindness in winnowing. So then, why is this proliferation permitted?

The shadows, showing the truth by their casting. [...]

There: I have resolved the conflict within my thoughts, and I am at peace again. Once more, I am only your violence and nothing more.

The Final Shape will realize us as we strive."

—Unknown Disciple of the Witness, Inspiral

Who am I?

Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.

Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.

In primordial space, timeless creatures made waves. These waves created us and the others. Waves were the battles, and the battles were waves. Fleeing all W'rkncacnter, Yrro and Pthia settled upon Lh'owon. They brought the S'pht, servants who began to shape the deserts of Lh'owon into marsh and sea, rivers and forests. They made sisters for Lh'owon to protect and maintain the paradise. When the W'rkncacnter came, Pthia was killed, and Yrro in anger, flung the W'rkncacnter into the sun. The sun burned them, but they swam on its surface.

Marathon 2, Six Thousand Feet Under terminal: ax1-40^23<094.95.28.85>

Oryx went down into his throne world. He went out into the abyss, and with each step he read one of his tablets, so that they became like stones beneath his feet. He went out and he created an altar and he prepared an unborn ogre. He called on the Deep, saying: I can see you in the sky. You are the waves, which are battles, and the battles are the waves. Come into this vessel I have prepared for you. And it arrived, the Deep Itself.

Books of Sorrow

XXXI: battle made waves

Verse 4:1 — battle made waves

#trace the vermicular path #follow the daito rabbit #destiny the game #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny2 #destinythegame #destiny lore #the traveler #Ishtar Collective #destiny speculation #the veil #the witness #the numbers mason what do they mean #crashing my scion tc into the witness at 100mph #macrocosm #eight points

[dogloveri23]

The first ‘I love you’

Pairing: Xiao x Gn! reader

Warning: Angst, Heartbreak, Long post

A/n: Hey everyone, I know that this was a long hiatus but I'm back! I've been working on my YouTube and twitch! They are in the pinned post on my page!

UID: 627473190

Originally written by @dogloveri23

The first 'I love you' is supposed to be special, it is all you had ever dreamed of since you fell for and started dating Xiao. It was the one thing you wanted to hear him say to you and yet you had never heard him utter those words. And you had almost thought you would die without hearing them.

You weren't sure how long you had been down here. But luckily you had the traveller, Yanfei, Yelan and Kuki Shinobu to give rough estimates. You had seen your boyfriend Xiao not too long before you after you entered this place. He left and you hadn't seen him since. You had found it difficult to find him in this cursed place you couldn't leave. Every move led to one trap or another, ultimately building your paranoia and fear of this space. "Everyone, grab something to eat", Kuki said attempting to raise morale. You had been in worse shape than everyone, especially when the mystery door decided to play tricks on you.

A few hours ago, while searching for your boyfriend, you had gotten to a door that showed everyone their worst fears. While everyone elses' wasn't too intense, the door had other plans for you. Upon walking to it, you saw a body limp on the ground, barely moving. The more you focused, you saw that the body belonged to Xiao. He wasn't moving and you hardly saw any sign of breathing. He was covered in cuts and bruises. You gasped in shock. Taken aback, you tripped on a rock behind you and had your head connect with the ground, ultimately causing you to pass out.

You had awakened not long after and were now waiting with the others, as Yelan and Yanfei worked on a way to get you out of the current situation. You still felt hazy and a bit dizzy from the fall and found it difficult to focus. Though the oni and Ushi were doing their best to keep you company. Yanfei and the traveller walked away from the group leaving you to your thoughts. What was Xiao even doing here in the first place? And why did he treat you like a stranger when you approached him? These questions were left to be answered by Xiao alone.

Paimon was also out of it, floating in mid-air while unconscious from exhaustion. The party was at its lowest right now. To think you were tagging along with Yanfei as a good friend and now you would most likely spend your last moments suspended in a timeless space searching for your boyfriend. It was a scary thought.

The traveller and Yanfei showed up a few moments later with Xiao causing you to blink your eyes hoping this wasn't a sick trick from this space. You wanted to call out to him, but as you examined his current state, you decided against it. It was clear that Xiao needed urgent treatment or at least some adequate rest since he is an Adeptus. Yanfei walked up to you as she saw your worried expression.

"The guardian Yaksha will be fine, he just needs to rest. You should get some rest too, you hit your head pretty hard", Yanfei said earning a small nod from you as you relaxed on your spot resting against Ushi. "The little guy is tough, relax," Itto said assuring you. Despite their assurances, you couldn't help but wonder what put him in this state in the first place. Xiao was an Adeptus for goodness sake! If he was this hurt, what chance did the rest of us have?

The hours passed faster than you expected as you woke up to being in a protective circle with Itto, Kuki and Ushi. "The others have gone to search a new area, they will be back soon," Kuki said. Kuki and Yanfei were the only ones in the entire Teyvat that you told about your relationship with the Adeptus. Kuki had been one of your closest friends when she came to study law in Liyue before the vision hunt decree. "I know you're worried, but Xiao will be fine, he is with the traveller after all," Kuki says in an attempt to calm me. I sigh from my spot on the ground.

Sure the traveller could be there for him but it will all amount to nothing if Xiao doesn't let it. Xiao would readily give his life if it meant that it was for the people of Liyue no matter what anyone said. Heck, you've been together for two years and you could see it in his nature! Xiao is an Adeptus, he believes it's his duty and even if he promised to stay safe, you knew he said that not to worry you.

The group came back not too long after, fantastic compass in hand. Xiao stood casually next to you, not trying to be too obvious that you two knew each other to the others. "So if the notes are right, it means that only through the cooperation of a human and an Adeptus was this place sealed, meaning that we would need that same cooperation for us to get out of here," Yanfei said as she placed her hand on the compass causing it to light up faintly. The rest of what she said was lost on your ears as you looked at Xiao silently.

Yelen and Xiao put their hands and the compass causing it to light up fully. "I will maintain the energy flow," Xiao said causing Yelan to remove her hand. "Understood," Yelan said. Yanfei continued to conduct everyone as Itto remained passed out on the platform that had formed below us. The platform had started to ascend at a fast place before we were attacked by a swarm of spirits.

With one look at Xiao who was struggling, You summoned my claymore and began to fight alongside Yelan and the others. You swung left and right cutting through them and embedding Hydro from your vision into your attacks. Xiao looked worse off with each passing moment. You all had to get through this as fast as you could, if not it would all be for nothing. The physical exhaustion of your earlier battles had not worn off and it was getting difficult to continue wielding the weapon.

You backed up and end up beside Xiao with Yelan on the other side of him. "Y/n, I'm sorry, I hope you'll forgive me," Xiao said. Before you could turn to question him, you felt yourself floating above only catching the hushed "I love you" he sent your way. The distance between you both was getting larger by the second. "Xiao," You yell at the top of your lungs as you floated at high speeds. The platform that previously supported you broke and Xiao fell. He had accepted his fate long before. He wished he could have heard you say "I love you" one more time before he rotted away in this hell hole.

On the surface, you erupted into full panic mode, looking around for Xiao. You searched yet couldn't catch the till accents of his hair or his figure anywhere. You were about to collapse and wail as you prayed to Rex Lapis or which other god would listen to your miserable prayers. You knew this day would come, you knew that he would sacrifice himself yet you held unto your stupid hopes and beliefs. You thought that if you loved him hard enough, if you made him promise to stay safe, it would be enough, but it wasn't. To think that the first time he told you that he loved you was when he was about to die.

What you would give for him to say it to you one more time, to even see him one more time, for him to even be here!

"Xiao! you're Ok!" The traveller said causing you to quickly look behind you. Xiao didn't say anything. He looked confused about how he was even here. Xiao silently walked up to you and engulfed you in a hug. "I love you, I love you so much!"

The first 'I love you ' is supposed to be special but as long as you had Xiao safe in your arms, every 'I love you' is special.

#genshin impact #genshinimagines #genshinimpactimagines #genshinoneshots #genshin impact oneshots #genshinboys #genshin impact venti #genshin impact angst #thoma x you #kazuha angst #genshin impact xiao #xiao angst #xiao imagines #xiao x reader #adeptus xiao #xiao x reader angst #dogloveri23 #genshin impact x reader dogloveri23

[alexadru]

White Knight Month - She's tsun, he's dere. Together, they are adorable

It had started on a simple day at Beacon, during which students went on about their days. Teams RWBY and JNPR were in their final year and were nearly done with their studies and were ready to graduate and become full fledged Huntsmen and Huntresses.

After the end of a particularly long field assignment, Jaune arrived with his team back at the Academy and walked towards the statue in front of the Academy with purpose. Someone was waiting for him there.

It was at the insistence of Ruby and his team that he was even entertaining this action. They had all told him that things would go smoothly and a part of him hoped they would, indeed. It's why he messaged her to wait for him there.

It took less than 10 minutes to arrive at his destination, but it felt much longer. His apprehension was growing stronge and it hit the highest pointvwhen he saw her there. Clad in her school uniform, her white hair shone as it was neatly made in her now signature braided ponytail. Light blue eyes perked when she noticed him, before a cute pout made its way on her face.

Jaune let out a nervous chuckle and walked until he was next to her.

W: "You said you had something important to tell me. Well, what is it?"

Straight to the point, as usual. But it was for the best, Jaune figured. He was the one who had called her here, after all. So, he would respond in kind and not mess around.

J: "Weiss, I have strong feelings for you. I've had for a while. Would you like to hang out together sometime?"

A small silence settled between them. It gave Jaune the chance to analyse the girl and he could see how her cheeks colored in a pretty pink. He swallowed a lump in his throat and Weiss soon broke the silence.

W: “Fine, I’ll go out with you on Saturday. But don’t read too deeply into this!” She crossed her arms and turned her face away with a 'hmph', blush still present.

J: "You got it, Snow Angel." Jaune grinned as she glared at him.

This was the beginning for them, a beginning that would shape into a relationship throughout the years. The two would share many moments together and if anyone asked their friends, they all would unanimously agree that they were adorable.

On the anniversary of her birthday Jaune baked her a cake for her. Never before had he seen his girlfriend make a face like she had when he had shown her his surprise.

W: “I’ll eat it because it would be bad to leave food go bad. Not because you made it for me.” She responded with her arms crossed.

Jaune laughed and gave her a birthday hug before the two set to enjoy the cake together.

Months later, when the two made love, it was always the same routine.

W: “Just because we do this doesn’t mean I like you or anything!” She complained as she was in bed with him, a light bed sheet being the only thing covering their modesty.

J: "You're too cute." Jaune hugged her from behind, burying his head into her soft hair. He could not see the atomic blush on her face.

Years later, Jaune found himself on one knee in front of the girl he loved. A small box in his hand showing a beautiful ring inside. In front of him was a shocked Weiss, her mouth hanging open as her brain rebooted.

It took a few moments for her to snap out. Her eyes teared up and her mouth twitched into a smile, but she stopped herself. Instead, she looked away and crossed her arms in her signature pose.

W: "Very well, I will accept this. But only because you wouldn't know what to do without me. Don't misunderstand!"

J: "I'd never dream to." Jaune grinned and got in his feet, giving her a deep and long kiss (which she returned).

And now, many years in the future, Jaune and Weiss found themselves in a public park, a few feet away from the children's playground. Their discussion was going on as many would expect.

W: "You think I have feelings for you? Absurd. Whatever gave you that idea?"

J: “Weiss.”

W: “Yes?”

J: “We have two kids together.” Jaune pointed at their two snow haired daughters playing on the swings. Their laughter was enough to fill their parents with joy.

Weiss couldn't help but smile lovingly at the sight. She answered Jaune, nonetheless.

W: “And?” Her arms crossed at her chest.

A silence settled between them, but soon enough, Weiss found herself engulfed into her husband's large arms. She began to feel very warm.

J: “I love you so much.”

She blushes and hid her face against his chest, hands grabbing onto his shirt.

W: “Y-you dunce. Don’t say such things out loud.”

Jaune chuckled at her response. Unbeknownst to him, Weiss also released a quiet giggle and smiled sweetly into his chest.

#rwby #jaune arc #weiss schnee #rwby white knight #jaune arc x weiss schnee #jaune x weiss #rwby jaune arc x weiss schnee #rwby jaune x weiss #rwby whiteknight #rwby white-knight #rwby au #white knight week #rwby white knight week #rwby white knight month

[draklorn]

☁️ for a HAPPY childhood memory!

The air was crisp with cold, and the sky glowed with the false promise of a sun in it's periwinkle shade where it showed through the grey clouds. Devan inhaled nasally, still not used to the funny sound their new nose shape made after their recent, big tumble. The fur hood shaped to their round face needed to be brushed again, stray strands ticking their cheeks as a mitten palm attempted to get them out of the way. After appreciating the flat landscape blanketed in fog, they return their gaze to the riverbed beneath them. The muddy bank had the current gently lap against it, and further up, the end of their tool drew distinct lines. Hard at work on a latest addition, the young one only pauses when they hear approaching footsteps through the mud and stone.

The man carried a barrel in one hand and a fishing pole over a shoulder, more skin exposed to the elements than a hearthbound could ever dream of doing and living to tell how cold it was. He stops short of where the mud-scribbles began, and gave the child centered in the encircling drawings they had enclosed themself in, a smile.

"Keir! Look at my drawings!" The child calls out, arms extended and waving the man down even as he had already placed the bucket down, fish tails peeking over its lip and twitching now and then. He gestures to one of the scribbles nearer to him. "Very nice, Devan. Is that one you?"

"Yes!" The end of their pole points at the small figure, a crooked line across it's face mimicking the way their nose now bent. Soon, it is pointing to the other, scribbled formations one after another. "And here's you, and Momma, and Karver, and- oh, I gave you lots of fish so you'll catch a lot for everyone!"

"For luck? Thank you, Devan." The man gives each portrait a moment of his time, his smile growing as the child nods excitedly at his deduction. He always understood their drawings and stories and games. That was why he was their favourite Oathfather - though they would never say such a thing aloud. They loved all of their family. With carefully placed steps to both not disturb any drawings or land on any awkward rocks, Keir closed the distance between the two until he could place a hand on the child's hood. "But you know, if I had another pair of hands helping me fish, I know we could catch even more together. And I'm sure that spear would catch fish just as well as it draws." Devan's beam up to him slowly morphs into a pout, knowing well that there had been a task they had put off. But they also knew that Keir wouldn't nag or punish them. Maybe next time, if they did all their hunting quickly, he would even play with them.

Clutching the spear in a hug, the child takes a moment to think as dark eyes turn about. And when they settle of Keir's warm expression, it isn't long until they are matching it. "… Can you show me how to throw, again?"

-

The muddy riverbank crunches underfoot from both rock and ice. They watch for where the frozen crust over the slow river was thinnest, so their long strides would carry them over it in a few steps. A distant memory whispers in their mind; another time, but a similar feeling beneath their boots. There is a face, and names, but nothing they can recall fully. Just the sense of warmth, and safety, and love.

Devan pauses, attempting to grasp its details tighter before a heavy snort behind them pulls the Draklorn back to the present, Summer's Bane urging them on so the pair could make it over the stream before more of the ice cracked. A wispy smile is given to the steed before they march onward. And soon the mud is replaced completely with the uncomfortable feeling of snow filling the space between loose rocks with every step.

Catching some fish while in the area wasn't a bad idea.

childhood memories

#❚ ic #❚ ask #nameaprice #dont say i never give devan anything. see? they had nice moments in their childhood #shame what happened after though

[chaomother]

imagine he's having a hard time one night, feeling guilty and horrible, mentally calling himself a monster and slowly remembering what happened to him for once, but before it turns into a panic attack you twitch in your sleep and wake up with a long yawn, looking at him with tired heart eyes and calling him your hero, which makes him forget about everything that makes him sad completely

cw: descriptions of ptsd/mental illness, violence, & family abuse

the repugnant stench of iron was palpable, emanating from every corner and asphyxiating the origin behind such immorality.

"you're evil! just kill us already...!"

repulsing, corpse-like screams pulsated around sonic as he unremittingly continued to shred through the remains of a shattered town. "you shouldn't have of opposed the doctor, or you wouldn't be in this mess," sonic retorted, detached from the situation as he crushed another weapon under his heel.

sonic's stomach churned, the wreckage of his actions laid out before him in the shape of a bloodied carcass. as if a pebble dropped, he dashed to the source of noise on instinct alone—his foot clashing with a body milliseconds later.

"please, spare us! she's just a child!!" weeping, a mother shrouded her daughter from sonic's onslaught; gritting her teeth to obscure the pain she felt from his kick.

rivulets of dirt and blood smeared across the mother's dress, the sight enough to bring sonic back to his senses. his breath burned with depravity. he felt sick, disgusted with himself beyond words.

bolting upright in bed, helpless sobs ravaged sonic's throat⁠—the walls felt so dry, yet so taut and it was difficult to breathe. "just a nightmare..." he whispered hoarsely, rubbing at his wet eyes.

sonic tried so hard to tie a muzzle over his heart, stuffing and closing away his regrets, yet the afflictions were always struggling against the chains.

there were so many innocent people he hurt, irrevocable sins committed in the name of his adoptive father. a hand innately moved onto his chest, hoping to steady the erratic pounding of his heart.

"fuck, it burns," sonic cursed between sobs, eyes raw from gaping, "dad stop monitoring my pulse like that, it hurts, get these machines off me, god, just stop—i can't take it anymore!"

thrashing around and rubbing his hands all over his body, ripping small pieces of fur out in a desperate attempt to forcibly eject wires from himself, sonic felt nausea overcome his mouth; even though this was all the consequences of his paranoia.

from beside him, your ethereal figure shifted beneath the blankets before your eyes fluttered open. the movement from you was enough to jar sonic into peering over at you, and he stared vapidly.

"mmm," a long yawn spilled from your lips as you gently scrubbed your tired eyes. through your own tired haze, you discerned his hunched-over figure shaking. "what's wrong, my hero?"

"huh?" sonic stuttered, his entire being resetting as your voice called out to him. 'my hero', you said... you said it with such sincerity, with such tender love. "oh, um, i had a bad dream."

trying to laugh it off, sonic's breath hitched in his throat when your hand reached up and cupped his cheek. the sensation of your soft, warm palm caressing his tear-stained skin had sonic snuggling into it.

the ripples of harrow and torment previously pervading throughout his body dissipated. he felt grounded back to reality, as if suddenly all his demons couldn't do more than reach for him.

"it can't hurt you anymore. i'll protect you," you quietly avowed, wrapping your arms around sonic's neck and dragging him back down with you, "shh, i'm invincible. nothing will get past me, like i'm your personal dreamcatcher."

your fingers cascaded through his quills, soothing him. sonic tightly coiled his arms around you in return, soaking up your divine warmth. "... thanks, angel," he exhaled, his breath fanning across the nape of your neck. "ever since i first saw you, you've been my dream."

you could tear his heart out right now and he'd thank you for it.

#robotnik birthright au #blurbs #angst #hi yes hello i'm answering older asks hehehe

[paradoxolotl]

Monster Andrew WIP

~~

Nudging Andrew forward, Neil slipped into the water, settling against the warming copper before pulling Andrew back to rest against him. A small sigh escaped him as he settled, his shoulders drooping and tucking his face into Neil’s throat, letting Neil hold him up.

For a few moments, Neil simply held them as they were, letting Andrew breathe. His fingers traced slow paths along Andrew’s body, a silent reminder of his shape. Quietly, Neil thought he could feel the difference of his skin at every healed wound. Curling one palm across the ribs that had been shattered the day before, Neil rode the slow rise and fall of life.

Andrew hummed in question, his nose nudging along Neil’s jaw.

“Nothing,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Andrew’s head. It earned him an annoyed grunt and a sharp nip of teeth. Neil bit Andrew’s nose in turn. “It is nothing. I'm just…processing.”

“You ah-“ Andrew cut himself off, scowling. His words still sounded thick and more growl than Neil could understand.

Cupping his jaw, Neil tilted his face up until he could meet his gaze. He couldn’t help but smile, seeing Andrew’s human face staring back at him. “I know.”

~~

They walked in silence for a while, their crackling footsteps mingling with birdsong and the wind. Every new sound had Andrew twitching, as if unsure of where he wanted to look, desperate to take everything in. Neil wanted to reach out and take his hand, to lead him through the trees and watch him until his edges smoothed, but he stuffed his hands into his pockets instead. Andrew needed freedom, and Neil would never take that from him. So they walked, three guarding the back of one.

There was nothing remarkable about the spot when Andrew fell to his knees, a broken sob tearing itself from his chest. His fingers dug deep into the leaf litter and into the dirt below, shoulders curling forward and head bowed. Neil stuttered a step forward, unsure on how to help. It might have been nothing, just the weight of the shift finally taking hold, but he still found himself scanning the surrounding area for a danger he had missed.

Aaron stepped close enough until he could crouch beside his twin. Softly, he called, “Andrew?”

Gathering earth and forest into his hands, Andrew shoved it all into his face, breathing deeply. When he lifted his face to the sun, there were tears on his cheeks, awe dripping off of him.

Turning to Aaron, Andrew smiled, ferocious and wild.

~~

With a joyous whoop, Aaron chased after Andrew, shifting mid stride.

It took him two large bounds to reach him, jumping on his back and rolling them both over into the underbrush in a mess of long limbs and snow coloured fur. Andrew was only pinned for a moment before he managed to wiggle out from beneath his twin, taking off into the woods with an excited bark. Quick to follow, Aaron scrambled to his feet.

It was pointless trying to keep up with the two of them, Neil and Katelyn left behind to track the sounds of two creatures finally realizing freedom. They caught glimpses of the game of tag through the trees, flashes of white against green and deep claw marks cut into the earth. Joy, brighter than any sunrise could ever dream to be, lit Neil from within. For once, he thought he might know what it felt like to be happy.

They picked their way through the forest for the better part of an hour, Katelyn letting out a small huff of amusement each time the twins doubled back after running too far away. Their giant paws slamming to a stop as soon as they caught sight of them, pausing for only a moment to check on their people before dashing off again. but eventually they began to slow, batting at each other and bumping shoulders and heads rather than giving chase until they reached a clearing large enough for the both of them.

In sync the brothers collapsed, ribs rising and falling with each of their heavy pants. Their twitching tails sent the fallen leaves rustling, sending a few up into the air in a mini storm. Endlessly charmed, Neil and Katelyn made their way over, clambering over fallen trees that the twins had effortlessly cleared. With a large exhale, Andrew reached out, flopping a paw onto Aaron’s face. Aaron whined in protest, but made no move to dislodge it. Tail swishing through the leaves, Andrew gave his brother a wolfish grin, large teeth on full display.

“Thanks for waiting!” Katelyn called as they reached them.

With a groan, Aaron rolled into his belly, looking none too apologetic. It was hard to blame him when there was a fierce sense of joy rolling off of him and Andrew both. The thrum of their magic was still in the air, calling to the wild things in Neil’s blood. It was a feeling of pure freedom, and Neil was secretly surprised they had kept up to the twins as much as they had.

Climbing up Andrew’s side, Neil lay stomach down along his ribs, riding each gentle rise and fall happily. Andrew’s purr threatened to dislodge him from his perch, and Neil didn’t bother trying to keep down the laughter bubbling in his chest. Tomorrow, they would go back to the keep, would discuss war. But today, in this moment, nothing could touch them.

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