#I also can’t read on my commute because I would throw up

[boneless-mika]

Yes it’s annoying when people accuse people who read 100+ books a year of somehow cheating at reading but I’d argue it’s even more annoying when people respond to that by saying “It’s easy to read 100+ books a year. Anyone can do it. Just replace your screen time with reading.”

[lemonsrosesandlavender]

Writer Interview Tag

Thanks for the tags, @darkurgetrash and @kimberbohwrites <3 I really enjoyed reading yours! I tag… hmmm, who hasn’t done it yet? @dutifullylazybread @commander-krios and @redroomroaving ? (And consider this a free tag if you want it!)

When did you start writing?

I honestly couldn’t say when my very first act of creative writing was, I feel like I’ve been writing on and off my whole life (barring like 5 years from 16-21). When I was 8 or 9 is the first I really remember though. I kept a diary religiously at that time (yes, it’s hilarious), and also attempted several stories that went nowhere, including a glorious portal fantasy about two children who are isekai’d into a kingdom of cats and have to face off against an evil cat stealing wizard. As you can tell, I love cats, lmao. And I have always loved portal fantasies and isekai. A through-line all the way to Planar Tears!

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Oooh. Well, there are very few genres I *wouldn’t* read, and I’ve only written so much, so I suppose most genres currently sit in this pile for me? I can’t really see myself writing original sci-fi, despite loving it as a genre, because I think it really lives or dies on having an excellent concept more than a lot of other forms of fiction. Short of being struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration, I think I’d lack purpose. But I love, love, love science fiction. Isaac Asimov, Philip K Dick, N.K. Jemisin, Octavia Butler, John Wyndham, Marge Piercy, Ted Chiang… all of these SF authors’ stories have a place in my heart.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

No-one has yet compared me to anyone. I often realise that I’m going a little too Austen in my work, and gently push myself to modernise - but I guess that speaks to the fact that whilst I admire her, I don’t want to exactly emulate her? I love the way she gently teases her characters, the way she makes clear the contrast between what they believe and what’s actually true without being cruel. But I don’t want to write a pastiche.

On the other end of the spectrum, I recently re-read My Year of Rest and Relaxation and was reminded of how much I love Otessa Moshfegh’s cold, somewhat brutal cataloguing of the world around her character; her sparse but vivid imagery (casting aside a pair of shoes like “dead crows”) and her unlikeable but extremely readable MC. I should read more of her work!

Basically, I love to read and have a wide spectrum of influences, but I’m not aiming to emulate any single one of them. I would say my writing swings between archaic and more efficient depending on whether I’ve read classic or modern literature most recently, because I love both.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have many. On my phone anywhere - especially the commute - and at home on a laptop, either sat at our dining table (we live in a rental flat in an expensive city, a proper desk would be a luxury), or on the sofa with my girlfriend and flatmate sometimes contributing "suggestions" lol. If I'm in a writing phase, which I have been for a year - every space is a writing space.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Hmmm. I am rarely in a completely creatively fallow period - unless I'm just straight up obsessed with a game/TV show/the gym, in which case I'm busy having a good time in other ways - but I'm not always in the writing zone. I like textile crafts and sewing, and art hobbies generally. I guess that is to say, if the writing muse is not present, I rarely miss it; I'm probably thinking about something else.

(Barring the times when my mental health is fucked, but even then, I'm probably throwing myself really hard into a hobby as a distraction. I'm an all or nothing person). When I'm struggling with writer's block on say, a chapter of a long fic, it's usually because it's not quite headed in the right direction, and I need to backtrack, take stock of where my characters are emotionally, and try again in a different direction. Honestly... I know it's advised against by some, but sometimes I just have to sit down and make myself write just to figure out what's wrong. Just do it, and rip it up later if you have to. (**put it in a separate doc in case you can use it elsewhere. you probably wrote it for a reason. DO NOT TILT OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH AND DELETE YOUR SHIT, NO MATTER HOW FRUSTRATING).

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Number one is “coming to terms with making mistakes in your vocation, and recognising that you are more than your talent at it.” It’s the reason that draws me to Rolan in the first place, because it mirrors my own life experiences very closely. I was somewhat picked on and harassed in school (shit that many of us have experienced) and built my whole personality around being smart and having my life planned out as a shield against it. I was going to do [thing], I was really good at it, and it was all clear. Not to mention I loved this subject. So when I got into a prestigious university my life was sorted, right? Except... all of the hideous self-esteem issues and perfectionism I'd been papering over came crashing down all at once, and I was in an incredibly unforgiving environment, in a very male-dominated subject where other (male) students would literally be like huh, isn't it weird more women don't study this subject? Why do YOU think that is? I felt like I was worthless, stupid and useless, and that I stuck out like a sore thumb - and I was carrying the weight of every woman who wanted to do my subject and was afraid they weren't good enough. My life plans crumbled before my eyes, and I was severely depressed, alongside other health issues - which my uni did not give two fucks about, at all.

Which is to say, I draw many parallels between my own arc and Rolan's - being an outsider, the precarity of having your own talent validated only to have your entire future rest on it, and being vulnerable to really shitty messaging about how hard I should be working and how it was obviously my fault if I wasn't succeeding already, when they were one of the best universities around. And then I realised I was writing similar experiences with Catrin and SW Tav - discovering, and appreciating, that you're more than this one crutch you cling to, this singular skill that you desperately need to hold you above the maelstrom of life. And I promise that, like Rolan, this has a happy ending - I personally took some years out after battling through undergrad, faced my demons, and returned to the subject that I loved as a far more well-rounded person, better equipped to deal with failure. I'm not perfect, and I never will be. I'm neurotic and perfectionistic and all the rest. And that's probably why I keep writing, and exploring this theme - to remind myself that I want to avoid that trap, and to deal with the ways I feel when I'm in it. I was gonna write about kink here too, but I think this is enough, lol.

What is your reason for writing?

Joy. I love exercising my creative drive. And I love re-reading what I've written!

Obsession. These fuckers, these plot points, occupy every spare inch of brain and will not stop until I vent them.

Learning. Honing my skills is a frustration and a pleasure.

Connection. I'm so, so grateful to have people who read and care about my work. It means the world.

Horny. Um. Yeah. I have no further explanation for this one lmao. Except. Fantasies are amazing, but then writing them down makes them even better because now you're really thinking about the specifics and those specifics come to mind more easily next time you're [REDACTED. CABBAGE STOP. ENOUGH!!!]

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I can’t pick just one! A balanced diet of comments is the best ;)

I joke but - I love them all. Shouting about the plot? You're invested, and I'm grateful. "Additional kudos" twenty chapters in? You've stuck with me this far, and I'm grateful. I guess if I had to pick a few:

1. Strong emotional responses. Kicking my feet/biting my keyboard/stressed/blushing/screaming - whatever fits the mood of the scene. I’m so happy my writing evoked strong feelings. That’s a good chunk of the point, right?

2. Writing analysis. Picking out individual lines or highlighting certain aspects - characterisation, dramatic tension, etc. The day someone said that I "had a knack for showing character in a single action" and then provided examples, I nearly exploded. Augh. I particularly love comments on my OCs because they're especially precious to me. My own brain children, and you LIKE them? heaven for reader. heaven for reader for 1000 years.

3. “I should be sleeping but instead I read this” AND I AM KISSING YOU. That’s all.

4. Just straight up compliments. "I love this" thank you I'm crying. ahhhhhhh. Cute lil kudos graphics (you know who you are). I'm over the moon you enjoy my work. <3

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Well, I know for certain that a large swathe of my readers perceive me as “the one who writes good subby Rolan porn” and frankly? I love that reputation. If nobody appreciated the SFW elements of my work, I might feel differently, because thoughtful storytelling is also really important to me - but I feel seen in that regard too, so I can delight in knowing my writing has a distinctive flavour. Kinky chilli ice cream, spicy and sweet.

I would also love to hope my readers think of me fondly when they get the next long fic email, and are excited to continue the story. Oh, and I hope my readers enjoy chatting in my comment section, because I do. All I can aim for is to be the friendly author who "rites gud". Fingers crossed I meet that bar :)

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

You know what? I might not have said this once upon a time, but I actually think I’m pretty decent at plotting. I think I wind various threads together quite well, and with purpose.

I think I’m pretty good at observing character too. I hope. I’ve written so much Rolan that he’s really taken on a life of his own, but I do often rewatch his cutscenes (I know, such a chore 😉) and think I have a good sense for him. I also think that although Catrin started out difficult to write, I developed a very distinct character for her too, which I’m glad about.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

90% of what I’m writing is for me. I want it to be the best it can be, for me; I want it to cover the themes I care about. I want to tell the story in my head. Before BG3, I wrote for a teeny tiny fandom, inaugurating its fandom tag, and that inoculated me a little against writing for stats because well, thirty kudos felt like an INCREDIBLE achievement in that fandom.

Also, I want to write my kinky filth and not dilute it. That means actively CHOOSING not to worry about whether people are put off, because they absolutely, certainly will be in cases.

However, I do also care about my readers; I love comments and I want to give them the best story I can. I really enjoy my NSFW prompts; since my tumblr connections know the baseline of what I’m into, they can throw out AMAZING ideas that I love writing and am deeply grateful for. I’ve also definitely pushed harder on fics and oneshots because I knew a particular commenter or mutual was super excited for them ❤️ (shout out to my piss kink cheerleader lol, and everyone who has kindly - or ferally - expressed interest in my longfics).

How do you feel about your own writing?

Mostly very good! I do struggle with writer’s block sometimes, but my particular combination of perfectionism and obstinacy means I don’t tend to publish my work until I’m happy with it. I can see imperfections in my work, especially my past work, but I do genuinely enjoy the process of learning even if it frustrates me sometimes. I really enjoy re-reading what I’ve written later, because by the time it gets out there into the world, I’ve always beaten it into something I’m proud of.

I can't deny that I do, occasionally, get bitten by the little green monster though. Seeing someone else's Rolan writing get called "the best" or whatever has me nursing a tiny stab of pain. And I know it's valid - I'm not *the* best writer of all time, I'm just writing my reasonably-good stories out here, but I can't deny that small oof. (I'm tipsy so you're getting rather honest Cabbage tonight). I'm also very aware that I get many wonderful comments and treasure them, so I just accept my limitations a bit and try not to think too much about other peoples' writing that is along similar lines to my own. You're all writing beautiful stuff and I support you, but I will go NUTS if I spend my life reading closely-related fic. (If I have read your fic, know I fought my inner demons to do it, lol). Idk. I write what I want to write, as well as I can, and I'm grateful that people want to read it. Seriously. You have no idea how much every bookmark and subscription and lovely comment mean to me <3 And all I can do is my best to master this lovely art form and carve out from the marble an approximation of what I see in my head.

[bestworstcase]

a present, for you- another salem meme! (also ironically while rewatching this episode to find a good enough screenshot i thought of salem as cain while listening to the brothers telling her about her curse; but i'm not actually a christian so you probably know what possible allusions she could have better than me)

HRGDHSJCJ

oh the less said about the christian perspective on job the better <3

BUT LISTEN

LIIIIISTENNNNN

the book of job begins with the deity and the satan making a wager on the matter of job’s faith, because the deity points him out to the satan like ‘isn’t my servant job the most righteous man alive’ and the satan goes ‘of course he is, you’ve given him a charmed life, take back your blessings and see how long it takes him to curse your name’ and the deity is like ‘bet.’

so the narrative conceit here is the deity gives the satan free rein to torment job so as to reveal whether his faith is true or not: all of his wealth (livestock) is brutally wiped out or stolen by raiders who put most of his household to the sword, all ten of his children are killed, and finally he’s struck with a debilitatingly painful affliction. then his wife tells him to curse god and die and several of his friends come to sit with him in his ABJECT MISERY and that’s the end of the prologue.

the narrative proper is largely a series of discourses between job and his friends on the subject of whether or not he Deserved This.

his friends (eliphaz, bildad, zophar, and elihu) hold a belief in the absolute justness and rightness of the deity which demands that job’s suffering is either punishment for some grievous wrongdoing or else discipline meant to teach him something important.

job’s position can be summed up as “fuck you, there is nothing i could possibly have done to deserve this, i am being unfairly persecuted and because NONE OF YOU ASSHOLES BELIEVE ME I WILL MOUNT A LAWSUIT AGAINST GOD TO PROVE MY INNOCENCE”

and i just—

quotations are from edward greenstein’s excellent translation (read it it fucks)

JOB!

[3:20–22] Why give light to one in travail?

Or life to those bitter of spirit?—

Those waiting for death, but there is none,

Though they dig for it more than for treasure!

Those singing for joy at the mouth of the tomb,

Who are glad to be reaching the grave.

JOB!!

[7:17–18] What is a mortal that you treat him as important?

Why do you pay him any mind,

Take account of him each morning,

Test him every minute?

[19] Why can’t you just look away from me,

Let go for just a swallow of spit?

[20] If I’ve sinned, what can I do to you,

O Watcher of Humankind?

Why have you made me your target?

How could I be a burden to you?

[21] Why can’t you pardon my transgression,

Commute my punishment?

For I’ll soon be lying in the dirt—

And when you seek me, I’ll be gone.

JOB!!!

[19:21] I am innocent—I care not for my self;

I’m fed up with my life.

[22] It is all the same.

And so I declare:

The innocent and the guilty he brings to (the same) end.

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

[10:1] My entire being despises my life.

I would prepare a complaint on my behalf,

I would speak in the bitterness of my being;

[2] I would say to Eloah: “Do not condemn me!

Let me know of what you accuse me!

[3] Does it do you any good to do wrong?

To reject the effort of your hands?

While you shine favor on the schemes of the wicked?

[4–5] Have you eyes that are of flesh?

Do you see as a mortal sees?

Are your days like the days of a mortal?

Are your years like those of a man?

[6–7] When you go looking for my crime,

And investigate my sin,

You know very well I am not guilty—

But no one can rescue from your hand!

[8–9] Your hands formed me and made me,

Put me together—then destroyed me!

Mind now, it is you who made me like clay,

And will return me to the dust!

I WILL TAKE MY FLESH IN MY TEETH

[13:13] Keep silent before me, so that I may speak—

Whatever may come upon me!

[14–15] I will take my flesh in my teeth,

And I will place my life-breath in my hand.

Though he slay me, I will no longer wait—

I will accuse him of his ways to his face!

SO YOU OBLITERATE A MORTAL’S HOPE

[14:18–19] And yet, a cliff will fall and crumble;

A mountain will be moved from its place;

Rocks are worn down by water;

A torrent sweeps away the earth’s dust;

So do you obliterate a mortal’s hope.

[20] You assault him continually—and he passes on;

You disfigure him—and then you dispatch him.

AUGH!!!

[16:6] If I speak out, my pain will not be spared.

But if I desist, how will it leave me?

[7] By now he has worn me down;

You have devastated my entire company.

[8] You have shriveled me, and this has become a stigma;

My gauntness stands up and testifies against me.

[9] As his anger rages, he strikes a hostile pose;

He gnashes his teeth at me;

My enemy sharpens his eyes at me.

[10] People’s mouths gape at me,

They strike my cheeks to shame me;

They all form gangs against me.

I JUST—

[19:21] Have compassion, compassion, you my friends!

For the hand of Eloah has afflicted me.

[22] Why do you like El persecute me?

Why can’t you get your fill of my flesh?

HE SWEARS OVER AND OVER HE ISNT LYING

[27:3–4] So long as there is life-breath within me,

And in my nostrils Eloah’s spirit,

I swear that my lips will speak nothing corrupt,

And my tongue will utter no deceit.

JOB!!!!

[30:26–28] For I hoped for good, but there came bad;

I expected light, but there came darkness,

My insides roil and can’t be still;

I’ve been greeted by days of affliction.

I walk in gloom without a sun;

In the assembly I stand and cry out.

SORRY I LITERALLY CANNOT READ JOB WITHOUT BECOMING DERANGED. (BUT DO YOU SEE. WHERE I AM GETTING THE SALEM CONNECTION)

anyway in chapter 30 job makes an oath of his innocence and (after a very! lengthy! interjection from elihu) the deity turns up in chapter 38 to answer job’s lawsuit by going, in essence, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I’M GOD! whereupon job is literally like

[40:3] Up spoke Job to YHWH and he said:

[4–5] Lacking respect, how can I answer you?

My hand I place over my mouth.

I have spoken once and I will not repeat;

Twice—and I will (speak) no more.

“ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION IM NOT GOING TO REPEAT MYSELF”

who else is doing it like job

then the deity goes LOOK AT THESE AWESOME CREATURES I MADE. CAN YOU TAME THE LEVIATHAN, JOB? HUH? EVEN GODS TREMBLE BEFORE HIM

and then—well the standard translation reads job’s final statement as repentance but this is notoriously a difficult passage, and as a matter of narrative and the context of the chapter as a whole i think greenstein’s reading makes considerably more sense—anyway job goes:

[42:1] Up spoke Job to YHWH and he said:

[2] I have known you are able to do all;

That you cannot be blocked from any scheme.

[3] “Who is this hiding counsel without knowledge?”

Truly I’ve spoken without comprehending—

Wonders beyond me that I do not know.

[4] “Hear now and I will speak!

I will ask you, and you help me know!”

[5] As a hearing by the ear I have heard you,

And now my eye has seen you.

[6] That is why I am fed up;

I take pity on “dust and ashes!”

(in 42:2 job is echoing the language the deity uses in genesis 11:6 in reference to the builders of the tower of babel; ‘dust and ashes’ is an epithet for wretched humanity and also occurs in chapter 30.)

I TAKE PITY ON DUST AND ASHES.

WHO IS DOING IT LIKE JOB

imagine being so DONE that you have the wherewithal to be scathingly sarcastic TO GOD’S FACE

and then the deity praises his honesty, scolds his friends for bleating platitudes instead of speaking the truth, and restores everything that was taken from job and more THE END.

/lies down

read job. theodicy of all time

one day i am going to calm down about job enough to finish my actual. coherent salem-as-job screed instead of just firehosing out half the passages that make me DERANGED but DO YOU SEE. DO YOU SEEEEEEEEEEE

horrific torment at the hands of divine beings for the pettiest of reasons. unspeakable anguish. isolation and exile! desolation! absolute certainty that his suffering is cruel and unjust! utter scorn for deceit and falsehood! he cannot rest because the deity will not let him die no matter how he begs for death! his wife his friends his community all turn against him, repulsed by his agony! he sues god!! he tells god i hear you, i see you, i feel fucking sorry for all of us who mean nothing to you!!!

[digitalsatyr23]

Dealing with Schizophrenia

Saw a post earlier about schizophrenia and it really got me thinking about my own issues. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, depression, and anxiety disorder ages ago and I really had to learn how to pace myself to survive. Despite the various issues I had to deal with on a day to day basis, the world never slowed down for me (why would it, after all). I remember back when I was a floral clerk at a Fred Meyer I would sometimes hide in our cold storage for our flowers just so I could take a breather. Having to manage the day to day of a busy retail job while a bunch of voices in your head are prattling on, arguing with each other, and telling you to do all sorts of terrible things is... Difficult, to say the least. When I’m not too stressed out I only deal with negative symptoms, but when I’m in stressful situations my positive symptoms can resurface. I’m glad the only hallucinations I had at that job were auditory because if I had any of the visual ones I had in the past that would have been it. Instead of trying to focus on the task at hand I’d be running full speed from the flesh monsters. (I wish I was exaggerating but I’m really not.)

For those who are just learning about their condition or have been struggling with it for years like I have, my heart goes out to you. You’re far stronger than the world gives you credit for.

Also, here are some tips for those who might need it:

Stress can and will exacerbate your symptoms, so be careful not to overburden yourself with too many responsibilities and obligations. You shouldn’t avoid these things entirely, but try and learn your limits so you can better manage your stress levels and lead a calmer and more controlled life.

Bouncing off the first tip, it’s impossible to avoid stressful situations all the time, but you can take steps to make things easier on you. When you need to go on a long commute, consider bringing comfort food/drink with you. Overeating can be a bad habit too, but there’s nothing wrong with having a little treat for yourself every once and a while.

Do you have a personal belonging that brings you great comfort, helps you focus, and/or helps you block out negative thoughts? Keep it with you! For me, I never leave home without my mp3 player because music helps me cope with stress and helps me focus on things.

Do what you can to keep up with your basic needs. Drink plenty of water, get plenty of sleep, keep yourself fed, and practice good hygiene. It can be tough to feel the necessary motivation sometimes, but I guarantee you that you’ll feel x10 better if you’re hydrated, fed, well-rested, and clean.

Finally, try not to make too many excuses for yourself. I know that may feel contradictory alongside me saying schizophrenia can be a struggle, but I feel it’s important to avoid throwing your hands up when things start to get too difficult. We need to take care of ourselves and know our limits, but we also don’t want to let those limits increase, you know? You can’t let your symptoms beat you. You’re stronger than that. Be patient with yourself, take a breather when things get stressful, and when you’re ready, keep on keeping on.

Also I do recognize that my tips aren’t going to work for everyone. I’m just sharing these because they’re things that helped me manage my symptoms. Part of the struggle is figuring out what works for you. I wish whoever is reading this the best of luck. Stay strong, everyone!

[gallifrey1sburning]

An incomplete list of things that have gone wrong since my move to a new apartment and city two weeks ago:

Moving truck and car both ran out of space and we had to throw out a bunch of shit we didn’t intend to (this is on us for underestimating how much we had accumulated in six years)

The super didn’t leave us the elevator key to lock it for the movers to use

The city didn’t provide the promised “no parking” signs to reserve space for the moving truck in front of the building on a narrow, one-way street

The movers dropped and left a massive hole in the back of one of my bookcases

The movers also broke the Edison bulb in my floor lamp off in the socket and lied about it, so I was just convinced I bought the wrong size replacement bulbs. Twice. Before noticing the fucked up corpse of a lightbulb base in the lamp and removing it with needlenose pliers (thanks, crafting!)

In unpacking, found that the beautiful wool cable knit sweater I spent an entire year knitting in college and was very proud of was infested with some sort of insect and had to throw it out.

All frustrating but manageable, yes? BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE

No hot water for the first FULL WEEK we were here

When they sent a plumber to fix the hot water, he saw that the air conditioning unit was flooding the utility room, so we had to turn it off. It’s been four days and it’s not fixed because they need access to something on the roof but…

…they can’t get to the roof because the key is gone and no one in the building or management company knows where it is

(PS the hot water fix is a workaround because it ALSO isn’t venting properly through the roof)

To keep the air circulating while the water heater is borrowing air from the apartment while its roof access pipes are blocked or whatever (I am not a tradesman, I am relaying what the professionals have told me), we are supposed to keep a window cracked. When we tried to do so, we found that the double-hung windows were installed incorrectly, and if you try to open them, the entire top pane drops violently. There is no screen on the top portion of the window.

(This is notable because there are A LOT of insects flying around in this area right now, none of which you would want in your apartment)

The dishwasher is broken

The drains are not draining

We partially moved here so I could start working hybrid, and today, for what would have been my fourth in-office day, well, let’s just say that I did NOT make it in, and that might have something to do with what the New York Times referred to as a “doom loop for NJ commuters” with delays in ALL types of transit into Manhattan ranging from one to four hours. People were jumping out of buses inside the Lincoln Tunnel. I opted to work from home in my unairconditioned apartment, where the thermostat was registering 84 degrees. Which could technically be worse, but certainly wasn’t pleasant.

Took a break from work and decided to run an errand locally; went to the garage to find our car straight up GONE - after several hours of panicked calls with the management company and reporting the car stolen (because the management company said they didn’t call a tow truck on us), turns out we’d read our move in packet wrong and were in the wrong spot, and instead of calling the super or building management to ask us to move, our neighbors CALLED THE COPS and had us TICKETED AND TOWED. Which they are very much not supposed to do by building standards but isn’t technically illegal, just shitty behavior. And since we hadn’t driven in 9 days because we’re trying to use public transit as much as possible (when it’s running, anyway), the car had been held by the tow company for 5 days by the time we saw it was gone and it cost us $500 to get it back, plus $56 for the ticket.

And the most horrendous thing about all of this? I’m still happier than I’ve been in YEARS, because New York and I have been in an on and off abusive relationship since 2007 and she is one of the epic loves of my life.

Oh, also our rent Is fucking ASTRONOMICAL. Welcome home to me.

[1d1195]

Sam! The newest part of Most was EVERYTHING!! Now you know absolutely LOVED Lauren getting publicly embarrassed by Harry calling her out like that! I swear I was so happy knowing that she finally got exposed and she technically exposed herself lol I do think it was so right for Harry being the one to find out because I fear the MC would have just been too nice to her lol but also I think it gives him some closure? Idk if that’s the right word but I think it helps fill in some gaps for that time of the breakup. ANYWAYS loved reading that lol

Now you have been putting this couple through so much but honestly I love it! Harry was literally in shambles while driving to her apartment and he had to find out she was TRAPPED IN HER BUILDING THATS ONE FIRE?!? And she DIDNT REALIZE IT?!? I would start crying ngl if I was in his position lol I was so invested when reading the last half especially when she dropped her love confession as almost a goodbye?! I’m so excited to see how their story will be wrapped up! They are so in love I can’t! So so good bestie as always you’re killing it with these stories!

Also sorry it took so long to reply back! Had such a busy week and I’m just so tired lol my summer classes end in 3 ish weeks so this upcoming week are my midterms(so crazy 😔)! Idk when fall classes start exactly but I think the last week of September maybe? Idk I’m avoiding knowing it lol and don’t be sorry for asking questions! I love questions! I commute to school so I’ve never lived on campus. I live with my parents still so it has its pros and cons lol

Though I’m so surprised you almost start your school year again?? Idk if I’ve just lost the concept of time but I thought you still had a pretty good chunk left of summer break for you?! I can only imagine how hard it is to be “on” all the time especially as a teacher and I hope that you do set goals for not overwhelming/working yourself this year! I just know you can do it my love because you are so important! Always rooting for you💗

I LOVE that you’re having some free time to read! And honestly some smut/romance books are needed sometimes so I don’t blame you for gobbling them up! Anything that you come up for Monday I’m sure it will be great even if it’s sad lol and a check in is always nice! I love to see how the couples are doing! I was just thinking about the Zipper couple bc I saw a horse drawn carriage yesterday when I went out lol and I LOVE YOUR RAMBLING!!! I could never get tired of it or you!! Love little updates on the life of Sam lol

Hope this weekend treats you well and sending the best vibes! Love you lots!!!-💜

Hi!!!! I have been dying for Harry to figure it out. I know it took a while but I hope it was kind of worth the wait. It's funny you say that about the MC finding out 👀 It def gives him closure. I'm so glad to be done with Lauren. (Although I'm sure I'm going to have to write an extra about her running into Lauren hehehe)

I just LOVE to have drama and make Harry stress out when I write 🤭🤭 There's something DEFINITELY wrong with me its in all my romance books basically. I'm just a sucker for a protective guy getting all worried about his lady 😅 HE DEF was SOBBING. I think I wrote he was crying but it was subtle because I had to make sure he could still see but maybe that's the next part hahahahaha but in my head he was a blubbering mess 🤭 This part was SO short when I originally wrote it. I know it's pretty dialogue heavy and I just couldn't figure out how to make it any longer so I just kept throwing stuff in and I was like "she should just tell him. It's pretty obvious anyway."

I am so appreciative of your compliments as always 💕

Please don't apologize! I bet you're exhausted! 3 weeks seems like forever. That's interesting you start toward the end of September. There's NOTHING wrong with living at home and commuting. I have an apartment and I love my bf but I would move back home to my INSANE family in a heartbeat if it meant I could save more money 😅 I was lucky to live on campus because of scholarships and stuff but even still I was only an hour away from home if I needed anything and after my first year I had my car with me.

I have one more full week off but I've been SO busy I feel like I didn't really get a break :( idk. I know people complain about teachers having all this time off but it goes quick and shoving all the things you need to do into it is difficult. I haven't even seen like half of my friends that I wanted to see which I normally budget my time off with. The thought of meeting up with them is exhausting and as I've mentioned before I always do the reaching out so that's exhausting in it's own right. I think I will likely have to book myself into September and hang out with them at that time.

I actually reread parts of Zipper the other day 😭 I think they probably rotate through my top 3 couples and stories. But what's a little sad is I would love to write more about them, but I think they might be done. I feel (hope) I wrote a really solid ending for them and I could write about their kids or whatever but idk if that's worth it. I like to think of them as all wrapped up--zipped closed, if you will. 🤭

LOVE YOU hope your weekend allows you some time to yourself and your midterms are easy peasy 💕

xoxo

[power-chords]

@wintercorrybriea2 re: surmounting Writer’s Block and/or Writer’s Traffic Jam, this is a rundown of strategies that work for me personally, and by “work” I mean “ameliorate the problem anywhere from 30-75% about 30-75% of the time,” lmao, but this is literally my cheat sheet for when I get stuck:

Freedraft. (Also known as freewriting.) Implement a regular freedrafting schedule. Even if it’s just 15 minutes at a set time each day. I hate freedrafting because forcing my neurotic self-monitoring editor brain to shut up is impossible. But you have to do it. It is the only way you will get both faster and better at writing. In the month of August I committed to freedrafting for 34 minutes every weekday in a notebook on the train, because that’s the duration of my MNR commute in the morning. And I wound up completing a 16,000-word project I had been working on in a little under three weeks, which for me is a personal record! I write SLOW. The first week sucked but before you know it you’ll be off to the races. Forge the habit. Do whatever you need to do to forge the habit.

If you can’t freedraft, outline. Structure first, details later. Revise your outline, re-write your outline, expand on it or experiment with it, get more granular with it. Get an idea in your head of where you want things to go, and get it down on paper or in a word processor. Even if it’s just: Character needs to get from Room A to Room B over the course of this scene. How might you want them to do that?

If you can’t outline, read. If my creative writing gears are jammed it means I’m probably not reading enough to grease them. This should technically be #1, because the most important thing a writer can do is READ. Read fiction, and read research materials on the subject(s) you’re writing about.

If you can’t read, seek inspiration in other, related mediums, and maybe take some drugs. Seriously. Some of my best story ideas have come while I’m high off my ass, binging movies or making playlists in a similar genre or mood to what I’m writing. Whatever it takes to get you looser and less inhibited creatively. NOTE: make sure you check those ideas for coherence later, when you’re not under the influence. Spitball stoned; scrutinize sober.

Go for a walk and listen to music and daydream. It’s also just good for you and you will be a happier person.

Revisit central dramatic conflicts and character motives. What’s the Problem in the story, or the Problem in the chapter? What do your characters want, and what motivates them to handle the problem in the way that they do? What’s preventing them, both externally and internally, from finding easy resolution?

Revisit character transformations — or lack thereof. How do you want your characters to change over the course of your story? What are the ways that those changes could be interestingly, meaningfully effected? If one of them is not going to change — and sometimes this is even more interesting — what kinds of narrative scenarios would be the kind to make them stubbornly refuse growth, and why?

Revisit themes, symbols, and motifs that have already established themselves in your work. This is really only helpful if you’ve got enough already done that you can observe them. But if you have a general idea of where you want your story to go, and are struggling with the mechanics for getting there, finding those preexisting patterns might illuminate a path forward.

Craft backstories for your characters, and borrow liberally from real-world observation and research. The better you know your characters, the easier it will be to inhabit them, and the easier it will be to write them past the blocks that throw themselves up in your way. I am absolute dog shit at creative invention from scratch, which is part of the reason I write more fanfiction than original work, but drawing abundantly and directly from life is also how some of the most compelling original work gets made. (Cough cough…)

Revisit the source material and “novelize” a scene. This is only applicable to transformative work, but I’m including it since you mentioned you might be doing some forays into worldbuilding. If I’m stuck at a particular juncture in my own fic, I practice writing out an existing scene from the source itself, almost as if I were adapting it for a novel. This way, I can stay inside that universe and practice writing in it without having to do the heavy lifting required by plot. It’s more of a descriptive exercise, and I often find it gets my imagination and motivation going to resume writing the “real” thing.

SORRY, that got long! But with a little luck there’s some small thing of use to you in there!

[junghelioseok]

heart-on.

↳ your one-night stand definitely isn’t relationship material, but maybe—just maybe—your manager’s son is.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | strangers to lovers!au ◇ 10.1k [1/1]

❛❛ my boss is always telling me how perfect her son would be for me and she promises he’s coming to the next holiday party and don’t worry he’s heard all about me too and ALSO there’s this dude i slept with once a couple of months ago and sometimes he still sends me dick pics when i ask him to at 3 in the morning cause seriously dude’s got a good dick ❜❜

notes: welcome to the first installment of the serendipity series! we’re starting with hoseok, because, well, have you met me? 🤣 be warned, however, that this isn’t anywhere near as edited as i’d like so i’ll probably give it another read/edit tomorrow but for now!!! here it is!!!

⇢ series masterlist. | inspired by this post.

warnings: dirty talk bc hoseok’s got a bit of a mouth on him, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids!), sexting. dick pics, obvi. brief mention of a dead pet goldfish :(

You’re refilling your mug when you hear it. Voices filter out from the kitchen, floating past the coffee station where you’re pouring yourself another drink and hanging in the open air of the hallway that leads back to the rest of the office. They’re familiar voices, too—voices that belong to the resident gossips of your workplace. Lottie’s pitchy, nasal tone melds with Hyejin’s higher one, their conversation interrupted every so often by an exaggerated exclamation or gasp from Sandra, the third and final member of their trio.

“Haven’t you heard? Carolyn’s divorce was finalized over the weekend, the poor thing.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine how she’s feeling. I mean, getting back into dating at her age? Goodness!”

“And now she’ll be all alone at the holiday party, too. How sad is that?”

“It’s tragic. Poor thing.”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a packet of sugar and tear it open, upending it over your mug and watching the crystalline granules fall into the dark liquid within. You know for a fact that Sandra and her husband can’t even stand to be in the same room for an extended period of time, considering how they’d spent most of last year’s holiday party talking to entirely different groups of people. You’d sat two tables away from them during dinner, and they hadn’t even made eye contact once. And as for Lottie and Hyejin, well, you’re certain that their relationships aren’t much better. All three of them are miserable people as far as you’re concerned, and you make a mental note to check in on Carolyn—a sweet woman in her thirties who always keeps chocolate bars in her purse—on your way back to your desk.

“Sheesh. Vultures, the lot of them. Don’t you think?”

You whirl at the sound of your manager’s voice. Kyunghee Jung is a dark-haired woman in her late fifties, and she laughs when she sees your startled expression, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Easy! You’ll spill your coffee if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll probably have a heart attack first,” you reply, pressing a hand to your chest. “What was your job before this? Some kind of intelligence operative? Are you a super spy?”

Kyunghee laughs again and joins you at the counter. “Nothing even remotely as exciting as that,” she answers, plopping her mug down beside yours. It’s decorated with what looks like every color of the rainbow, a massive smiling sunflower taking up the majority of the surface, and the only remnant of the ceramic’s original color is on the very edge of the handle where there’s a lopsided little patch of white. The piece is clearly handmade, and a stark contrast to the simple mint green cup that houses your coffee. Looking at it, it’s impossible not to smile.

“I love that,” you remark, inclining your head at her mug. “Was it a present from one of your kids?”

“Hoseok,” she confirms, running a fingertip along the imperfect handle fondly. “I’ve told you about him before—he’s right around your age.”

You chuckle. “Right, I remember. That’s why he’s the perfect match for me, right?”

“Come now, there’s more to it than that,” Kyunghee defends, waving a hand. “But yes, to answer your question. He gave it to me as a birthday present when he was eight.”

“Well, you never told me he was an artist,” you tease. “Does he have an Etsy? Can I buy one of these off him? Does he do custom orders, maybe?”

Normally, your manager is more than happy to play along with your jokes, but today Kyunghee fixes you with an uncharacteristically serious look. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she asks. “He’s coming to the holiday party, after all. I figured you could finally meet.”

You blink. Kyunghee has been making offhand remarks about how well you would get on with her son, Hoseok, for over a year now, but you’ve never even come close to broaching the topic of meeting him. You don’t even know anything about the man beyond the fact that his name is Hoseok and that he works somewhere downtown. He also favors tall socks and yellow suspenders if the framed photograph on Kyunghee’s desk is any indication—or at least, he certainly did when he was still in diapers. Whether he still does, is anyone’s guess.

“Wow, I had no idea he was even interested in coming,” you manage when you’ve recovered from your surprise. “Did you bribe him?”

If Kyunghee notices that your voice is a few pitches higher than usual, she doesn’t remark on it. “Oh, you know. I just told him that this would be his last chance to score free booze on the company’s dime.” She laughs. “Three more months and it’s going to be all beaches and sunshine for me. I might even become a cruise person in my retirement.”

You gasp and slap a hand to your heart. “Kyunghee! Think of the environmental impact!”

“I said I might!” she retorts immediately. “Sheesh. Even in my old age, it’s hard to conveniently forget how shitty and unsustainable those damn boats are.”

You pick up your mug and raise it in a salute. “Well, the oceans thank you.”

“My husband doesn’t,” she answers with a sigh. “He’s been dying to book one of those trips that stop all along the Mediterrannean coastline, and I can’t exactly blame him.”

“That is tempting,” you admit. “You’ll have to send photos, if you do end up going.”

“You’ll be sick of me and my photos before the first day is even up,” she promises. Then she pauses, her eyes darting toward the kitchen where silence has fallen in the last few minutes. “Speaking of being sick—you think the vultures are still hovering around in there? I haven’t had lunch yet, and I need the microwave.”

Obligingly, you edge a little closer to the kitchen doorway and poke your head around the frame, scanning for Lottie and her sidekicks. “Coast is clear. Enjoy your lunch, Kyunghee.”

She nods and raises her mug at you, returning your salute. “I always do.”

///

As soon as the work day ends, you fall into your usual routine. Your commute home is easily walkable on nicer days, and though the winter weather is brisker than you’d like, you decide to walk for the sake of stopping at the convenience store on the corner of the block.

Once you arrive back at your apartment, you change into your comfiest sweats and a loose tee. You turn on some music while you throw together some dinner, and settle onto the couch half an hour later with a full plate and Netflix. Television is a welcome distraction from the events of the workday, and you manage to get through three full episodes of your current show before your pesky brain decides to revisit the events of today, replaying the conversations that you’d both had and overheard.

There’s no denying that you’ve been single for quite some time now, and for the most part, it’s been by choice. Ever since graduating from university, you’ve chosen to focus more on your career, and it’s paid off both in terms of the important position you hold in your company and your above average salary. And yet, you can’t help but think back to the gossip you’d overheard earlier—about the supposed tragedy of being single and attending the upcoming holiday party alone. Your mind wanders to Kyunghee’s son, Hoseok, and how he’ll be in attendance this year. You wonder what he’s like, and whether he really is perfect for you, as Kyunghee seems to be so fond of mentioning.

And then your mind goes to Jay.

You met Jay two months ago, on a well-deserved night out after a hellish workweek. The bar was crowded, and the music coming from the neon dancefloor in the back was just loud enough to drown out your inhibitions. That, combined with the alcohol swimming through your system, made you bold. You sashayed your way across the dancefloor, dodging inebriated bodies and swaying limbs as you fixed your attention on the head of pale lavender hair and deliciously broad shoulders that awaits you just behind the bar counter. The bartender is nothing short of gorgeous, and you’ve thrown all caution to the wind. Sure, several other women are eyeing him like he’s their next meal—several men are, too—but you need another drink. And while he prepares it, you plan to flirt.

A lot.

The bar counter is sticky with spilled liquor, but you don’t pay that any mind as you lean across it, the wood digging into the narrow strip of exposed skin left by your cropped top. “Hi!” you call, and the bartender looks up from where he’s just finished pouring a round of shots for a group of raucous young men.

“Hi yourself,” he says, his pillowy lips stretching into an easy smile. “What can I get you?”

You pretend not to notice the way his eyes flicker down to the dip of your cleavage and instead put on the sultriest smile you are capable of mustering. “Vodka soda,” you tell him, injecting a bit of purr into your voice. “A bit of lemon too, if you have it.”

“Trust me, I have it,” he assures, his smile growing as he reaches for a clean glass and a clear bottle. “Name’s Jin, by the way. I’m here all night, if you need anything e—”

A loud clatter and the sound of breaking glass interrupts the rest of his sentence, and all eyes at the bar go to the source of the disturbance. Conversations stutter to a halt, and even the thumping bass of the music seems to dull. Jin darts to the other end of the bar, where you can see that one of several barstools has fallen to the ground. There’s a man on the ground as well, surrounded by shattered glass and spilled dark liquor, and your eyes widen when you realize that you know him.

And arguably, a little too well.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. People are starting to lose interest in the spectacle, turning back to their own conversations and continuing on as if nothing had happened at all. The man is beginning to clamber to his feet, and a few people lend a helping hand as Jin begins barking out orders for everyone to step back so he can sweep up the broken glass. You seize upon the opportunity, latching on to the nearest arm and pulling them close so you can hide behind them. Vaguely, you’re aware of them sputtering in surprise, but you only have eyes for the man who had fallen off his stool, watching him carefully as he brushes himself off and tries to play it cool despite the sizable patch of whiskey soaking his white shirt.

“Hey, uh…” Your human shield is speaking. “Are you okay? You’re squeezing me pretty tight.”

That draws you out of your daze. Abashed, you loosen your grip on his arm and look up into his face, your throat going dry when you realize how handsome he is. His black hair is parted over his forehead, a stray strand falling into warm brown eyes set above a straight nose and an inviting mouth. There’s a freckle above his top lip, just shy of the center, and your inebriated brain wonders just what it would be like to kiss it.

“I, um—” You clear your throat and try again. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t want him to see me.”

Your newfound companion raises an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder at the drunk man, who is now being ushered out of the bar by his buddies. “You know that guy?”

You nod, cringing. “Yeah, his name’s Trent. I… may or may not have dated him for a few months last year.”

The man laughs out loud. “You dated a Trent?”

“What, like you’ve never made a questionable life choice?” you challenge. “Besides, you shouldn’t judge someone based on the sins of their parents. It’s not his fault they gave him a terrible name.”

“Sure, but it is on him for going along with it,” he replies with a shrug. “I would’ve changed my name as soon as I could if my parents had named me Trent. But hey, that’s just one man’s opinion.”

You laugh. “Okay then, Not-Trent.” Relinquishing your grip on his arm, you let your fingers graze his hand before pulling away entirely. “What do you say we continue this conversation over a drink?”

The man, whose name is decidedly not Trent, catches your fingers in his and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Happily.”

One drink turns into two, and then three. By the end of the hour, you are feeling pleasantly warm, the alcohol spreading through your veins like molasses and turning your surroundings into a hazy blur. The music has grown even louder, pounding against your eardrums, and you grab onto Not-Trent’s wrist as he sets his now-empty glass back down onto the counter.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the thumping bassline. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

“The parking lot’s out back,” he suggests. “Why don’t we get some air?”

You nod and stand up on wobbly legs, cursing your decision to wear heels when you stumble into your companion. He steadies you with a gentle but firm hand, and you don’t miss the way his touch lingers on your lower back, his palm warm through the material of your blouse.

Together, the two of you pick your way through the throng of swaying bodies on the dancefloor. The bassline thuds in your ears, dark and hypnotic, and you can feel the reverberations thrumming across the slats of your ribs and echoing in the cavern of your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s almost a relief, then, when you step out into the cool night air. Your ears continue to ring for a few seconds, but it soon fades and leaves behind only the muted hum of traffic from the street and the faint sound of music from inside. At your side, Not-Trent releases a long breath and leans against the brick wall of the building, and you turn to take in the steep slopes of his side profile as he tilts his head up toward the velvety night sky.

He’s handsome. Dressed in ripped jeans and black leather, he’s a sight to behold, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been craving a bit of intimacy for quite some time now. The alcohol swimming through your system makes you bolder than you normally would be, and you reach out to lay a hand on his arm. He turns toward you with a silent question glimmering in his irises, but you simply step closer, until you’re pinning him against the wall with your body and you’re breathing the same air.

“Hey,” you say, your voice an airy whisper. His eyes are near obsidian in the dimness of the parking lot, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlamps on either end, and your gaze flickers down to his mouth before roving to the freckle that sits upon his top lip. “Kiss me?”

Your companion’s eyes widen. His lips part, but no words come out, and you’re about to repeat your question when he finally finds his voice again.

“That’s really… that’s not a good idea.” Awkwardly, he clears his throat, but the hoarseness of his voice and the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple give away his true desires. “Look, you’ve been drinking. We both have, and—”

You cut him off, pushing up to your tiptoes and planting a messy kiss to the soft dip just beneath his bottom lip. “Don’t care,” you mumble against his skin. “I want you.”

Your companion laughs weakly. His hands find their way to your waist and pause there, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. “You don’t even know me,” he murmurs.

“I don’t have to know you,” you reply. Your fingers drag down his chest, trailing along the delicate silver necklace that rests against the black of his shirt. From the chain hangs a round pendant, the surface engraved with the letter J. Slowly, you trace it with a fingertip, the metal shining even in the dim light, and satisfaction blooms in your heart when your companion’s throat bobs again. “I want you,” you breathe, soft but insistent. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I—” He clears his throat and tries again, and you wonder if he realizes that his hands have slid down to your hips, or that there’s a growing hardness against your lower stomach that’s becoming increasingly harder to ignore. “Look, I’m flattered—really, I am. And you’re… I mean, fuck, you’re gorgeous. But I don’t think we should do anything when you’re clearly not in the right frame of mind to be making this kind of decision, and—”

“And, nothing.” You wind your arms around his neck, pressing close and grinding subtly against the bulge in his pants. You smirk when he releases a low hiss from between his teeth, and hide it by laying a trail of kisses along the stretch of bare skin exposed by the dip of his collar. “Stop being such a gentleman,” you whisper. Your fingers trail down his chest, past the silver of his pendant and down to the faded denim of his jeans, teasing at the cool metal of his belt buckle. “I want this. But if you’re not interested, I can always go back in there and—”

The rest of your sentence dies in your throat. Your companion has tugged you flush against him in one smooth motion, and your gasp is cut off by the firm press of his mouth against yours. Immediately, you melt into the kiss, and a moan tears from your lips when he spins you around and pins you against the brick wall of the building.

“You’re a spoiled little thing, huh?” His breath fans hot against your cheeks, and you shiver when you meet his eyes and see the dark promise reflected there. “Used to getting what you want, huh, princess?”

Your breath hitches at the endearment—something your companion doesn’t miss. “Oh, you like that?” He chuckles hoarsely, and when he speaks again it’s in a rasp that sends heat straight to your core. “What else do you like, hmm? You want me to be rough with you, princess? Or should I be gentle and treat you like a queen?”

You reach up, raking your fingers through his hair and skimming across the soft strands of his undercut before finding purchase at his nape. “You talk too much,” you whisper.

And then you’re crushing your mouth back against his, whining when he immediately takes back control of the kiss. His grip slides downward, his fingertips digging into the skin just above the curve of your ass, and you squeak when he grabs the back of your thigh and hooks your leg around his waist.

“You feel that?” he rasps into your ear, nipping at the delicate shell and chortling when you keen. Your skirt has ridden up dangerously high on your spread thighs, and you let out a soft whimper when he grinds harshly against your center. The lace of your panties and the denim of his jeans are the last barricades between you, and you wonder, vaguely, whether your companion has a bit of an exhibitionist streak when he slides one of your sleeves down your shoulder and begins kissing a trail down to the swell of your cleavage. “You feel how hard you’ve gotten me?”

You lean down, kissing the soft spot where his jaw meets his ear before letting your teeth graze against his skin. “Why don’t you do something about it then?”

He hisses out a sharp breath, his hands tightening their hold on your hips. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, huh? I can’t wait to make you eat your words.”

Any retort you may have had is interrupted by a sudden swell of music and the sound of a slamming door. Whirling to face the source of the noise, you immediately spot a familiar head of lavender hair atop broad shoulders encapsulated in the black uniform of the bar. Jin hasn’t noticed the two of you yet, his attention fixated on his cell phone screen, but he looks up when you let out a little squeak of surprise and shove your companion’s chest in an attempt to create some distance between you.

“Hey.” Jin raises a hand in greeting, a knowing smirk curling his lips. “This phone call shouldn’t be too long, so please. Don’t stop the party on my behalf.”

Heat floods to your cheeks. There isn’t much use protesting against his insinuation, considering the rather compromising position you’re in. Much to your relief, though, your companion simply huffs out a chuckle and waves Jin off. “Thanks, man, but we’ll get out of your hair.” Lowering his voice, he turns back to you. “Coming, princess?”

You nod. He offers you his hand, and you take it gratefully, adjusting your skirt so that it drapes properly over your hips and thighs again.

“Have a good night!” Jin calls after you, amusement lacing every word. You can’t work up the nerve to respond, and luckily, you don’t have to. Your companion leads you around the corner of the building, where several rows of cars are parked beneath an orange streetlamp. On this side, the exterior brick wall is painted with a mural, and you admire the colorful galaxies and nebulae swirling amidst silvery white stars and the word serendipity spray-painted in pale blue.

The last car in the row is parked just beneath the letter Y, and it’s here that your companion stops. The sleek black vehicle has an almost vintage feel to it, and you glance up when you hear the jingle of metal.

“I’m guessing this is yours?”

He nods, pulling a set of keys from the pocket of his leather jacket and inserting one into the lock. “Yeah. You like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him, tracing the edge of the passenger window “Makes my car look like a total piece of shit by comparison.”

Your companion chuckles, pulling open the driver’s side door, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window as he presses a button to unlock the rest of the doors. Your hair’s a bit of a mess and your mascara has smudged beneath your right eye, and you hurriedly swipe at it as your companion turns his attention back to you.

“So,” he says. “Now what? I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

Deliberately, you let your gaze drop down to his crotch, where his bulge—albeit waning—is still visible. “Seriously? I thought you were going to… what was it again? Make me eat my words?”

And just like that, it’s as if a switch has flipped. His eyes darken to obsidian, his lips settling into a stern line, and you barely have time to draw in a breath before he’s caging you against the side of his car and molding his mouth to yours. Your lips part beneath the onslaught, and he wastes no time in dipping inside to explore, licking into you until you’re both breathless.

“Inside,” he breathes once you’ve broken apart, and you instantly obey. You wrench the door open and all but tumble into the backseat, and he isn’t far behind as he slots himself between your spread thighs. Your hands fly to his shoulders where you help him shuck off his leather jacket, tossing it carelessly to the front where it lands in a heap on the dashboard before focusing your attention on the hem of his black t-shirt. Your companion obliges you as you push it upward to expose his toned abdomen, grabbing it by the collar and pulling it off the rest of the way when your reach falls a little short in the cramped interior of the backseat.

“Your turn,” he whispers when you try to reach for his belt, his hands settling around your wrists. “It’s only fair, princess.”

Pouting, you let your hands fall limp in his grasp, and he chuckles as he leans down to pacify you with a kiss. Deft fingers find the hem of your blouse, pushing it up until you can twist out of the material. You throw it aside with no regard for where it lands on the ground, and lay back as your companion drinks you in, his dark gaze raking across the lacy black lingerie that decorates your curves and skims you like a second skin. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice hoarse with a combination of amazement and disbelief. “You’re stunning.”

You smile, trailing a fingertip from the dip of his collarbone down to the silver necklace that sits prettily against his bare chest. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you tell him, tracing the letter engraved into his pendant. “Jay.”

Your companion—newly dubbed Jay—smiles back. “You’re something else, princess,” he murmurs, before leaning down to kiss you again. He explores your mouth thoroughly—languidly—before moving down to nip at your neck, and already, you can feel the beginnings of marks beginning to form, blossoming across your skin as irrefutable proof of your tryst.

It isn’t long before Jay frees you from your bra, watching with carnal fascination as your breasts spill out of the lacy material. You whine when he reaches out to cup one, his palm hot against your bare skin, and he smirks crookedly when a pinch to your nipple makes your back arch off the leather of the seat. “So pretty,” he rasps. “I can’t wait to see how you look stretched around my cock.”

“Stop waiting, then,” you tell him, trying again for his belt buckle. This time, he lets you fumble it open, leaning back to watch you work with hooded eyes and a lazy little smile. Emboldened, you push aside the denim of his jeans and free his cock from the confines of his underwear. He’s hard and hot and heavy in your palm, and your tongue darts out instinctively at the sight of the pearlescent precum beading the tip.

“Jay,” you murmur, thumbing across the head of his erection and smirking when he hisses in pleasure. “Fuck me.”

Jay seems to consider your demand, mischief flitting across his features before he manages to school his expression into something more neutral. “Where are your manners, princess?” he asks, pushing your hand away and giving himself a few long, slow strokes. “Say please, if you want it so bad.”

For a moment, you consider refusing. Jay seems to be the type of man who enjoys a good game, but between the state of his cock and the earlier interruption, you’re pretty sure he’s nearing his limit. And even if he isn’t, you are. And so, you shelve your pride for the time being, and trail a hand down the length of your bared body as you bat your lashes up at him. “Fuck me, Jay,” you repeat. “Please. Want your cock so bad.”

His answering smile is equal parts amusement and satisfaction, and altogether sinful. “That’s my girl,” he rasps, before shoving your panties aside. Lining the head of his cock up, he enters you in one smooth thrust, and you moan as your walls stretch to accommodate his girth. You’re more than wet enough to take him in his entirety, your eyes fluttering shut when he bottoms out, and he groans hoarsely as he takes a second to relish the feeling of your walls gripping him so tightly.

“Fuck. You’re so wet, princess.” Jay dips a thumb into your slick, spreading it across your clit and rubbing a few experimental circles around the sensitive nub. He groans when you clench around him, his hips stuttering, and you squeeze around him again just to hear him grit out another curse. “Shit. I’m not going to last long at this rate.”

“Don’t care,” you murmur, rocking against him and sighing when the motion sends him a little deeper into your core. “Just fuck me, Jay. Please.”

Jay leans in, a dark lock of hair falling across his forehead as he plants an indulgent kiss on your waiting mouth. “Anything for you, princess,” he breathes. Slowly, he pulls back until only the tip of his cock remains inside you. Then he’s slamming forward, and you can’t even find it in yourself to care about the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin or the way the car rocks. Jay’s thumbing across your clit in tight circles that he times perfectly with the rock of his hips, and you wonder whether the rapidly building pleasure in your belly is due to your dry spell or if he’s just that good. You can feel every inch of him as he fills you up repeatedly, his brows furrowed in concentration and his dark hair flopping as he drives deeper in search of the spot that will have you seeing stars.

You know he’s found it when the pleasure in your belly spikes, your back arching off the backseat. Your skin is sticky against the dark leather and you’re certain the sweat gathering at your temples has destroyed the last of your makeup, but Jay alleviates your concerns with a particularly well-timed thrust and a harsh nip to the soft spot at your clavicle. You keen out something unintelligible, and his lips stretch into a smirk against your skin.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Cum for me, princess.”

That’s all it takes for the mounting pressure to snap. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, the pleasure flaring out like a supernova and spreading through your veins like wildfire. “F-fuck, Jay—” you gasp, your fingers scrabbling at his back for purchase and no doubt leaving scratches in their wake. “Fuck, you feel so—”

The remainder of your words trail off into garbled nonsense, and Jay huffs out a strained chuckle as he begins chasing after his own orgasm, rutting against you in a way that both prolongs your pleasure and sustains his own. “Shit,” he groans, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, that’s it. Look at you—taking my cock so well. So pretty and perfect and—”

Whatever he was going to say dissolves into a groan as he gives a few more erratic thrusts before his release overwhelms him. Creamy warmth floods through you, and you rub his back tiredly as his head drops onto your shoulder, his breath flaring hot against your skin as he rides out his orgasm.

It takes several long seconds for the pleasure to recede. Your legs are still shaky when Jay pulls away, straightening up and tucking himself back into his jeans. There’s an empty ache in your core now that you are no longer stuffed full of his cock, and already, you are missing the feeling. Still, you push that aside as you sit up, adjusting your panties and wincing at the wetness that soaks the material and sticks to your skin.

“So,” Jay says after a moment’s silence, and you glance over at him when he huffs out a short chuckle. “That was fun.”

“Not bad at all,” you agree weakly, an irrepressible smile tugging at your lips.

Jay grins. It’s a bright, infectious grin—and it’s one that you’ve already grown rather fond of in the short period of time you’ve known him. It’s a grin that showcases his perfect teeth and crinkles his eyes into crescents, and one that all but forces you to grin back.

“Here, give me your phone,” he says, and you watch as he punches in his number once you hand it over. “Just in case you ever wanna do this again,” he tells you, handing it back. “Don’t be a stranger, princess.”

You glance down at his contact information, saved under the moniker you’d given him and affixed with a short string of emojis. “I won’t,” you tell him, chuckling. “In fact, I just might take you up on the offer.”

-

The screen of your laptop has long since gone dark, and you stretch your arms overhead before waking it again. Rolling your shoulders, you navigate back to the main Netflix menu, hovering over the resume button and watching the trailer loop in the background.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about Jay often. You’ve texted each other quite often since that night in his car—usually when you’re bored and alone and have had a few too many glasses of wine in the evenings. You’ve found yourself tapping on his name instinctively during those odd, ambiguous hours—when late night and early morning meld together and you’re aching for a bit of relief.

And as if he knows you’re thinking about him, your phone buzzes against the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a familiar name.

[11:22pm] Jay 😘🍆💦: thinkin about u, pretty girl 😘

It’s followed by an image, and your heart rate picks up, thudding loudly against your ribs as you open it.

Fuck.

Your memories of Jay’s face—made all the more hazy by the alcohol and the amount of time elapsed since your first and only meeting—truly don’t do him justice. Though the photograph cuts off just above his nose, you can still admire the sharp angle of his jaw and the fullness of his puckered lips. His skin is golden against the white of his t-shirt, and you lick your lips before thumbing across your screen to respond.

[11:23pm] You: yeah? what else are you thinking about, hmm?

His response is instantaneous.

[11:23pm] Jay 😘🍆💦: thinking about that pretty little pussy of yours

[11:23pm] Jay 😘🍆💦: how good it looked in that pic u sent me tuesday 👅

You barely even notice the way your hand begins trailing down your body, pushing aside the elastic waistband of your sweats. It’s as if you’re on autopilot, as your fingers find their way to the damp spot growing on your panties.

Yeah? you write back with your free hand, already teasing at your clothed folds with the other. Tell me more.

///

It’s an uncharacteristically warm Friday morning when you find yourself in the elevator with Jimin, a good friend of yours who works on one of the lower levels of your office building. “Morning,” he says as he steps in, a large iced coffee in hand despite the fact that it’s still very much the middle of winter. Then he squints, leaning a little closer. “Oh my god. You got laid!”

“Oh my god, not so loud!” you hiss, whacking him on the shoulder and jabbing the button to close the elevator doors. “And no, not exactly. I’ve just been texting Jay.”

“Texting, sure.” Jimin mimes air quotes around the word and rolls his eyes. “You’re sexting him, and we all know it. How many pictures of his dick do you have saved on your phone now?”

“Oh my—” You sigh, trailing off. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“Right, of course.” Jimin takes a sip of his coffee and pretends to check his watch. “When would you like to talk about it then? Do you need to check your calendar? Can I book an appointment for later this afternoon?”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Shut up.”

Jimin just grins, his lips puckered around his straw. “So, how’s Jay? Have you asked for his real name yet?”

You shrug. “What’s the point? It’s not like we’re friends or anything. We’ve literally only met the one time.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because you’re a coward,” Jimin points out. “What’s stopping you from meeting up with him again? You have his number. You have at least one photo of his dick. Ask him out already!”

“It’s not that easy, though,” you sigh. The elevator doors open to let a few more people in, and you move to the side and lower your voice so that only Jimin can hear. “Jay—he’s not exactly boyfriend material. I mean, we fucked in his car the first night we met.”

“So?” Jimin frowns and takes another sip of his iced coffee. “You talk about things besides sex, don’t you? You definitely told him about your goldfish dying, at least. I mean, you told him before you even told me!”

“Yes I did, and he was appropriately sympathetic about Mustache’s passing, unlike some people,” you sniff. “Get over it already, won’t you?”

“Never,” Jimin replies, ignoring your pointed jab. “I’m sure you only told him because you knew you could get a sympathy sext out of it. How many dick pics did you get out of that night, anyway?”

“You’re gross,” you tell him, punching him in the arm. “Not to mention that’s exactly why Jay’s not boyfriend material. He’s perfectly happy with—whatever it is we’re doing. I can’t just ruin that by asking him to get dinner.” You frown, gnawing on your bottom lip. “I don’t want to make this into something that it’s not.”

Jimin hesitates. “Fine, okay. I guess I can understand that.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, as the elevator makes a few more stops. You watch the numbers crawl higher, and know that you’ll soon have to part ways with your friend..

“Hey.” You nudge Jimin with your shoulder, just as the elevator doors close and you begin the ascent to his floor. “Wanna know something interesting?”

Jimin looks up from his phone, where he’s scrolling through Twitter. “Always.”

“My boss’ son is coming to the party tomorrow.”

Jimin’s eyebrows disappear into his ashy blond hair at your revelation. “Kyunghee’s son? Hoseok, or whatever?”

You chuckle. “The one and only. She’s found about a million ways to bring him up in conversation this past week. She thinks we’re a match made in heaven.”

“Wow.” Jimin releases a long breath. “I wonder what he’s like, then.”

You shrug, adjusting the strap of your work tote over your shoulder. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

///

The morning of the party, you wake up to an empty refrigerator. Half stale cereal and the last dregs of milk from the carton become your breakfast, and you munch on that as you mull over the contents of your closet. You’re still in your pajamas, but you pull out your comfiest jeans and a sweater to change into after you finish eating. Then you turn to your collection of dresses, rifling through them and mentally debating the merits of each material and color.

You could go in one of two directions tonight. On the one hand, this is still a work party, and as such your attire should probably maintain a certain level of decorum. But on the other, you’re meeting Hoseok Jung for the first time tonight. You aren’t necessarily looking to start anything with the man, of course, but you do want to look good. With that in mind, you eventually settle on a deep red number that you pull out of the very back of your closet, made of a silky material that skims your curves and accentuates your best assets. Laying it on the bed, you begin your hunt for a pair of matching shoes. Twenty minutes of searching and another five of agonizing later, you step into the bathroom, intent on showering and getting on with the rest of your day.

Upon exiting the bathroom, you decide that tackling the state of your refrigerator takes top priority over your other weekend errands. Sitting down at the dining table, you take stock of what you have in your pantry, planning out your meals for the upcoming week and making a list of what you need to purchase in order to make them a reality. It’s just after one in the afternoon when you exit your apartment with a completed grocery list and your purse stuffed full of reusable canvas bags. The store is a short walk from where you live, and you decide to put in your earbuds as your feet navigate the familiar route. The temperature is surprisingly mild for winter, and the sun shines bright from its perch in the cloudless blue sky. It’s perfect weather for a walk, and the fresh air clears your mind and eases your heart.

At the grocery store, you forego the stack of baskets and instead grab a shopping cart. Weaving your way up and down the aisles, you check items off the list on your phone one by one. Eventually, you find yourself in the cereal section, grabbing a box of granola before turning to where your favorite cereal normally sits. It isn’t there, and you turn in a full circle, confused, until your gaze finally lands on the familiar box on the top shelf.

Great.

Sighing, you push up to your tiptoes, stretching your arm as far as it can reach. Your fingertips graze the shelf, but you can’t quite get a grip on the box itself. Glancing down, you scan the bottommost shelf and wonder if you can step on it to give yourself a boost.

“Need a hand?”

The voice comes from behind you, and a vague sense of familiarity sparks in your brain. Slowly, you turn around, and your entire body freezes when your gaze slides up to the speaker’s face.

“Jay.” The syllable escapes you in a near whisper. “H-hi.”

“Hey.”

Jay stands before you, looking like sin incarnate in a faded denim jacket, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, and not much else. At his throat, his silver necklace sparkles, the silver J pendant glinting beneath the fluorescent lights of the store, and you’re suddenly beyond grateful that you decided to put on a decent sweater before leaving.

“Here,” he says, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—sandalwood tinged with sweet citrus. “Let me help you with that.”

The sudden proximity has your breath hitching in your throat. Your heart thuds erratically against your ribs as he reaches around you, the denim flaps of his jacket gaping in a way that exposes even more of his bare chest. By the time he pulls back with your cereal box in hand, you feel almost faint, belatedly realizing that you’d been holding your breath.

“You wanted this, right?” Jay asks, and you aren’t sure if you’re imagining the innuendo underlying his words or the teasing inflection of the syllables.

“Y-yeah, that’s the one,” you manage, fighting to quell the uneven tempo of your heartbeat as you accept the box. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help,” he replies. Then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his warm breath fanning your cheek as he murmurs his next sentence into your ear. “Anything for you, princess. You know that.”

Heat floods across your cheeks. Your heart skips two full beats before taking off into a sprint, and it’s impossible to ignore the way your core begins to thrum, as if anticipating a repeat of that night you first met all those weeks ago. Almost instinctively, your eyes dart up to the ceiling where the security cameras are, and Jay follows the trajectory of your gaze with a low chuckle and a soft brush of your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Sorry, princess. As much as I’d love to get my hands on you, I’m kind of on a time crunch today.”

You can’t stop the wave of disappointment that washes over you, even if you’re in the exact same boat. “Rain check, then?”

“Rain check,” he agrees. Slowly, you reach up to touch the engraved silver pendant resting against his chest, rubbing it between your fingertips before tracing the curve of the J, and he catches your wandering fingers between his and presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“You know how to reach me,” he murmurs with a mischievous wink. His gaze lingers even after he’s released your hand, and you clear your throat awkwardly before turning to deposit your cereal box into your shopping cart.

The two of you go your separate ways then, exchanging goodbyes. You finish the rest of your grocery shopping in a daze, idly going through the motions at checkout and letting muscle memory guide you back home. Your arms are aching by the time you step past the threshold of your apartment, and you heave your shopping bags up onto the kitchen counter with a relieved sigh before returning to the entryway to toe off your shoes. You throw together a sandwich as you unpack your groceries, taking a big bite as you walk back to your bedroom to look at the dress you’ve picked out. Pacing over to the closet, you double-check your shoe choice. Briefly, you debate whether or not to wear flats instead of heels.

There are still a few hours left before you have to start getting ready, so you take the last of your sandwich back to the kitchen and whip up a smoothie to go with it. You scroll through your phone as you eat, browsing through the latest news headlines and scrolling through your social media accounts. Just before six o’clock, as the sun starts setting beyond the horizon and casting long shadows across your living room, you start getting changed. You snap a photo in the mirror once you’re dressed, pulling up Jimin’s name in your phone and sending it to him.

[6:13pm] You: last chance to come tonight

Your phone buzzes with a response almost immediately.

[6:14pm] Jimin: nah. i’d hate to step on hoseok’s toes.

You laugh. Not so fast, you text back. We don’t even know anything about the guy yet. What if he’s boring? Or sexist?

[6:15pm] Jimin: if u think kyunghee raised a sexist you’re seriously deranged

[6:16pm] Jimin: now stop taking selfies and get your ass out the door! you’re gonna be late!!!!

///

Each year, the holiday party tends to be a little over the top, and this year is no exception. The company has bought out the entirety of a restaurant for the evening, and you glance around in amazement at the twinkling lights and lush evergreen boughs decorating the walls and strung up along the ceiling. An assortment of sparkling ornaments hangs from the massive tree in the far corner, interspersed between silver tinsel and more lights. Grabbing a champagne flute off a passing server’s tray, you head farther into the restaurant, skirting around tables draped in creamy linen and greeting your colleagues and friends.

“Is she alone?”

“Figures.”

The voices come from the direction of the open bar, and somehow, you just know that they’re talking about you. Lottie, Hyejin, and Sandra are clustered in the corner with glasses of wine in hand, casting glances around the restaurant and gossiping about anything and everything with a pulse. You’re sorely tempted to grab the nearest pitcher of water off a table and pour it over their heads, but you suppress the urge and instead head over with a saccharine smile. “So lovely to see you, {Name},” Lottie says as you approach.

“I love your dress,” Sandra adds. “Very slimming.”

“Thanks,” you reply, putting on your brightest, fakest smile. “Yours is great too. How are you and your husband enjoying the party so far?”

Sandra’s face sours, and you hide your smirk in your champagne flute. Maybe it’s petty to bring up her rocky relationship, but you’ve been subject to snide comments from Sandra and her friends for years now and it’s become increasingly hard for you to bite your tongue. A few tables away, you spot Sandra’s husband, Rodney, take an enormous gulp of his whiskey and wince as it burns down his throat.

“We’re all having a wonderful time, aren’t we, ladies?” Lottie cuts in when Sandra takes too long to answer. “Hyejin’s date is over there with Rodney, and my boyfriend is fetching himself a drink. You remember Dev, don’t you?”

You nod, even though it’s a lie. “Sure. Say hi to him for me.”

Lottie’s lips curve up into a smile, her head tilting to the side, and you’re suddenly reminded of a snake rearing its head back for the kill. “So, what about you? Have you brought someone tonight, or—?”

“Hi ladies!” Kyunghee materializes at your side, her lips painted a festive red shade to match her dress. She’s wearing the disingenuous smile that she reserves for the resident gossips of your office, and you try not to let your relief show on your face when Lottie’s attention refocuses on your manager.

“So good to see you, Kyunghee,” she simpers. “Have you been here long?”

“Not as long as you,” your manager replies, nodding at the near-empty wineglass in her hand. “I see we’re already making a dent in the wine supply, and you’re falling behind, {Name}. Why don’t we go remedy that, hmm?”

She doesn’t give you a chance to respond, grabbing your arm and leading you away. Kyunghee is surprisingly spry for a woman her age, and you follow after her with some difficulty as she marches through the throngs of conversing people, all the way to the line at the open bar.

“I’d like you to meet someone,” she says, gesturing at the man standing at the end of the line with his back to you. “{Name}, this is my son, Hoseok.”

The man turns around at the sound of his name, a warm, affable smile stretched across his face. “Hi, I’m H—” he begins, but he’s cut off by your sharp intake of breath. His eyes go wide, his smile fading as his mouth falls open, and you’re certain you’re wearing an even more dumbfounded expression. “It’s you,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Wh-what… how…” You trail off, speechless. The words flounder and die in your throat as your brain struggles to process this development, and you practically feel the way the gears in your head churn to a stuttering halt.

Because this man standing before you, the one that Kyunghee has just introduced as her son, is none other than Jay. He looks completely and utterly devastating in a navy waistcoat and matching slacks, a green tie shaped like a Christmas tree knotted loosely around the white collar of his shirt. His dark hair is parted, his undercut exposed, and you can’t tear your gaze away from the loose strand that has fallen across his forehead.

“H-hi.”

Jay—Hoseok—swallows. “Hi.”

Kyunghee glances between the two of you, her brows furrowing. “I take it you two already know each other?”

Hoseok’s ears begin taking on a scarlet tinge, the color spreading to his cheeks as he struggles to find his vocabulary again. “I—yeah. Yeah, we’ve met.”

“Right. Do I even want to know how?” she asks dubiously, before shaking her head and huffing out a sigh. “No, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. I’ll just leave you two to… catch up.”

Waving goodbye, Kyunghee disappears back into the crowd of partygoers milling around. Hoseok turns back to you, sucking in a deep breath, and you fight the urge to stare down at your toes as his gaze roves across your face.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, breaking the silence that’s fallen between you at last. “My mom’s been talking about you for months, but I never imagined that it’d be you.”

“You’re telling me,” you reply, finally having recovered your voice. “Kyunghee brings you up all the time, but I never thought… I mean, we didn’t even know each other’s names, and now…” You shrug. “Here we both are.”

“It’s a pretty crazy coincidence, huh?”

“Definitely.”

A beat passes, and then two. You’re fully aware that you’re staring, but you don’t dare blink, afraid that he’ll disappear if you close your eyes. Of all the things that you thought might happen tonight, this particular meeting wasn’t even close to making the list. Never would you have thought that the man you only knew as Jay would turn out to be Kyunghee’s son. Never would you have connected Jay to the photographed little boy in yellow suspenders on Kyunghee’s desk, or realized that they were one and the same.

From behind you, someone loudly clears their throat. Another voice calls for you to get a move on, already, and both you and Hoseok belatedly realize that you are still standing in line for the open bar. Hoseok’s eyes go wide again, and you nearly tread on his toes when you both try to move forward. “After you,” he says with a chuckle, gesturing for you to go in front of him, and that’s enough to break the tension. You step ahead of him with a laugh, catching up to the line, and Hoseok doesn’t stray far as he follows your lead.

“So, what are you drinking?” he asks, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Vodka soda with a twist?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to stick with wine tonight,” you reply, peering at the bottles lined up on the counter. “What about you?”

“Hmm. Jack and coke, I think. Nothing else is really calling my name right now.”

Grabbing your drinks, the two of you begin searching for a place to sit. You spot Kyunghee at a table near the front, and she smiles knowingly and offers you a thumbs-up when she catches your eye. Eventually, you settle on a table near the Christmas tree, the lights glimmering off the glasses and reflecting off your knife as you pick it up to butter a slice of crusty bread from the basket in the center. Hoseok follows your lead, grabbing a piece for himself, and the two of you munch in silence for a few seconds before Hoseok breaks it.

“You know, my mom says you’re the perfect girl for me” he says with a dry little chuckle. “Think she’s right?”

“I don’t know,” you answer. “It’s funny, though—Kyunghee’s been telling me the same thing. She sings your praises all the time.”

Hoseok laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, jeez, that’s kind of embarrassing. I’m glad she’s saying good things, at least.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you tell him, grinning. “She’s only shown us one photo album from your childhood.”

His face crumples. “Was it the Disneyland one?”

You nod, fighting back laughter, and watch as Hoseok groans and lets his forehead meet the linen-covered tabletop with a dull thunk.

“I don’t like rollercoasters,” he mumbles into the tablecloth, his voice muffled by the material. “They make me queasy.”

“Even now?” you ask, and he nods.

“Yep.”

The clinking of a fork against a wineglass—amplified and broadcast through an array of invisible speakers built into the restaurant’s walls—interrupts any further conversation. You twist in your seat to watch your company’s leadership give their opening remarks, listening as they congratulate everyone for a great year and wish you a happy holiday season. The servers begin going out with plates of food, and you thank them as they set yours down. Hoseok does the same before raising his glass in your direction, clearing his throat and offering you a crooked little smile.

“Here’s to second meetings.”

“Third, if you count the store earlier,” you correct, and he chuckles and nods in agreement before clinking his drink against yours.

You spend the entirety of dinner chatting with Hoseok, getting to know him beyond the few facts Kyunghee has mentioned and what little you’ve gleaned from texting him the last two months. He tells you all about his dance studio, Hope World, where he teaches both contemporary dance and the occasional Pilates class. You find out that in addition to rollercoasters, he also dislikes sour foods and raisins, but he loves mint chocolate and sweet and sour pork. He also has a very low tolerance for alcohol—something he tells you as he tilts the rest of his drink into his mouth. “Should I be worried?” you ask as he sets his glass back down, and he chuckles and shakes his head, sending the loose tendril of hair flopping across his forehead.

Dessert is served, and subsequently eaten. The music is turned up, and people slowly begin finding their way to the open space that serves as an impromptu dancefloor. Hoseok rises to his feet and extends a hand toward you, and you only hesitate for the briefest of seconds before accepting it. He leads you out amongst the other swaying couples, his hand finding its way to the curve of your waist, and you rest your hand on his shoulder as he begins guiding you in a slow, simple waltz.

“So?” Hoseok’s voice is a low murmur, soft and gentle against the shell of your ear. “What’s the verdict?”

You blink. “The verdict?”

Even without looking, you can tell that he’s smiling. You can hear it in the lilt of his voice, and imagine it in the curve of his lips. “About me,” he clarifies, carefully pulling back so you can spin in a circle beneath his outstretched arm. “About us. My mom will never let me hear the end of it if she turns out to be right, but I still wanna know. So what are you thinking?”

“Are you asking if I think we’re perfect for each other?” you ask, giggling. “I don’t know if I believe in all that, to be quite honest. Destiny and soulmates—I mean, doesn’t it seem a little too good to be true?”

Hoseok hums. “Maybe. But considering all that’s happened to us in the last couple of months, don’t you think there’s a chance that it's all more than simple coincidence?”

“Maybe,” you concede. “Still, I don’t know if I can give you a verdict just yet. We haven’t even gone on a date.”

“We did do things a little backwards,” Hoseok admits, tugging you close and winding his arm around your waist. “Let me make it up to you, then. Are you free tomorrow?”

“What if I am?” you challenge.

“Then, I’d like to take you out for breakfast,” he replies without missing a beat.

The prospect of a proper meal with Hoseok Jung does something funny to your insides. Still, something makes you hesitate, and you avert your gaze as you search for your next words. “I wasn’t expecting to end tonight with a date,” you admit slowly. “I honestly didn’t even think you were interested in… well, anything beyond sex, to be honest.”

Hoseok’s face creases into a frown, and you look up again when he murmurs your name. “I understand why you would think that,” he says. “Really, I do. But honestly? I had every intention of texting you and asking you out properly. I was going to play it cool and wait a few days, which was stupid in retrospect. And then you texted me first.”

“I texted y—” You trail off. “Oh, god.”

“It seemed like you’d been drinking,” Hoseok says with a shrug, and you press a finger to his lips before he can say anything more. You remember the night in question, and you remember the bottle of wine you’d consumed. And you definitely remember the photographs you’d sent of yourself, and the ones Hoseok had been kind enough to send in return.

“Wait, so you were going to ask me out? And then I… I sexted you?”

Hoseok nods, and you groan and bury your face into his chest.

“I can’t believe this,” you mutter, and you feel laughter rumble through his chest before a hand comes up to stroke along your back.

“Believe me, I’m not complaining,” he assures you. “But I’d still really like to take you out, so what do you say?”

His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a second as he awaits your answer, and your heart skips a beat when you look up to see the earnestness in his eyes and the hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Breakfast sounds wonderful,” you whisper, and the smile that blossoms on your companion’s face is nothing short of radiant.

“Good,” he says. “Great. Breakfast tomorrow, then. Now, can I kiss you?”

You’re already pushing up to your tiptoes, your fingers fisting in the soft hair at his nape. “God, yes.”

///

“Hey, you made it!”

You beam. “Hi.”

You and Hoseok are about to commence your first date, having just sat down at a cozy little café for breakfast. Hoseok has pulled your chair out in true gentlemanly fashion, and you can’t help but smile over your menu at the few lingering snowflakes that have yet to melt into his dark hair.

“So, here we are,” you remark. “Our fourth meeting.”

Hoseok’s lips stretch into his signature grin, breathtakingly bright and infectious. “And hopefully many more.”

You grin at him. “Yeah? Too bad this is breakfast, because I’d drink to that.”

He leans forward, his grin widening. “Next time,” he says as his hand finds its way around yours, his fingers slotting comfortably into the spaces between your own. “We can do dinner, maybe. Or I can cook for you. But for now, I’m just happy that we’re finally doing this.”

You give his hand a soft squeeze. “Me too.”

“Just promise me one thing?”

The sudden seriousness of his tone has your brow furrowing in concern. “Sure, of course,” you reassure. “What is it?”

He winces. “Please don’t tell my mom about all the dick pics.”

[kuroopaisen]

takes one to know one || fushiguro megumi

➵ megumi just wants to buy some flowers from the nice stall attendant he definitely doesn’t have a crush on in peace. gojou has other plans.  

wc: 2.4k

warnings: gn!reader, incoherent chaos

a/n: gracie dearest this one’s for you :( you are so sweet and so lovely to me and i’m so, so glad we met in this hellscape (i would personally like to thank psycho-pass for existing) i hope i did your boy well! 

By the time he arrives at Jujutsu Tech, Megumi knows the flowers are a mistake.

“For me?” Gojou gasps, hands clasped and mouth agape in perhaps his most punchable smile. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

Megumi’s fist tightens around the handle of his bouquet. Today, it’s lilacs, irises and white lilies. It’s also much bigger than usual – too big to inconspicuously leave on someone’s fence or place in the school gardens.

“You can have them if you want,” he murmurs. What else is he supposed to do with them?

The delight on Gojou’s face collapses into a precarious mix of genuine confusion and insatiable curiosity. “Hah? They’re not for anyone?”

“No,” Megumi says. And if they were, I wouldn’t tell you. Although he doesn’t say that last part. Gojou would perceive it as a challenge, and the less he knew about Megumi’s private life, the better.

“So…” A grin splits Gojou’s face. “The person you bought them from must be special, then.” 

Megumi freezes for just a second. But he knows a second is enough for Gojou to glean all the information he needs.  

“Ah,” Gojou hums. “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” Megumi mumbles, well-aware of the heat rising in his cheeks.

“But why would you go out of your way to buy a bouquet of flowers, hm?” Gojou grins, shit-eating grin back on his face. “They don’t hand these out for free, you know.”

Megumi’s grip is so firm he’s scared he’ll crush the stems.

Although, he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do with them. It doesn’t feel right to throw them out – not when you’d spent time putting it together – but he wasn’t about to revamp his room with a distinctly floral accent.

Is it against social protocol to give the flowers back to you? Not now, of course, but maybe on his evening walk… or tomorrow morning…

He still doesn’t know why he didn’t just walk past you that first day.

But something about the way you were gazing out into the street, eyes wide and hopeful as you watched people ignore you on their daily commute… something about that drew him in.

And once he’d bought something from you once – just a small flower, one he didn’t know the name of, but seemed appropriate behind a cute girl’s ear – he couldn’t very well start ignoring you.

Not when your smile is so bright, your eyes sparkling with gratitude whenever he takes whatever floral arrangement you’ve lovingly bundled together out of your hands.

But now he’s paying the price – in more ways than one.

✧ ✧ ✧

Your flower stall is just a few feet away from one of the trendiest cafes in this area of Tokyo, and whoever oversees your little operation is obviously trying to capitalise on that. Setting up so early must be an attempt to catch the rush of bleary-eyed corporate workers craving their necessary morning coffee.

What use an office worker has for flowers, Megumi doesn’t know. But he has a feeling that you’d probably say something along the lines of “it’ll help brighten the place up.”

As usual, you’re waiting there patiently, eyes hopefully scanning the streets for any potential customers. Your face positively lights up when you finally catch sight of him – something that still makes Megumi nearly trip over his own feet.

“Good morning!” You call out, waving to him.

Megumi raises a hand in response, shuffling towards you with all the embarrassment of a high schooler on their way to their first date.

“Can I interest you in a floral arrangement on this fine Saturday morning?” You grin, eyes twinkling as you make your marketing pitch.

“Sure,” Megumi sighs, scanning the vast array of flowers currently on display. He’s getting better at picking them out, but he still can’t name any of them on sight.

You wait patiently, hands folded on the counter. If you think he’s an idiot, you keep it to yourself.

“Those ones,” he says, pointing at a group of blue heart-shaped flowers.

“The morning glories?” You ask reflexively, reaching over to pluck a bunch out of their display.

“Yeah,” Megumi shrugs. He has no idea what a morning glory is. The term sounds like something Gojou and Yuji would snicker at.

“They’re gorgeous,” you smile, taking a moment to admire them.

“Yeah,” Megumi says again.

Flowers aren’t really his thing; God help him if he was ever asked what his favourite kind was. But there’s no point in saying any of that – not when he’s already spent an embarrassing amount of money at this one stall.

“You’re keeping the business afloat, you know,” you giggle, as if reading his mind.

Megumi blinks at you. “Really?”

“Mhm,” you nod. “It wouldn’t be amiss to say you’re our most important patron.” You beam at him, same sparkle in your eyes as always.

He’d be furious, if you weren’t so nice.

How is he supposed to focus when you’re looking at him like that? How’s he supposed to ask who ‘we’ is? A business partner? A partner partner?

But you look so young. You can’t possibly be running a business. But you might have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or both. Or a partner of an otherwise non-binary gender.

Too many questions, no social capacity to ask them.

“So,” Megumi begins, his voice calm and composed as ever. His mind, however, is scrambling around like a fast-food joint at rush hour, trying to string together a sentence that’s not only coherent but also fascinating.

“How old are you?”

Whoops.

It’s the forbidden question. Or, at least, that’s what people always say. People, in this case, is Gojou. It usually is.

You seem unbothered. “I turn seventeen this year.”

Was it only a forbidden question for people who’re older? But in that case, surely knowing someone’s age was pertinent for the whole ‘respect’ thing. Maybe Gojou just didn’t think he should ever ask anyone’s age because then he’s not beholden to honorifics.

But Megumi can’t imagine him using them properly anyway.

That’s not the point. The point is that you’re the same age as him. You weren’t somehow twenty-seven with a baby face.

“Oh,” Megumi nods. “Me too.”

The smile you give him is almost unbearable. How is it even more of a smile than your usual smile? That doesn’t make any sense.

There’s a certain excitement bubbling in his gut that he doesn’t recognise or like.

Wait, if you’re his age, then…

“Do you not go to school on Saturdays?” He asks.

Is this conversation too dry? He’s not sure. He doesn’t usually make an effort at this sort of thing.

“My school doesn’t have classes on Saturday mornings,” you smile, meticulously wrapping brown paper around the stems of a set of particularly bright morning glories. You always do it so delicately; where on earth do you find the patience?

There’s something… graceful, about how you go about it. Sure, it’s your job, but Megumi still enjoys watching you work because—

“Hello there!”

Megumi knows that voice.

Oh no.

“Hello!” You fold your hands in front of you and give your new customer a bow. But your usual smile has been replaced with an expression of middling confusion as you look him up and down.

Megumi doesn’t need to turn around to know who’s standing behind him.

“Who’d’ve thought there’d be so many kinds of flowers in bloom, huh?” Gojou grins, slinging a lanky arm around Megumi’s shoulders.

Megumi glances to the side.

A pair of startingly blue eyes peek at him from behind black shades.

“What are you doing here?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I thought I’d just come out for a morning stroll,” Gojou sighs, gesturing to the sky. “Don’t you think it’s gorgeous?”

Megumi’s ready to commit a murder.

“And look at all these flowers!” Gojou exclaims, bending down to peer at some asters closely. “Did you grow them all yourself?”

“Of course not,” you laugh. “I just sell them.”

Jealous maybe isn’t the right word. But there is a twisting in Megumi’s gut upon the realisation that within minutes of meeting you, Gojou had made you laugh. Megumi, on the other hand, was yet to do that.

“Well, either way, my student is a big fan,” Gojou smirks, shaking Megumi’s shoulder. Megumi’s soul is currently leaving his body.

“I was just telling him that he’s our most valued customer,” you smile, tilting your head at the pair of them.

“Ah, is that so?” Gojou grins. It’s amazing, really, how he manages to capture all the terror of the apocalypse in one smile. “I never really took him as a flower guy.”

“Everyone’s a flower guy, sir,” you tsk, shaking your head. “Even you.”

Gojou places an affronted hand on his chest. “So quick to make assumptions!”

“Not at all,” you smile. “You’d be surprised by what our customer base looks like.”

“You don’t say,” Gojou grins, turning to Megumi.

Megumi considers the consequences of punching Gojou right in the nether regions. He doubts he’d be punished for it by the higher ups; if anything, he’ll probably be rewarded. Maybe even pushed up a grade for his invaluable service.

“Fushiguro!”

Oh no.

Megumi’s eyes widen ever so slightly. His head whips round to Gojou. His teacher is already looking straight at him.

“Ah,” Gojou grins. “I told Yuji to meet me here this morning.” The glint in his eyes strikes terror right through Megumi’s departing soul.

Sure enough, Itadori barrels his way towards them, damn near colliding against Megumi with a ‘thump’.

Megumi can do something but stare into the abyss, hoping, wishing, praying this is just a nightmare.

Unfortunately, it’s not.

You give the newest addition to this strange little posse a customary bow. “Good morning!”

Itadori beams at you, his entire face lighting up. “Good morning!”

A strange panic starts to rise from Megumi’s gut. If he thought about it, you and Itadori would get along well. Too well.

Thoughts of you and Itadori walking hand in hand down the street as you laugh, Itadori offering you his coat on a clod morning as you blush, Itadori walking you home, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully as you lean towards him and –

Megumi blinks the thoughts away. What is wrong with him today?

You and Itadori have just met. And what was it to Megumi anyway? It’s not like he—

“Megumi?” Itadori tilts his head at him.

Megumi stares back blankly. “Hm?”

“I wanted to know how you found this place,” Itadori asks, voice bright but with the uncertain quality inherent to repeating oneself.

“Oh,” Megumi murmurs. “Well, I…”

In truth, he doesn’t remember. He just saw you one morning and decided to approach. He still doesn’t know why. But he doesn’t regret it.

“I roped him in with my charm,” you piqued up, picking up the lull in conversation.

Try as he might, Megumi just can’t concentrate. Itadori’s pressed against him, Gojou’s still got his arm slung around his shoulder, and—

“Ah, Nobara’s here!” Gojou beams, waving a hand over his head.

“What are you doing here of all places?” Nobara frowns, raising an eyebrow at Megumi. “I wouldn’t have taken this as your sort of scene.”

If there’s a hell, Megumi’s sure it’s this.

Conversation is bubbling around him but none of it is registering in his mind, he can see Nobara’s dissatisfied look as she takes in the situation at hand but he doesn’t have the energy to retort, Gojou is playing with the petals of one of the display flowers but Megumi knows he’s not going to buy it and—

“Hey, Megumi?”

He snaps back to reality at the sound of your voice, gentle and concerned.

“Are you alright?” You ask, tilting your head to the side. It’s as if you’re completely ignoring the rabble, as if you see him and only him.

Next to him Gojou, Yuji and Nobara watch with rapt attention.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

You frown at you look at him. Something flashes in your eyes and you suddenly duck beneath your countertop.

Megumi and his gaggle of fools blink in surprise.

In a moment you hop back up, something purple bundled up in your hands. “Here,” you smile, handing it out to him, “this is supposed to help you sleep.”

One whiff and he knows it’s lavender.

“How much?” Megumi asks.

You shake your head. “Oh, no. It’s on me.”

Megumi’s heart flutters as you smile. Despite the chaos going on around him, despite the fact that he knows he’s going to be mocked for this for weeks to come, he’s grateful.

Somehow.

“Sorry about this…” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s fine,” you giggle, shaking your head.

Megumi feels Gojou chuckle quietly, his chest rattling. Itadori is unusually quiet and Nobara seems moments away from a laughing fit.

“I should go,” Megumi says quickly and suddenly. He doesn’t give you time to respond, zipping down the street as fast as his feet can carry him. He needs a shower and then a run and then he needs to beat a training dummy up and then—

“Wait, Megumi!”

He freezes in his tracks. That’s… your voice.

And around his wrist is… is…

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, eyes darting for where you hand wraps around his wrist. Why is his heart racing so absurdly fast? Why does it feel like his head’s about to explode? You’re just holding his wrist. You’re not even touching his skin. Not that it matters—

“Will I see you tomorrow?” You ask, not quite able to meet his gaze.

It brings him back to the moment.

“Of course,” Megumi answers reflexively.

You finally lift your eyes up. They seem to be sparkling. “I look forward to it.”

Before he even has time to process it you’ve let him go and trotted back to your stall, tending to your flowers as if nothing’d happened.

This has been too much embarrassment for one day. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on and he’s not sure he wants to know. But man, he needs at least several hours alone to process everything.

As Megumi shuffles away, Gojou bounds after him, still grinning like a fool.

“So, Megumi’s got himself a—”

Megumi elbows him in the stomach before Gojou even has a chance to finish his sentence.

[starryevermore]

new boys: apartment hunting (1) ✧ sam wilson, steve rogers, & bucky barnes

new boys: a sam wilson, steve rogers, & bucky barnes anthology | ao3

pairing: grad student!sam wilson x law student!reader x grad student!steve rogers x grad student!bucky barnes

summary: sam, steve, and bucky never expected to fall for the cute law student who’s letting them move into her apartment. 

word count: 1,511

warnings?: the university of brooklyn is a fictionalized college because i can’t be bothered to do in depth research of a real school, the address is also fictionalized, this is mostly an introduction to the world and nothing really interesting happens, not proofread

note: this is more of an anthology than a series. every part exists in the same universe, but parts can be read in any particular order. there is no set update schedule for this; new parts come whenever they come.

Sam blamed Steve and Bucky. Okay, sure, it was partly his fault, too. But he never would’ve been dragged into this mess had it not been for those two idiots! All because Steve and Bucky insisted on throwing the largest party that the University of Brooklyn had ever seen to celebrate . Sam was sure the entire undergraduate class was there, flooding the fifth floor hallway and spilling over into the fourth floor. 

By the time the night was over, there had been over two dozen noise complaints and the university police had been called to break it up. Because Sam, Bucky, and Steve all resided in the dorm room where the party originated, they all bore the consequences. The university said that they had “never been more disappointed in a group of students in the one hundred and eighty two years the school had been opened”. Sam thought that was a gross over exaggeration, but pointing that out did little for their case. 

Their punishment? In addition to some hefty fines and the incident being added to their record, they were barred from residing on campus during the remainder of their education at the university. Which, given that all three of them had been accepted into UB’s graduate programs, wasn’t exactly great. Because, finding decent, well-priced housing in New York? With a grad student’s budget? Yeah, no. That wasn’t going to work out very well. Even between the three of them, it would be a stretch to find a small studio apartment. And having to buy furniture? Sam just knew that they would have to be sharing one bed. And he wasn’t ready to do that for the next three years. 

Which led them to the library, crowded around one side of a table as Bucky scrolled through apartment listings, trying to find something that would work. But everything was too small for the three large men. Or it was too far from campus, or too far from the school Bucky and Steve worked at or the community center Sam worked at. Or, if it was a decent size and close to have a short commute, it was way beyond the budget the three of them together could afford. 

nat: you still looking for a place? 

Bucky looked at the three of them, before typing back. 

bucky: unfortunately.

nat: good. one of my friends is looking for a roommate. her parents are covering the rent, but she feels sketched out living alone. you interested?

“Tell her yes,” Sam said before any of them could say anything. Steve and Bucky both looked at him, ready to argue, but he already had a game plan. “Listen. Where else are we gonna find free housing in this city? Besides, she’s Nat’s friend. It’s not like she’ll kill us.”

“She could kill others,” Steve pointed out. 

“If she’s looking for roommates ‘cause she’s scared of being alone, I don’t think she’d be a killer.”

“Unless,” Bucky said, “it’s all a front and she’s looking for her next victim.”

Sam stared at him, before deciding to give a little. “Fine. Tell Nat we’ll meet with her friend, check the place out, and then we’ll decide. Does that work?”

Steve and Bucky shared a glance, and Bucky wrote the response. 

bucky: we’re down to meet with her and see what the place looks like. 

A few minutes later, Nat sent back her response. 

nat: great. she’s available tomorrow afternoon at 3 o’clock. that work for you guys?

“That’s a Saturday,” Sam said. “I’m free. What about you?”

“I’m good then,” Steve said as Bucky gave a thumbs up.

bucky: yeah we’re free then. 

nat: then you just need to show up at redwing apartments on freedom boulevard, apartment 107.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Bucky muttered. 

“Don’t mess this up,” Sam said as they stood outside your apartment door, waiting for you to open it. “This is our one shot and—”

His words died in his throat as the door swung open, revealing the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Though you were dressed casually with a sweatshirt that had the University of Brooklyn logo embroidered on it and a pair of shorts, Sam was sure you could show up to any fashion show and still be the most stunning woman in the room. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steve and Bucky having the same reaction. For a flicker of a moment, he felt something akin to possessiveness rise up in his chest. But he stamped that out before it could go too far. Those two, however annoying they could be, were his friends. And they’d all just met you! There was no need to be getting competitive over who could win you over. 

Not yet, anyways. 

“Y’all Nat’s friends?” you asked, looking them over. 

“Yes ma’am,” Steve said, stepping forward and holding his hand out to shake. “I’m Steve.”

“Ma’am?” you repeated, staring down at his hand but not taking it. “This ain’t the 40’s, bucko. You can call me Y/N.”

“I’d rather call you mine,” Bucky said, stepping forward, flashing a dazzling smile. “I’m Bucky.”

“You’d better get better lines than that if you want any shot at winning someone over, Bucky. I give an A plus for effort, though.” You turned to Sam, a smile almost peaking out before disappearing so quickly he was sure he imagined it. “And that means you’re the good one.”

“Hmm, I’d say I’m great,” he corrected. “I’m Sam.”

“Well, if I’m to take Nat’s word as truth, you’re also the only one who won’t lead me to going fully gray before I hit my thirties.”

“Even if you did go gray, you’d look just as beautiful as you do now.”

“See? That’s a good line. You should listen to him, maybe take a few notes while you’re at it,” you looked over at Bucky, smirking. “Well, I suppose I should let y’all in, take a look around and all that jazz.”

You opened the door more and stepped out of the way, letting them come inside. Sam looked around, turning in a small circle to take in what he could see so far. It was a good-sized apartment, already had a bit of furnishing. A big couch, a loveseat, a TV. From what he could see of the kitchen, it looked like it’d be big enough to cook in without complaining about having no space. Not a lot of decorations so far, but he supposed you had only recently moved in. 

“So, it’s a four bed, which is nice, but there’s only one bath,” you explained. To Bucky you said, “That means keep the hair product on the counter to a minimum. We all gotta use the space.”

“Steve’s the one who has a crazy hair routine!” Bucky protested. 

“Hm, and I thought he just woke up looking like that,” you said, walking them through the hall and showing off each of the three unoccupied bedrooms. “Anyways, there’s an in-unit washer and dryer, so no need to go to a Laundromat, unless you just really want to. It’s, uh, about a ten, fifteen minute walk to campus. And, like Nat probably told you, y’all don’t need to pay rent. Any questions?”

“How the hell are you paying for this?” Bucky asked. 

“My parents are,” you said. “The deal was, if I got a scholarship that covered most of my tuition, they’d handle my housing costs. This was the closest apartment I could get to campus, which is nice, but...You know, I felt kinda weird living by myself, especially in a place as big as this. Feel like someone’s just gonna jump out of the empty rooms and stab me to death, you know?”

“Oh, what are you studying?” Steve asked. 

“So we’re just bypassing the murder talk? Ok. I’m about to start law school in about a month,” you said. “What about you guys? Nat mentioned the, uh, party that knocked y’all out of getting grad student housing.”

“It was their party,” Sam corrected. 

“That you didn’t put a stop to.”

“You know them long enough, and you’ll understand why that wasn’t possible. Pretty sure I met them while Steve was about to jump out of the window on a dare, and Bucky was gonna follow him ‘cause they don’t ever do stuff alone.”

“So I should, like, childproof the windows or something?”

“It might be in your best interest,” Sam chuckled. “I’m getting my master’s in social work. And Steve’s doing art education, and Bucky’s doing education with a focus in English literature.”

“Oh god, we’re trusting those two with teaching the future of our nation? Might as well sign off on doomsday happening ahead of schedule,” you laughed. “Um, well, I guess that’s everything I gotta show y’all. Are you, uh, interested, or do I need to go back to the drawing board?”

Sam looked at Steve and Bucky, who shared the same look Sam wore. Oh, there was only one right answer to this. 

“We’re definitely interested.”

[redgillan]

Under Pastel Skies - 11

Sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Modern!AU Bucky doesn’t need anyone, especially not a sugar baby. He isn’t that desperate… but she smiles so sweetly and she’s endearingly awkward, and he’s so lonely. She’s an artist, a painter, the type of person who always puts others before herself. Throwing caution to the wind Bucky offers her a place to live, a place where she can finally paint whatever her heart desires. He doesn’t need much in return; a friend, a muse.

Word Count: 6,696

Warnings: Unprotected Sex (non explicit) 

A/N: And finally... Just a word before, and it’s important, I wanted to put the explicit between two ‘*’ but I settled for one at the end because explicit means different things to different people. So whenever it starts to get too steamy for you, skip to the *. Thank you for reading, I appreciate your support!

Wannabe sugar daddies, don’t interact with this post. 

Bucky moved behind the kitchen counter when he heard the door close. You and your guests were in the hallway where you took their coats and asked them to remove their shoes. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He had to stay calm, you depended on him tonight.

“It smells nice in here. What did y-”

Bucky straightened himself up and tried to keep a casual, friendly smile on his face as he came face-to-face with Okoye. He had seen enough pictures of your siblings to recognize them.

She looked surprised to find someone else there. He raised his hand and waved, and she frowned at him in confusion. The rest of the guests stopped short when they saw him waving like a dork. You pushed through them and came to his side.

“Guys, this is my friend, Bucky,” you said. “He’s the one who invited you.”

“Thanks for the invite. I hope you like wine,” Scott said, extending his hand as he walked over to Bucky.

“I sure do.”

Then he shook Wanda and Okoye’s hands, telling them how good it was to finally meet them. Your sisters introduced him to their partners, W’Kabi and Edwin who preferred to be called ‘Viz’.

You led them to the living room while Bucky prepared the drinks. W’Kabi decided to stay behind and help Bucky carry the drinks to the living room. He praised Bucky for having such a nice home.

The conversation seemed to flow easily between your siblings, though as Bucky arrived with your drink, he couldn’t help but notice that you were not participating. You took the glass from his hand, smiled then went back to staring at the coffee table. He sat next to you and rubbed soothing strokes on your arm before he reached for his drink.

Okoye was telling everyone that she had decided to return to New York after King T’Chaka’s passing. His son carried the mantle of the Black Panther, surrounding himself with his father’s Dora Milaje, but Okoye wanted to live closer to her own family.

She was a Dora Milaje, loyal to her king, but she was also a sister, loyal to her family. She felt like there were no good choices, and it ate away at her until her king found a solution to her problem. His little sister, Shuri, was starting her own business in the United States and needed her own bodyguards. Okoye accepted and W’Kabi followed her.

Scott didn’t share much. He showed everyone pictures of his little girl, Cassie, and said he was now working at Baskin-Robbins.

Wanda was evasive about her life and whereabouts. She told everyone that she’d been backpacking across Europe and met Viz, a wealthy businessman, on a beautiful sunny day in Berlin. They’d been attached at the hip ever since.

“And of course, you’re all invited to the wedding,” Wanda said while Okoye admired the ring. “It’s going to be a small wedding. I just need my family.”

“Excuse-me,” you said, standing up abruptly. “I think something’s burning.”

Bucky watched you disappear into the kitchen. He glanced at the group again, no one was paying attention so he followed you into the kitchen.

He found you leaning back against the counter, your arms crossed over your chest, staring into nothing. He walked over to you and pulled you into a one-armed hug that you accepted with a pleased sigh.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you said, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“Is it a code ‘flamingo’?”

“No,” you chuckled, pulling away. You took a deep breath and leaned back against the counter again. “It’s just...”

You huffed, unable to find the words and grabbed him by the waist, seeking his warmth again. Bucky let out a surprised laugh as you squeezed him tightly. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pressed you against his chest.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, kissing the crown of your head. “It’ll be over soon, angel.”

Bucky rocked you side to side in a slow, soothing rhythm until you were practically melting against him. He felt you take a deep breath, your nose buried in his chest. He didn’t want the moment to end, but you’d been gone for several minutes now, and the others would barge in the kitchen soon.

He pressed a long kiss to your forehead and gently pushed you away, his arm falling to your waist. You smoothed out the wrinkles you had made in his shirt without looking him in the eye.

He could tell you were thinking about something but before he could ask what was on your mind, you kissed the slight cleft in his chin and quickly moved away from him.

He smiled to himself, his heart beating a little faster.

You were transferring the dinner rolls from the pan to the basket when Scott poked his head into the kitchen. Bucky was still smiling to himself like a lovesick idiot.

“Everything okay?” Scott asked, taking a step closer to you. You turned to him and nodded. “It’s kinda weird, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Seeing each other again after all this time.” He leaned his forearm on the counter next to you and smelled the bread. “Baby Wanda’s getting married. Did you know they flew me first class? And the hotel is incredible. I feel like a prince.”

“Viz seems very nice.”

“I can’t believe Wanda backpacked through Europe,” Scott scoffed. “She hates camping.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Bucky watched as Scott leaned closer and whispered in your ear. “Listen, I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me and for Cassie-” Bucky quietly left the two of you alone. It was a private conversation and he didn’t want to impose himself.

He finished setting the table, and soon everyone joined in. Bucky was sitting with his back to the kitchen, W’Kabi sitting next to him. You took a seat across from him, Wanda sitting next to you. Okoye sat next to Wanda, facing Scott, and Viz took a seat at the end of the table.

The food was good, and everyone complimented Bucky on his cooking skills. He said that you had helped him a lot, but you refused to take credit for chopping up a bunch of vegetables. You gushed about his cooking skills and his delicious recipes. It made them salivate just thinking about it.

“And your house is amazing,” Scott said with a dreamy look on his face. “A place like that...” he sighed, “that must have cost you an arm and a leg.” The whole room fell silent, and something that sounded like a foot hitting a shin made the table jump. “Ouch, why did yo- oh.”

Okoye was looking at him with the widest pair of eyes Bucky had ever seen. She looked furious and exasperated at the same time. The others stared at their plates as the uncomfortable silence grew.

Bucky glanced at you, not surprised to find you smirking. You knew he lived for moments like these, and you knew he already had the perfect comeback. As he watched you bit your lip, trying to contain a little giggle, he couldn’t help but love you even more.

“It was the original price but I’m a good negotiator,” Bucky said. “Only cost me an arm.”

W’Kabi was the first to laugh at his joke, then the whole table broke into fits of laughter. Scott looked equally amused and relieved.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

“No problem,” Bucky cut him off.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” Okoye said with a smile and a shake of her head. She turned to Bucky as everyone calmed down. “So, Bucky, strange name, uh? What do you do for a living?”

“My name is James, Bucky’s just a nickname.” He wiped his mouth and set the napkin down. “I’m a writer.”

“A pretty good one, judging by your apartment.”

“I’m all right.” He shrugged. “Literally.” Scott snickered at the joke.

“He’s too modest,” you said. “His books are best sellers. They’re autobiographical, he’s very sincere and honest and funny. He has a way of making you laugh about things that are pretty awful.”

“Yeah, we saw that,” Wanda said with a grin. “Are you working on anything at the moment?”

Bucky shifted a little in his seat. “Yeah, it’s uh,” he cleared his throat. “It’s a very important one. I don’t really want to talk about it. Don’t wanna jinx it.”

He wasn’t going to tell your family that he was writing a book about how he fell in love with you. That’d be pretty awkward.

“I understand,” Okoye nodded, then looked at you. “You’ve been really quiet tonight.” You shrugged. “I thought you were still living with Natasha. Do you still work at the hotel? Where is it again? Chelsea? That’s one hell of a commute from Brooklyn.”

“I wasn’t exactly living with Natasha,” you said. “I was crashing on her sofa. And no, I quit six months ago. I’m a full time artist now.”

“That’s great,” Scott said, raising his glass toward you in a silent toast. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Not too bad. Bucky’s friend is a professional photographer. He helped me set up my website. The pictures he took are amazing. I sold a few pieces online but I’m struggling to find gallery representation.”

“Hey, as long as it pays the bills.”

“I don’t really have to worry about bills these days.”

“What do you mean?”

The room got quiet again, and Bucky could feel the tension in the air, buzzing like static electricity. All eyes were suddenly on you, waiting for an explanation. Bucky knew you were not going to lie to them. He locked eyes with you, and braced himself for impact.

You set your fork down and folded your hands in your lap.

“Well, Bucky and I have an arrangement.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Scott cut you off.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush and I’m not going to use pretty words to make it sounds more appealing,” you continued as if you hadn’t heard him. “He’s my sugar daddy.”

“You’re joking. Please, tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope,” you replied smugly, popping the ‘p’.

A chorus of voices rose in protest. Okoye and Scott were shouting while the others kept glancing around wondering what had just happened. Wanda was strangely quiet next to you.

“Oh, shut up!” you shouted. “You left me alone. All of you. We were all grieving our brother but it doesn’t give you the right to fuck off when things get tough. Do you know how fucking terrifying it was when mom started to lose her memories? Or when the police drove her home at three in the morning after one of her spells? No, you don’t know because you weren’t there.”

Bucky had never seen you so upset before, and he didn’t quite know what to do but he felt like you needed to get it off your chest.

“I didn’t have friends or boyfriends. I went to class, then got home, hoping mom hadn’t set the house on fire. I took the first decent job I could find because she needed a new home and professional help. Without Natasha I would have been homeless.” You turned to Bucky. “I’m so sorry, I’ve ruined dinner. You’ve worked so hard.”

“It’s okay,” he replied immediately. “I’m with you.”

“God, you’re so nice,” you sighed, then turned to your siblings. “See? That’s the kind of person he is. I was lonely and lost, and I found him and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s kind and sweet, he’s selfless and generous, and you have no right to criticize our relationship.”

Bucky stared at you, his mouth hanging open a little. Slowly he shook himself out of his trance and reached for your hand on the table. He had no idea you thought so highly of him.

“We needed each other,” you continued. “And I don’t care what you think.”

Dinner was officially ruined but Bucky didn’t care. He smiled at you, soft and reassuring, and let go of your hand when you smiled back. He was proud of you for speaking up, for standing up for yourself.

Bucky noticed Wanda and Viz exchanging looks.

“Okay so, since we’re sharing truth bombs,” Wanda said, shifting a bit in her seat. “I wasn’t really traveling through Europe. I went to Sokovia and after that, everything’s kind of a blur. I did things I’m not proud of. I wanted to forget,” she paused and sighed, “everything. I hit rock bottom, pretty hard, and checked myself into a psychiatric hospital. That’s where I met Viz. He helped me send you those postcards. I screwed up, real bad, but I couldn’t tell you guys the truth. I’m not really proud of myself.”

“I got fired from Baskin-Robbins for yelling at a costumer.”

“Okay!” Okoye exclaimed in her big sister voice. “Enough truth bombs.” She pointed at you. “I’m sorry you had to do this alone, it wasn’t right but we’re here now and we won’t let you down. As for the sugar daddy thing... well you’re a grown woman, you can do whatever you want. Bucky seems like a nice guy.” She turned to Wanda. “We are all dealing with our pain in our own way. I’m not judging you. We’re here for you, Wanda.”

“I know,” Wanda said, sniffing.

“And Scott, stop yelling at people.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

Bucky turned to W’Kabi and Viz who looked proud of their girls, albeit a little uncomfortable with the whole situation. Someone started chuckling, he couldn’t tell who it was, but suddenly the whole table broke into a fit of laughter.

“How about some dessert,” he said. “Then you guys can fill me in on some childhood secrets.”

As he walked away from the table, he heard you warn your siblings to keep their mouths shut. They laughed in response, which made Bucky smile. Surely it’d take more than one outburst at a family dinner to fix your broken bond but it was a good start.

During dessert, he learned that everyone called you ‘Splotchy’ because you painted on the living room walls as a child. He learned that you always wanted to play board games with Okoye. Your favourite one was Mystery Date.

“She had a crush on Tyler, the beach date.”

“No, that’s not true, don’t listen to them.”

When they finally left, you spent a few extra moments hugging everyone. Promises were made, and Bucky couldn’t help but smile as he watched you wave goodbye to your siblings.

It was just the two of you again, and the mountain of dirty dishes and silverware. He told you not to worry about the dishes, but you knew if he went to bed he wouldn't be able to sleep, not when the kitchen was such a mess so you cleaned together.

He loved these moments with you. There was something very peaceful about the night; the dark skies, the soft lights, the quiet apartment, knowing people all around town where getting ready for bed. It used to make him feel tiny and isolated but now, with you, the night didn’t seem so frightening anymore.

A few weeks went by, and things were changing a bit. You spent your Saturday mornings with your sisters, bonding, and facetimed with Scott at least once a week.

Bucky also noticed a subtle change in Sam’s behaviour. He seemed happier and he wondered if his friend had already forgotten Natasha.

It was almost June, and the building’s swimming pool reopened as the weather got warmer. Despite living there for several years, he had never gone near that swimming pool until you dragged him out one scorching afternoon.

The rooftop was surprisingly calm, apart for the group of children playing in the pool. There were people sunbathing around the pool, enjoying a good book, socializing. You dropped your bag on the floor and laid out your towel on the reclining chair.

Bucky had never seen you in a bathing suit before and it caught him completely off guard, but what made him literally growl was seeing the little pendant of your necklace rest against your skin. He didn’t know why but it awoke something in him.

You both slathered on sunscreen before you went for a swim. Bucky recognized a few neighbours, and while they all knew he only had one arm, they had never seen him shirtless before. Bucky didn’t mind their inquisitiveness, as long as you were beside him.

“Do you think the kids peed in the water?” you asked as you rested against the edge of the pool.

“Probably,” Bucky cringed. “When I was a kid, my mom told me that there were chemicals that turned the water a different color when someone pees.”

“Ew,” you laughed.

After a while, he lay out in the sun, enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin. He could still hear you playing water polo with the kids when a shadow passed over him. With a frown, he pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead.

“It’s nice to see you, James,” his neighbour beamed, taking a seat on your unoccupied chair. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out here.”

“Hi.” He wasn’t surprised when his voice came out hoarse since he had been on the verge of falling asleep. With the grace of a walrus, he propped himself into a sitting position. “Yes, well, swimming pools are more fun when you’re not alone.”

His neighbour turned to look at you. “Congratulations, by the way. I didn’t know you were seeing someone. Must have been serious if you two moved in together. How long has it been since she moved in? Six months?”

“Seven.”

He knew he should have corrected her, you weren’t his girlfriend, but it felt good. It was just a harmless little lie.

“Does she make you happy?”

“I’m the happiest man on earth,” he replied with a bright smile, then slid his sunglasses back on his face.

His neighbour chuckled quietly. “I can see that!”

When you returned to your seat, his neighbour was gone. You hummed to yourself as you settled into your seat, big droplets of water running down your body. Bucky tilted his head down and peered at you over the top of his sunglasses.

“Where did you get that popsicle?”

“Jealous?” You licked your treat without looking at him. “The kids’ mom gave me one as a thank you for looking after her kids.”

“That looks good.”

“So good.”

“Mind sharing it with me?”

You pursed your lips thoughtfully, then held out your popsicle. As Bucky leaned closer, you pulled it away and jumped to your feet. The look he gave you was one of pure betrayal.

“Oh, angel, you should have never done that.”

He grinned to himself when he saw a shiver run through you. When he stood up, you took a step back. He strutted toward you, his grin predatory. The floor was slippery so you couldn’t go very far.

“Are you ready to share now?”

“No!”  

The popsicle melted down your hand, creating a mess. You turned your arm and licked the drops of popsicle juice from the inside of your wrist. It distracted you long enough for Bucky to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. You squealed and grabbed him around the neck to keep from falling while also trying not to smush the popsicle against his chest.

You waved the treat in front of his face and he tried to bite off the tip of your popsicle. It made you laugh, your body sagging against him. His face was close to yours. He was so close he could smell the artificial orange scent of your popsicle.

Your laughter died down and your breath caught in your throat when you saw the way he was looking at you. Without thinking, he went for it. He felt your fingers flex against his skin, urging him closer.

His lips were barely a breath away from yours when one of the kids repeatedly slapped your thigh, obviously oblivious to what the two grownups were about to do.

“Come back! We haven’t finished the game,” the kid whined. “Come on!”

Reluctantly, you let go of Bucky and took a step back. Your exhale came out shaky, and in your almost-kiss-induced trance you handed him the popsicle without saying anything before you followed the kid.

You turned back to look at him, one hand sprawled across your stomach, the other across your chest. He knew you were feeling it too: the butterflies, the racing heartbeat, that pleasant heat going through your body.

The difference between like and love.

A week later, he came home to an empty apartment. He climbed the stairs to your studio but you weren’t there. Instead, he found a canvas stretched out smooth and tight on the floor, and several bowls of paint arranged in a semi-circle around it.

He knew you were home, you wouldn’t leave without your phone or bag. Out of curiosity, he went up on the roof and let out a relieved breath when he found you.

You were sitting on the edge of the rooftop with your knees up to your chin and your arms wrapped loosely around your shins. You looked so beautiful in the golden hue of the setting sun.

He stood there, watching you as if he was looking at a painting in a museum. Entranced. You hadn’t noticed him yet, and a quick glance around the roof told him you were alone.  

Slowly, he made his way to you and took in your appearance: a short sleeve white shirt and a pair of denim overalls. The shirt was surprisingly spotless but the overalls were covered in dried paint splatters of different colours.

“I looked everywhere for you,” he spoke softly, trying not to disturb you.

“Did you?”

You straightened up a little but kept your eyes trained on the horizon. Bucky sat close to your feet and let his hand slip under the hem of your jeans to close around your ankle. A sigh slipped past your lips, and he let his fingertips linger for a moment on your smooth skin.

He knew you had a meeting today, and judging by the resigned look on your face, it didn’t go well.

“What’s on your mind, angel?” he said, caressing the top of your foot.

“I was thinking about the night we met. God, I was so nervous,” you said, laughing softly. “I told you that agreeing to meet you was like choosing between a pack of wolves and jumping off a cliff.”

“I remember,” he chuckled.

“I never told you how glad I am that I jumped off that cliff,” you said. “I’d never jumped head first into something, not knowing what was going to happen. Now I think I’m addicted to it. Before I met you, I was living for others. Everything single decision was thoroughly analysed. There was no mystery, fun, or impulsiveness. I put my entire life on hold, and now I see that I can’t do that anymore.”

“What are you going to do?”

You paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t know if I want to turn my passion into a career. Painting is my safe-place, and right now it’s giving me so much anxiety. I haven’t had the inspiration to paint in weeks.” You looked at him and pressed your lips together tightly. “And, if I don’t want to become a full time artist, then I guess our deal is off.”

Bucky stared at you, mouth agape. He really hadn’t seen it coming.

“Please, don’t be angry,” you pleaded. “I don’t want to stop seeing you. When he didn’t answer, you leaned forward and touched his face.

“I could never be angry with you, angel,” he said, kissing the inside of your palm. “I understand, and I’ll help you however I can.”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m still thinking about it.” You looked away from him and stared at the sky. “Do you know that feeling when you stand in a high place and you think about jumping? You don’t want to jump and you don’t do it, but there’s that urge.”

“I think I do.”

“It’s called ‘call of the void’. People say that it’s an affirmation of our will to live. That knowing we’re going to die one day makes us appreciate life even more.” You looked at him. “I want to jump but I can’t. I’m scared.” You lowered your voice. “I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“You’re scaring me a little. You can’t talk about jumping when we’re sitting on the edge of the roof.”

You chuckled under your breath. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Let’s go home. We’ll make dinner together, put on some music and pretend we’re in a movie.” He got to his feet and held out his hand to you. “Please.”

You took his hand and let him lead you to the staircase.

Once you were inside the apartment, he removed his shoes and you removed yours. Silence settled between the two of you as you entered the kitchen. Bucky moved behind the counter while you stood close to the dining table.

When he chanced a glance at you, he saw you staring into nothing while you played with the charm on your necklace, rolling it back and forth on its chain. You often did that when you were daydreaming.

Bucky walked over to you and placed his hand on top of yours, halting your movements. You let go of the pendant and held his hand instead. He ran his thumb soothingly over your fingers.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he spoke softly.

“If I say it, it’s going to change everything.”

He pressed your joined hands against his chest, over his heart. “No, it’ll make it real.”

He let go of your hand and cupped the side of your face. You leaned closer until you were only inches apart. His thumb traced your cheekbone, then moved to trace the outline of your bottom lip.

He let you come to him, let you take that first step, and when your lips brushed against his, he closed his eyes and sighed. He kissed your parted lips; once, twice, three times, tiny little kisses against your trembling lips.

His kiss grew bolder, turning into something so intimate, so passionate and intense that tears gathered in his eyes. He pressed his mouth more firmly against yours, his large hand still cupping the side of your face. His bad shoulder jutted forward as if his missing arm wanted to touch you.

He let out a groan, frustrated that he only had one hand to finally explore your skin. Sensing his inner turmoil, you held onto his bad shoulder and pulled him against you.

His tongue swept into your mouth, moving in a slow and deliberate rhythm. A growl escaped him and he deepened the kiss, tasting, sliding, retreating and entering again. He poured everything he had into the kiss.

“Bucky,” you moaned after your broke the kiss, breathless.

Hearing his name fall from your lips, your voice hoarse with desire, sparked something inside him. He swiped his thumb over your bottom lip, feeling the softness and collecting the moisture that had gathered there.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, looking positively entranced. “My pretty angel.”

You pulled him in for another kiss and wrapped your arms around his neck, your slightly cold hands felt amazing against his heated skin. He pressed himself against you, letting you feel the rise and fall of his chest, the desperation in the jerky thrust of his hips.

He needed more but he wasn’t going to force you into anything. He was more than happy to stand here and kiss you for hours. He cupped the back of your neck and rubbed the sensitive skin behind your ear with his thumb.

“I’m yours,” he spoke against your lips, his eyes screwed shut.  

You pulled back to look him in the eye, searching his face. He opened his eyes and you saw nothing but honesty in the depth of his eyes.

You untangled yourself from him and took his hand. Slowly, you took a step back, then another, his hand still in yours. His eyebrows lifted slightly when you bit your bottom lip and gave him a coy look.

He nearly growled again, the wolf inside him eager to touch you, feel you, claim you. He stood taller, his chest puffed out and breathing fast.

You led him up the stairs to the second floor and turned on the light in the corridor. You slowly made your way down the corridor with him behind you.

But instead of turning left towards his bedroom, you turned right into your studio, and it changed everything. Your studio was your sanctuary, your safe place, and knowing that you were about to bare your soul and body to him tamed his inner wolf.

You hesitated at the threshold of the room and glanced over your shoulder to look at him. Bucky squeezed your hand to encourage you.

“I bought some body paint on my way home,” you said, letting go of his hand to step into the room. “I wanted to try something different, something more personal. I wanted to use my body to express my emotions, to create something raw and messy. My interpretation of somatic art therapy.”

You moved around the darkened room; bent down to adjust the canvas on the floor and made sure the bowls of paint were still full.

“I sat there and thought of my mom and Pietro,” you continued, barefoot on the canvas. “I only feel sadness and anger, and I don’t want to create something that makes me feel sad. And I realized the only thing that keeps me inspired is hope.”

Turning to face him, you held your hand out, palm up, and his eyes widened at your silent request. Without thinking twice, he joined you on the canvas. It was both soft and scratchy under his feet.

Bucky watched as you unbuckled the right strap of your overalls and slipped the second strap off your shoulder. You tugged your jeans down your legs and tossed them aside, leaving you in your underwear and white shirt.

Swallowing thickly, Bucky let his eyes travel up and down your body. He had seen you in your bathing suit before but this was different. Then he reached behind his neck and pulled his shirt over his head, baring his strong chest, hard abdomen and marred skin.

The room was dark; the pastel sky, visible from your studio thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, didn’t provide much light. The light was still on in the corridor, casting a faint golden glow over the room.

You took a step forward to examine his scars more carefully and Bucky took that opportunity to kiss you again, slowly, intimately. He peppered kisses along your jaw and down your neck, then went down on his knees in front of you and continued his journey down your body, pressing soft kisses to your stomach.

He accidentally knocked over two bowls of paint; the dark colours spilled out onto the canvas, chasing each other. His kisses made you light up with desire, your moans music to his ears as your hands came down on the back of his head.

When it all became too much, you gently pushed him into a lying position and helped him out of his jeans. His belt buckle made a faint clink when you pulled it open, and Bucky swore out loud when you planted a wet open-mouthed kiss right below his navel.

In the back of his mind, he knew he wasn’t going to survive the night. He let his head fall back against the canvas and closed his eyes shut. Your talented mouth sent sharp jolts of pleasure through him, making it difficult to breathe.

He could feel the paint stick to his back, creating the shape of his upper body on the canvas. It was strangely exciting.

He moaned, arching his back, and slammed his fist down on the canvas. His fist landed in one of the bowls of paint. It splashed paint everywhere. He looked down at you and saw tiny flecks of paint splayed like freckles on one side of your face.

It made you both giggle. As he pushed himself up into a sitting position, Bucky left a print of his forearm on the canvas. You climbed into his lap, straddling him, then removed your shirt and bra. You wrapped your legs around him, one hand on his upper arm, the other hugging his neck.

Bucky was sitting on the canvas with his legs outstretched and slightly bent at the knees. He held you against his chest, rocking back and forth, his arm around the small of your back. You sighed together, sharing the same breath.

“You have the prettiest nose.” You let your index finger run down the length of his nose, your finger wet with paint. “So pretty.”

Laughing softly, he brushed his nose against yours and kissed you. He changed the angle of his thrusts, catching you by surprise.

“Does that feel good, angel?” he asked, lightly biting your jaw. You answered with a short cry. “Look at me.” You slowly opened your eyes, your movements faltered a little. “You’re so beautiful like this. You drive me crazy, y’know that?”

“Bucky,” you cried out.

He felt you shiver when he moved his hand from your back to your face. He cupped the side of your face and you immediately pressed yourself closer to him, craving the warmth of his touch.

He stopped your movements and looked you in the eye. “I’d do anything for you. Anything. You’re my one and only.”

He laid you down as gently and safely as he could, and once you were lying flat on your back, he sprawled between your thighs. He supported his weight on his forearm, careful not to crush you. Your hands slid up his sides, and as your thumb traced over his ribcage, a violent shiver went through his body.

He had never seen anything more beautiful than watching you come apart; your eyebrows furrowed, your lips parted in a silent ‘o’, the way your body shook in little spams. Absolutely stunning.

Exhausted, he collapsed on top of you and hid his face in the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around him and slowly caressed his back.

After he kissed his way down the side of your neck, he straightened himself up into a kneeling position and looked down at you. Your naked body was on display, covered in paint and glistening under the moonlight. He wished he could take a picture, immortalize this memory.

*

He helped you up, and after another passionate kiss he led you to his bathroom, the two of you leaving colourful footprints all over the clean floor.

The bathroom's bright fluorescent light was harsh and unforgiving as you looked at each other in the mirror. Yet you were both glowing, streaks and dots of paint covering your bodies. Bucky turned on the water and waited for it to get hot.

He wrapped his arm around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “We look like we blew up a rainbow,” he said, smiling wide when it made you chuckle.

In the shower, you took turns washing each other, laughing and kissing until the water turned cold. You pushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled sweetly at him.

“We’re going to catch a cold if we stay here.”

“Mhh,” he replied, kissing your temple. “You’re right. There are clean towels on the shelf. Go, I’ll be right behind you, I still need to take care of my scar.”

“Can I help you?”

Asking for help wasn’t something he was comfortable with, especially after years of being babied by his ex-girlfriend, friends and family. After his accident, he couldn’t do anything on his own. He had to rely on others and it made him feel like a burden, like he was incapable of taking care of himself.

He knew it was all in his head but he couldn’t help it.

“It’s not exactly sexy,” he said.

“I don’t care. I want to help. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Patiently he guided you step by step through the process of cleaning his stump. You inspected his skin thoroughly, looking for irritation or any signs of infection, then washed it with a mild soap.

He had to admit that watching the woman he loved take such good care of his scar made his stomach fill with butterflies. You looked so focused, so attentive, that he could help but smile and try to kiss you.

“Bucky,” you complained, turning your head away, avoiding his kiss. “This is serious business, stop fooling around.”

He almost said it. I love you. But something was holding him back. He didn’t know what would happen next and it scared him. He didn’t want this to be a one-time thing, but he also realized that things were moving too fast.

“Okay, now you’re shivering,” he said, holding you close, trying to share his body heat with you. “Let’s get out of here.”

He wrapped you in a fluffy bathrobe and patted you dry. Then you carefully dried his scar and applied corticosteroid cream to his shoulder, massaging it gently into his skin. He slipped on his robe and you loosely tied the belt at his waist.

“We should talk about what just happened,” you said, playing with the belt. “What does it mean? What are we going to do? Can we-mph”

He cut you off with a kiss, long and hard and filled with passion. You smiled against his lips and finally pulled away.

“Is that how you’re going to shut me up from now on?” you asked with a grin.

“We’ll talk,” he said, pressing his forehead against yours. “But not tonight.”

“When then?”

“Tomorrow, I promise.”

You looked down at your hands on his belt and nodded. He tilted your head up and lowered his mouth to yours.

“Don’t avoid me tomorrow. Please.”

Your words felt like a knife in his heart, and it left him momentarily speechless. He took one of your hands and pressed it against his heart. “No matter what we decide to do, you’re my angel and I’m yours.”

You shared a long, silent hug before you both decided to call it a night. Once he saw the footprints in the corridor, Bucky felt the urge to clean them. He tried to resist but he knew if he didn't clean he wouldn't be able to sleep.

You understood –you always understood. That’s why he felt so comfortable with you.

Once it was clean, he joined you in the kitchen and made you breakfast for dinner, opening the cupboard and pulling out a couple boxes of cereal you didn’t even know he had.

He told you that he was keeping them for a special occasion. He remembered you telling him that it was your favourite meal as a kid, watching TV with your siblings every Sunday night, eating cereals.

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” you said, tears in your eyes.

The two of you sat on your bed, sharing random thoughts and spoonfuls of cereal. You giggled as milk dribbled down his chin and stained his robe. You wiped at the spot on his chin with your thumb and gave him a chaste kiss.

Your lips tasted sweet. Bucky pulled you in for another kiss, discarding the dirty dishes on your bedside table. You helped each other undress, then slid under the covers where you laid your head on Bucky’s chest.

“Bucky,” your voice cut through the quiet. “Do you mind-”

“Don’t worry, my angel, I’ll wait until you fall asleep.”

“Thank you.”

Part 12

[blackacre13]

Not to be dramatic, but I’m DYING for more of the teacher/student series.

I love the drama. Part 15 was last so here’s Part 16:

“Fuck,” the blonde breathed. “It’s like you read my mind. Well, in reverse anyway. I’ve been smitten with you since the first day of your class. You just hooked me in. But of course, I wanted to work with you because you’re the best and because of where I want to be as a professional. I want to be with you, Debbie, but I still need you to be that professor that mentor that is Dr. Ocean.”

“But you also want to make out with me?” Debbie grinned making Lou blush.

“That and more,” Lou laughed. “And I appreciate that you want lists and boundaries and whatever. So much more than you know. I don’t want to fuck with either of our futures.”

“But you also want to fuck me?”

“I’ll owe you big time,” Lou offered. “Just please? Please let me borrow your car, Tam.”

“What’s in it for me?” Tammy asked, raising an eyebrow as she sifted through a magazine on her bed, the blonde pacing across the dorm.

“Exactly what I just said,” Lou sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’ll owe you big time.”

“Simple. Just take your bike.”

“I am not just throwing her on the back of a bike with zero warning,” the blonde frowned. “Please, Tam? Just this once.”

“Fine,” she huffed, closing the magazine before tossing it across the mattress. “What do you think she’ll wear?”

“I guess I’ll see it when I see it,” Lou shrugged, continuing her pacing. “More focused on what I should be wearing. Which you said you’d help me with.” Lou was lying through her teeth. She’d spend most of her classes today caught up in picturing what Debbie would wear and hoping it was another dress or skirt that showed off her killer calves. And maybe she’d spent time wondering what she’d wear underneath. And if Lou would get to see it.

“Whenever I help you with clothing, I tell you to do one thing and then you do the complete absolute opposite,” Tammy pointed out.

“Maybe,” the blonde smirked. “But without you, I wouldn’t be able to make the right decision.”

“As in the one I don’t pick.”

“Precisely.”

“Just keep working those suits,” Tammy suggested, waving at the air. “She already told you she loves them. Just maybe switch up the shirts.”

“Like no shirt at all?” Lou grinned as Tammy’s mouth gaped. She kicked her socked foot at Lou’s hip as she passed.

“No!” Tammy shrieked. “Lou!”

“I think it’d be hot,” the blonde shrugged. “Thanks, Tam. I’ll give it a go.”

“That is not what I meant,” Tammy sighed.

“Sure it is,” Lou winked before checking her watch. “I have to go. Meeting Debbie before class. But I’ll find you at lunch?”

“How is this your life?” Tammy asked. “I mean, seriously.”

“It could be yours too,” Lou laughed, swinging her messenger bag over her shoulder.

“Have you seen my department?” Tammy groaned. “I just have to play the long game. Get that teaching job. Survey some single dads of my students.”

“So you want yourself a daddy?” Lou smirked, her hand on the doorknob.

“Shut up, Miller,” Tammy hissed, throwing a pillow towards her. “We can’t all fuck our hot lesbian art professors.”

“We haven’t fucked,” Lou rolled her eyes.

“Yet,” Tammy huffed.

“Yet,” Lou grinned before blowing Tammy a kiss and headed out the door.

She put her headphones in and started her mini commute to the arts building, stopping off at the student union for two coffees and checking Dr. Ocean’s mailbox.

She rapped on Debbie’s door twice, the door swinging open immediately as Debbie’s hand reached out for the coffees and placed them on her desk before throwing the stack of envelopes on a chair and pulling Lou inside by the strap of her bag as the blonde chuckled, Debbie closing the door behind her before pressing Lou back against it, leaning in to leave her with a smoldering kiss that Lou melted into, unable to wipe the delirious smile off her lips even after Debbie’s mouth left hers.

“I take it we’re still on for dinner tonight?” Lou smirked, clearing her throat as she tried to shake off her dizzy head and loose legs, the feeling of Debbie’s lips still tingling against hers.

“Wouldn’t miss it, my sleeper,” Debbie promised. “I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

“Do I get to know where we’re eating?” Lou asked, sitting down on Debbie’s desk as the brunette came to stand in front of her, wrapping her arms around Lou’s shoulders as Lou’s legs wrapped around Debbie’s, pulling her in closer.

“It’s a surprise.”

“But I’m driving.”

“So the GPS will give you a five minute head start to the surprise,” Debbie shrugged. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

“Alright,” Lou nodded with a grin. “A surprise it is. Thanks for letting me pick you up.”

“I never turn down chivalry,” Debbie winked.

“We’ll, I’m chock full, Ms. Ocean,” Lou hummed.

“I like the sound of that, Ms. Miller,” Debbie laughed. “But not too chivalrous I hope. I still like a bad girl, you know.”

“Honey, if you’re a good girl for me, I can be whatever you want.”

[stabbysideblog]

BBH’s Prison visit (scene-by-scene)

(To make things easier I’m going to put the timestamp for the END of each scene I talk about)

Link to the vod 

Very long post warning! This is going to center on Dream so if you aren’t into that don’t click the read more. 

28:46 - Bbh comes up to Dream and even walks past him a bit before Dream turns and starts moving again. This is our first sign of him being spacey. After he says hello he takes a deep breath. This sounds like the type of breath you take to calm down. 

29:14 - We can hear how Dream’s voice is different even from the last time we heard him. To make sure I checked Tommy’s vod and it is completely different. He speaks slower, with more spaces, less enunciation, sometimes there’s a slight slurr to his voice. Bbh asks how he’s doing and he replies and goes to spin his clock. I don’t know how intentional this is but BBH asks what he’s doing and Dream stops and looks at the floor instead of at BBH. 

29:33 - Bbh asks if spinning his clock is what Dream does in his free time and Dream says yes. He used to write but he burned a lot of his books. He doesn’t say why. We can assume based off what he said he doesn’t write anymore. That means all he has to do is spin his clock round and round. After BBH opens the chest 6 spaces are empty. One book is on the lectern. He assumedly burnt all the books Tommy made him write. Why? He never elabirates on this so we don’t know

29:52 - Bbh asks if Dream likes it in here and Dream takes almost 3 seconds to respond. He describes it as “really good”. Before while bbh is talking about the cell he doesn’t say anything. He looks at the lava but doesn’t move towards it.

30:11 - Dream talks about how he gets potatoes :] But they’re raw :[. He goes close to the lava but comes back to talk to bad. Also whenever he walks he runs. Dream is notoriously very active, he bounces around he can’t do that in the cell so instead he runs from place to place. “he said he- I tried to get out and so he made it so I couldn’t have visitors for a few days but” He completely drops the potatoes conversation to say that then drops this conversation. 

30:47 - Bbh tells Dream that he’s done bad things that got him in there. Dream doesn’t argue he simply repeats “that’s true”. He also says he gets to “think and think and think... and play with my clock”. In that sentence he looks at the damage pot dispenser then plays with his clock. 

31:36 -  When Bbh asks if Dream wants to hear what’s going on outside he perks up somewhat and asks how George and Sapnap are doing. He remarks after bbh says they probably miss that they haven’t visited him. He then makes a reason for it because there were a few days he couldn’t get visitors. Bbh accidentally rubs in that they haven’t come by at all and Dream goes and spins his clock for 31:24 - 31:33. He says nothing in this time, then he asks what’s happening outside. 

32:41 - While bbh talks about that’s going on outside Dream spins his clock, he stops to chuckle at what Tommy’s up to. Bad says he’s sure a lot of people miss Dream while Dream is turned around and Dream snaps to attention looking at bad. He laughs at Techno “still doing the whole anarchy thing” then asks for a 3rd time what is happening outside. He goes back to spinning his clock while Bbh talks. At this point it’s very obvious how much Dream uses the clock. It’s like he relies on it. 

33:28 - Bbh talks to Dream about  the egg. He simply says “I remember the egg” and “that’s intresting” before going back and spinning his clock. “I don’t really have anything else other than the clock”. That’s sadly true. As far as he knows everyone hates him, he’s lost everything. The only thing he has left is his clock. Bbh asks if he’s named it and he has but he doesn't want too say the name. Instead of that he just keeps spinning it.

34:29 - Dream takes out at book and starts writing in it. Bbh asks what he’s writing but Dream doesn't reply simply giving bad the completed book. It’s titled “thank you!” and the inside says “thank you for visiting me badboyhalo!” Dream tells bad he won’t be able to take it out. Bbh says that once Dream gets out he can take it with him. Dream doesn't reply and spins his clock. If you haven’t noticed how much he uses this clock you’re blind. He says that his sentence is forever when bad asks. “Forevers not that long” Way to rub it in bad. At least Dream chuckles a little.

35:40 - Bad tells him he likes what he’s done with the place before realizing how that sounds. Dream moves his clock to the other side of the room. “I like to watch it and then when it hits halfway *pause* then *pause* then I’m happy”. Note that in this chunk Dream is particularly bad at replying to bbh. They watch the clock move together. Dream says that it was “awesome” he seems to not have been the biggest fan of redecotaring because he moves his clock back to it’s original location. 

36:43 - Dream makes a sound like when you are sad and have to take a breath before you start crying. He says that he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Bad mentions that Dream has a heat source. From that we can assume that Dream’s tiny prison is pretty darn hot. He also asks how long he’e been in there suggesting that he has lost track of time. That’s pretty common in people who are in solitary confinement. Bad gives a timeline of a few weeks to 2 weeks. For reference the United Nations says solitary confinement for more than 15 days is torture. 

37:20 - Bad asks who’s come and visit Dream, Dream says only Tommy and bbh is surprised. Dream remarks that “he’s the only one actually, until you” and goes to stand close to the lava. He goes close to it a second time while he justifies no one visiting by saying there’s limited visiting hours and overtime more people will (come visit). 

38:18 - Dream tells bbh about the #epic prank he does on Sam where he burns his clock so he can see Sam and say hi. The clock that he’s spent most of his visit spinning. So he can see someone else. I wonder if Sam decided not to give Dream another clock what else he would do to get Sam to visit. Bbh asks if he gets in trouble for burning his clock and Dream says sometimes he gets less potatoes. 

"oh so he starves you"

 "no I'm not s- I dunno- I wouldn't say I'm starving but-" 

"you have 3 square meals a day?" 

"........... i have potatoes"

The concerning parts are how much he stumbles over his words and the I wouldn’t say I’m starving. What would you say you are then? 

39:38 - Dream chuckles and throws his clock into lava. It’s gone now. Let’s see if he acts any different. Dream moves around a bunch while talking about what will happen later, you can hear his chuckle and smile at his ‘prank’. Dream tells bad that Sam is going to make a system so that the potatoes are dropped in so he doesn't have to see him to give him potatoes. Bbh says that he should keep sam from doing it because doesn’t it brighten his day? Dream admits it does but everything here is automated so it’ll make it better. Bbh asks if awesamdude treats Dream well and Dream says he does while he keeps glancing at the lava.

40:28 - Dream sniffles and tells bbh that it’s fine in here. He has his clock and his book and,,, he’s happy in here...right? He finishes off that sentence by sniffling and clearing his throat. All signs point to him not being happy in here. Where before he would spin his clock now he,,,, tries not to cry. Bbh asks if he’s allowed to have anything else, Dream tells him he can ask. While bbh talks about how maybe he could get a potted plant he sniffles again. Dream is obviously upset but he does as Dream does and says he’s okay and things are fine. 

42:00 - Bbh asks who Dream wants to come visit him, he says that he wants george and sapnap to come visit him. Bbh accidentally makes it sound like they don’t want to visit Dream, he says that they probably just need to be reminded that Dream is available for visitors. Dream takes 4 seconds to reply and it’s just a sad “yea”. Bbh tells him to look on the bright side and Dream just looks at the floor. I think that he knows that George and Sapnap don’t like/hate him. He also takes awhile to reply to Bbh saying that he’s been on good behavior right? If that’s because he hasn’t or because Sam’s idea of good behavior is hard for Dream we don’t know. 

42:51 - Dream throws himself into lava and Bbh reacts with horror yelling at him what is he doing? He says that sometimes he swims in there. What exactly made him decide to swim in the lava? Maybe him remembering how he he lost his friends, maybe him realizing he’ll never be free, maybe he was bored? We don’t know. What we do know is in this cell healthy coping mechanisms do not exist. They aren’t allowed to exist by nature of it. He tells bab that going into the lava keeps him entertained and sometimes he likes to set himself on fire with it. He demonstrates this and while bad asks if it’s a prank he just chuckles. This demonstrates how in the cell he’s willing to put himself physically into harms way for any more stimulation. It’s sad honestly. 

44:12 - Dream says that bbh’s time is probably almost up and thanks him for visiting him. Bbh says he wants to get Dream a pet and improve his living conditions. Dream talks about how long it takes to break a block, he once sat there for over 20 minutes with basically no progress. He helped design the prison and knows that if he broke a block the guard would be teleported in (and kill him). He realizes if bbh becomes a guard it could be a way to get him to come visit him :D he’ll simply punch a block for hours until it breaks so the people tasked to kill him can be there. Dream is desperate for human contact. He realizes that would make awesam really mad and he doesn’t want to do that. 

44:35 - Bbh says maybe he can get his sentence commuted from forever to 10 or 20 years. Dream says he’d like that if he has good behavior. I can’t help but feel noones idea of good behavior is lining up. Sam wants to think and see Dream as little as possible. Dream, I don’t know what Dream considers good behavior. Bbh sees good behavior as not trying to escape or messing with anything. Bbh says he doesn't wanna get Dream’s hopes but but Dream should look in the bright side. Dream sniffles and clears his throat. As this goes on it gets harder for him to not cry it seems. Bad tells Dream to look on the bright side and Dream says alright in a way that obviously suggests he wont. 

45:43 - Bad says that he’ll come visit Dream again really soon. He says he’ll bring George and Sapnap, Dream reminds him only 1 person can visit at a time. Bad says then he’ll schedule for them to visit. Bbh alost saays that they need to visit their friend but instead says they need to visit you (Dream) instead. From Dream’s POV this celents that they don’t care for him anymore. Bbh ends his visit and Dream somehow sounds more dejected than ever. 

50:42 - Sam while HOLDING a clock says that he might not give Dream a new clock. It also doesn’t matter whether Dream knows if it’s daytime or not. Bbh seems to have picked up how important the clock is to Dream. Sam also asks if Dream “said anything(????)” while he was in there. He also says that Dream swims in a lot a lot and usually he just wants attention. Sam also says with the way Dream has been acting that he probably won’t get his sentence commuted.

 Overall very concerning! From the way Dream relied on an inanimate object and the moment it was he started sniffling, to how he talked and sounded different, to how he swims in lava and sets himself on fire for fun, to how he’s starved if he misbehaves, to how he was spaced out and slow to respond. This all paints a picture of someone not doing well but pretending he isn’t. If he were to not get a new clock, and sam installs the automated potatoes machine I feel like he would get worse much faster. Unless bbh gets on that prison reform fast it’s not looking good for him. Not even getting on how the warden of the prison hates his guts. 

[thran-duils]

Use All of Me (P.5)

Title: Use All Of Me (Part Five) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark Mob!Steve Rogers. The Avengers are heroes saving the world but in this AU, they are also permitted by the powers in charge to have less than favorable business underneath their guise of mere superheroes. Steve and Tony are at the helm, keeping their empire’s wealth in check, both devious and perilous if crossed. Steve takes a liking to the reader at a party and it may be her undoing to her autonomy choosing to go home with him. Words: 2,889 Warnings: Dark AF, angst, emotional/mental abuse, smut, breeding, death Author’s Notes: This relationship is going to go ~downhill~ from healthy really quick. Please do not read if that is going to offend you.

Part Four || Part Six || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

You ate in silence at your dining table. Tears still stung at your eyes, no matter how you tried to hold them back. Your mind was racing, trying to still make sense of what had happened. Steve had never been that aggressive with you. Sure, he had been heated outside the club when he had found you flirting with Joseph. But he had not frightened you; he had not become an imposing shadow, stealing away your ability to speak what you felt.

He had not mentioned children more than a handful of times, commenting he wanted them. It had seemed harmless enough; wanting children was a normal ambition for people. But the way he reacted… he was showing a completely different side. Domineering. Maybe that is who he truly was and your defiance to his desire triggered it.

“That going down all right?” Steve questioned, genuine care in his tone, interrupting your thoughts.

“Obviously,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Steve stilled for a moment, tossing a scrutinizing look over at you. You ducked your head again, taking another bite. He waited a few moments, still studying you. When he turned away, you felt the tension relax in your frame.

You excused yourself to bed after finishing your soup. It was only 8:30pm but you just wanted to sleep. Steve informed you he was staying the night – not to your surprise.

He came up behind you, his strong arm wrapping around you. You sniffled and he peered over your shoulder. “Hey,” he said gently. His fingers came up underneath your chin, turning your head to look at him. “Oh, doll. I know you’re scared. But I’m right here. I promise.” He was calm, caring just like you knew him to be. And that made the situation even more confusing, more tears overflowing. He leaned down, shushing you quietly, laying soft kisses along the side of your face. “You’re going to be okay. I’m not leaving. Okay?”

You licked your lips and whispered, “Okay.”

<> <> <>

Thankfully, you had Fridays off having a four ten-hour day schedule, so you did not have to suffer the embarrassment of calling in for the fourth day in a row. You did not think it was possible for you to keep yourself together if you had to explain to your boss why you were not coming in.

You slept in past 8:00am. How you had managed to sleep almost twelve hours was surprising but you amounted it to the stress.

When you came out of the bedroom, Steve was standing in the living room, staring out the window, on the phone. You saw there was a plate of pancakes and bacon – that is what had initially roused you from your sleep. You were a little queasy but the carbs might help make you feel better.

Steve heard the floor creak and he tossed you a smile in acknowledgment. “Yes, exactly. On Monday would be perfect. We can get everything packed up over the weekend.” You stilled, your eyes moving to his back. “And how much is that going to be? I can have the money wired or if you need a card the day of, that works too.”

You slowly sat down grabbing an empty plate and taking some of the pancakes slowly, focusing most of your attention on his conversation.

“Uh huh. Yep, that’s the address, correct. Steve Rogers.” He paused and chuckled. “Yes, I am. No. No, it’s not my place. It’s my girlfriend’s. Mhmm.”

You realized you had poured too much syrup on your pancakes, not paying attention. You swore under your breath quickly upturning the bottle to place it back on the table.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

He hung up, turning around to face you. “Oh, good. I made that for you.” He began texting.

“What… who were you talking to?” you asked.

“Moving service.”

“A moving service?”

Steve did not spare you a glance as he continued to type, “Yes. I want you to move in with me. It would make me feel more relaxed having you close.”

“I can’t move in with you.” That caught his attention. You swallowed sharply seeing the look on his face, but you pressed on, pointing out, “It’s too far away from work. That is a long commute for me.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. You quit.”

Astounded at his nonchalant attitude about your career, you protested, “I don’t want to quit, Steve. I can still work. I’m pregnant, not disabled.”

“I’m sure you can,” he responded. “But I don’t want you to. And you don’t have to worry about doing it yourself. I already visited your employer this morning and let her know you wouldn’t be coming back. So, like I said, you quit.”

You felt like the air had been kicked out of you. You thought he had meant that you should quit, not that it had already been done. And done without your consent.

“You did what?” you asked in disbelief after a few moments of staring at him, gaping like a fish.

He stopped typing again and locked eyes with you. He explained slowly, “I went to your employer and explained to her you wouldn’t be coming back in. She understood.”

“She ‘understood’? What did you do?”

Steve narrowed his eyes, his hands dropping a little. He asked tensely, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Holding back an accusation of him being forceful, you instead switched gears to hopefully garner sympathy. “Steve! You… you probably just ruined my chances of getting a job again in this field. Word travels! I can’t just… quit! After being out of the office for three days. It’s not a good look!”

“This is how it was going to end up anyway. It just happened faster than planned.”

“How what was going to end up?”

“You were not going to be working forever. You don’t need to. Not if you’re married to me and we have children together.”

A scoff escaped, “I don’t remember being a part of that conversation. You’re taking everything away from me! And I’m sorry, marriage?”

He stalked over to the table, tossing his phone down. He placed his hands on the back of the char across from you, leaning on it. “Taking away from you? Y/N, I’m giving you everything!”

“How? By forcing me to have a child I am not sure I want? Or using your power to just up and quit my job – especially without my agreement? Making me move in with you – AGAIN, without my agreement? You’re making all these decisions about my life without speaking with me!”

“About our life, Y/N. This isn’t just about you. That’s a very childish way to think about it.” Your mouth fell open at that, him calling you selfish. He pointed at himself, “I am making all the hard decisions because you’re demonstrating to me you only want to take the easy way out. Is that how you solve problems, Y/N? I thought you more mature than that, but I have been proven wrong. It’s frankly disappointing.”

Scornfully, you asked, “Well, if you think me so immature, then why are you insisting we go through with this? I mean, what immature person could take care of a baby?”

“You’ll have help,” Steve said, piqued. “Pepper is giving me recommendations for nannies.” You scoffed again, looking away from him, trying not to cry from your frustration. Steve growled, “You should be grateful. With how loose you have shown yourself to be, it could have been anyone that knocked you up.” You snapped your head back to stare at him, hurt. He shook his head seeing your expression, his eyes cold. “Even after you showed you were all too ready to move on quickly and have another cock between your thighs as if I meant nothing, I forgave you. I had already fallen for you. I couldn’t let you slip away – I won’t let you slip away.” He pointed at you aggressively. “You should be thanking me, not backtalking me. I won’t tolerate it. Not from you. My patience is wearing thin, so drop the damn attitude! You hear me?”

You said nothing, glaring at him, biting your cheeks.

Steve said more forcibly, “Y/N, I expect a damn answer.”

Tightly, you got out through gritted teeth, “I heard you.”

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

“Good,” he said tersely. “You should think about what I said. I’m doing this for us.” He stared at you for a few more moments, as if he was waiting for you to retort something. You were past that, knowing it was not going to help you right now. He seemed satisfied with your silence, pushing away from the table and grabbing his phone. “Eat your breakfast.”

<> <> <>

Feet tucked up underneath you on the couch in front of the large fireplace, you texted Natalie.

What do you mean you quit?

Steve insisted I don’t have to work. I’m going to be taken care of.

So, you’re throwing your career away because you got pregnant? You do realize you can have both, correct?

Your instinct was to text back that you knew that, but you were afraid to. Because you were unsure if Steve would ask to see your phone and be irked by what he saw.

I know. Having some time off might be good during this though.

It’s going to be more than a year, Y/N. You’re going to lose a lot of time!

I know. But I’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.

It had been tense with Steve for the last few days, you feigning sickness more often than usual. You thought he could see through the charade but he did not call you out as a liar. It was going to come to a head at some point; his lust seemed to be insatiable. He had told you as such that he was craving you and could only handle so much time apart.

What you told Natalie was true, you were going to figure it out. It was too much at once. All these thoughts had been rushing through your mind. Was what he said right? It had gotten under your skin. At least in the sense that you were immature? There had to have been many people in your situation faced with this decision and so many sucked it up and grew up. Were you afraid of growing up and being a mother? Steve had taken you to the doctor earlier this morning to check on everything. You were over a month along, which means you had gotten pregnant very quickly.

You sighed, thinking for the umpteenth time that day if being pregnant with Steve was actually the end of the world or if you were making a bigger deal out of it than you needed to.

Bucky strolled into the room and you straightened up, quickly tucking your phone underneath your thigh. He noticed and cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. You gave him what you hoped was an innocent smile. Before, you would have welcomed his company with open arms but now you knew you needed to be guarded with them all. They were Steve’s friend’s, not yours.

“Steve around?” You shook your head. “Hmm, he say when he was gonna be back?”

“No,” you answered quietly.

Bucky was eyeing you and you tried to be calm underneath the scrutiny. You were not doing anything inherently bad texting your friends, but Steve had made it clear he did not want you divulging too much. You were sure the other Avengers were aware of this and agreed with him; their livelihood was at stake if you spoke or knew too much.

Coming over to the couches, Bucky sat close by, leaning back, arms draped over the back of the couch.

“How are you settling in?”

You shrugged, “Fine, enough. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It happened really fast,” you offered.

Bucky hummed in acknowledgment, nodding. “Seems that’s how it goes most of the time.”

You did not like it moving fast, that was the problem.

“I’ll give you an update after it’s over,” you sighed.

“You sound miserable.”

You just averted your eyes, giving a slight shrug.

“You’ll get used to it, Y/N,” Bucky said reassuringly. “Steve cares a lot for you. And he’s always wanted a family. This is perfect for him, so he’s going to be a little intense. He’ll chill out. Trust me. I’m his best friend and all.”

Being bold, you locked gaze with him and said coolly, “I just wish I had some say in it. It is my body after all if everyone somehow forgot.”

Let him tell Steve that. Maybe it would sink in differently if it came from Bucky.

Bucky instead of looking taken aback, actually looked impressed. “There it is. That fire Steve said you had.” You were unsure if you should take that as a compliment or not. He shifted forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He pierced you with a serious look, “Some advice though… you did give yourself to him the moment you got in bed with him. He’s going to have final say, and as I’m sure you know, he doesn’t like pushback. And I’m sure not especially from you.”

Wasn’t that the truth.

“I would realign that fire to becoming the wonderful mother we all know you can be rather than resisting him. It won’t end well that way. He’s not a man to cross.” He paused before adding, “He’ll give you the stars as long as you do as he asks.”

You were quiet, letting what he said sink in.

Bucky sat in silence was well, watching you closely.

Was this going to just be your life now? Living in this large house, waiting for your child to arrive and then continue staying here, rearing children for Steve? Bucky’s point was clear: you were not leaving here, let alone him, unless Steve gave you permission to.

“I need time,” you said stiffly. “It is a lot to take in.”

“I’m sure. But you are in perfect hands.” He got up from the couch. “I’ll go wait in his study so I don’t continue bothering you.” His gaze flicked to where your cell phone was hidden for a split second.

You nodded in acknowledgment, electing to stay quiet as he walked past you towards the stairs.

<> <> <>

As soon as Bucky was in Steve’s office, he shot him a quick text.

She’s being sneaky about her phone.

It did not take long for Steve to respond.

Don’t worry about it. I’ll see if she says anything I don’t like. She’s being good so far.

Bucky snorted reading the text. “Sneaky bastard,” he muttered.

<> <> <>

A week later, Steve was at it again. He came up behind you in the bathroom mirror, his arms wrapping around you as you dried your face after your face scrub. His hands played with the hem of your short robe.

“Don’t,” you said, pulling away from him.

Steve’s face darkened and he grabbed your wrist, stopping your forward motion. He yanked you back to him and you winced at the tug. His hand came up to grip your other wrist, holding them in between you.

“What did we talk about, Y/N?”

You tried to pull away again and he held fast. You pleaded, “Steve. Please. I just want to sleep.”

“You had all day to sleep. And you’ll have all night after I’m finished,” he told you, pulling you closer. His forehead rested on yours, his eyes closed. “I haven’t seen you all day. But you didn’t leave my mind, baby.”

You swallowed sharply at his intimate confession.

His hands left your wrist, finding the ribbon on your robe instead and undoing it. He pushed the robe from your shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. He hummed in approval seeing the babydoll you were wearing; it was the pink, satin one you had put on when he had brought you home from your first date.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmured.

You gave in, letting his tongue slip past your lips. Steve’s hand ghosted up your thigh underneath your babydoll and in between your thighs. He groaned against your lips, his fingers delving past your folds. His thumb caressed you, working you up, despite your initial disdain about being in his arms.

Steve picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. On your back on the bed, he slipped inside you. He did not draw it out, going right for it, panting and groaning above you. Steve always made sure you came before he did, his stamina being superior to yours. He held you close as you tightened around him, your legs quivering. When he came, his head fell beside yours, resting on the pillow. You were pinned beneath his immense weight for a minute before he pushed away from you, hovering overhead.

Steve trailed kisses down your abdomen, causing you to shiver.

“Can’t wait to see you heavy with my baby. You’ll look perfect,” he husked against your skin. “I love you so much.”

He meant it too. He did love you. And that did not bode well for you for whenever you did escape.

~~~

Tags: @imsonick , @alexakeyloveloki, @kvzctam, @ironlady1993, @taintedgenre, @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters

[myrandomfandomramblings]

Making memories - a Chenford fanfic

For Chenfordficweek2021 - as described by @therookiebook

Instead of a fic a day for chenford fic week I decided to just write one incorporating as many prompts as possible. This is because when I read them a few just connected in my head and then I had way to much fun seeing how many I could kinda incorporate. Some of the quotes aren’t word for word but the lines are inspired by the original prompt.

*Note: my beach fic was also inspired by this prompt list but I got antsy and posted it early so if you haven’t read it, you can check it out.

Main prompt: Road Trip

Other prompts:

July 11th- 

"Is that you...singing? Since when can you sing?" 

"I wish we could stay like this forever." 

Fight 

"You're comfier than a pillow." 

July 12th- 

With Child(ren)- theirs or not

"I fucked up."

"Where have you been?" 

July 13th- 

"You're crushing me." "I can't breathe with you on me." 

"Stay here." 

"What do you want?" 

July 14th- 

"I'm calling the police." "We are the police." 

"Don't move." 

"That a new dress?" 

Sweet tooth

July 15th- 

Locked out (Car/house/station) 

"Stop hogging all the blankets." 

"Why are you bleeding?" 

"Make me." 

July 16th- 

Shopping together or for the other 

Getting lost

"Is that my shirt?" 

Under the stars

July 17th- 

Competition 

Tears 

"Why are you so late?" 

When Lucy arrives in role call and hears she’s partnered with Tim for the day, she’s excited. When she hears they are to wear civvies and take Tim’s truck to surveil a suspect, she’s confused. And when said suspect drives further and further out of LA and they are instructed to keep on his tail, she’s annoyed. If she didn’t know better she’d think some writer designed the assignment purely because it was convenient for their story. Nevertheless, this is her life: crashing at a random hotel nearly nine hours from LA, after finally being relieved of surveillance detail, by the local sheriffs department, at 2:30am. The plus side is she’s being paid overtime, not only for the late night but also for the commute back to the city tomorrow. The down side is despite being exhausted she twists and turns all night unable to get comfortable in the strange environment. So when Tim knocks on the adjoining door between their rooms at 10am she’s already been up for a few hours. She has written a journal entry in her notes, preordered drinks for them to pick up at Starbucks and spent more time than she’d like to admit on google maps and various travel sites researching their trip home. She has also found time to plunder the continental breakfast and is currently demolishing a strawberry danish and a cinnamon bun. This earns criticism from Tim, whose plate carries sausage, eggs and an orange.

By 11am they’re on the open road again, coffees in the console between them. The small talk they had been making since they left the hotel had slowly died out so now they sit in comfortable silence. That is until Lucy reaches over to turn on the radio. 

“You know how I feel about car radios Chen,” Tim warns in his best TO voice. 

“Even off shift?” Lucy scoffs, and continues to press the on button and turn the volume dial up. Nevertheless, nothing happens.

“Looks like it doesn’t work anyway,” Tim states as he continues to hold the volume down button on the steering wheel, unbeknownst to Lucy.

“Fine then I’ll be the radio.” “You like Lady Marmalade, right?” She’s referencing Tim’s LA CLEAR security answer but she doesn’t wait for his reaction or reply before beginning to belt out the opening lyrics.

As she sings his initially surprised expression, morphs to shock and then awe. 

“Since when can you sing?” he asks when she finishes.

She just shrugs, looking down at her hands as they begin to fiddle in her lap.  

“Now I wish the radio really was broken,” Tim states as he turns it on and music starts playing.

Lucy shoots him a quick death glare before turning her attention back out the window.

---

By noon Lucy’s singing quietly along to the music (causing Tim to reevaluate his opinion on car radios) when she suddenly sneezes then freezes as her eyes go wide.

“Ah, can you stop at the next place with a bathroom?” she asks bashfully.

“We haven’t even been driving that long can you hold it?”

“Find me a bathroom or your truck will be covered in blood,” Lucy says, her tone conveying urgency.

“What? Why are you bleeding?” Tim asks, confused.

“If you don’t know why I, a woman, would be bleeding and thus need a bathroom then the public school system failed you.”

 “Oh, ah, right, sorry,” Tim stutters, “I think there’s a small town at the next exit.”

“Thank-you,” Lucy replies clearly relieved.

“Do we need to find a drug store or do you have what you need?’

“Ya, if you could find a drug store.” She’s fiddling again, unable to shake the feeling of embarrassment even though she knows, rationally, she has nothing to be embarrassed about.

Several minutes later Tim’s pulling into the drug store parking lot and Lucy’s unbuckling her seat belt to run in. But as soon as she stands up Tim’s voice stops her.

“Wait Luce.” There’s a tenderness to his voice especially when he uses the new nickname that stops her more than the instruction itself. “I think we’re too late.” 

Lucy looks down at the seat she just vacated to see its center now decorated with a dark red stain. A matching stain is present on the butt of the long yellow dress she’s wearing. 

“Of course,” she spits as she tries to fight back tears that are already running down her cheeks.

“That a new dress?” Tim questions awkwardly, caught off guard by the sudden display of emotion.

Lucy lets out a choked laugh as Tim flounders to find something helpful to say.

“I ruined your truck, I ruined my dress and now I have to walk around the drug store with a giant stain on my ass,” Lucy sniffs.

“Hey Lucy, everything’s going to be okay.” He reaches across the console to put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll go in and get what you need.”

She stares at him surprised and unsure. The idea of him buying her tampons and pads and, she realizes, new underwear seems uncomfortably intimate.

“So, ah, what do you want?”  

Because she has no desire to walk around the store with a giant blood stain on her butt she gives him her order, eyes down, face turning redder by the second.

He just nods and returns a few minutes later with three grocery bags and immediately hands them to her.

Inside she finds much more than she requested. The first bag contains two chocolate bars, two bags of candy, and two bottles of water. The second holds 6 different packages of assorted pads and tampons.

“How much blood do you think someone loses on their period,” Lucy teases.

Tim gives a small shrug. “I didn’t know which kind you wanted.” 

Inside the third bag Lucy finds a bottle of Advil, a package of wet-wipes, a spray bottle of stain remover, a new package of underwear (simple white cotton), a pair of black tights and a box of black garbage bags. 

“What are these for?” she asks holding up the garbage bags.

“They didn’t have any shirts so I thought we could make some head and arm holes and-“ he stops talking when he sees Lucy’s unimpressed expression. “I know it’s not ideal.” 

“Good thing I already have that figured out,” she says holding up a plaid button up. 

“Is that my shirt?” He had taken it off as soon as he got in the car, since like usual he had a henley underneath, and thrown it into the back. Lucy must of retrieved it while he was in the store. 

“Please,” she says fixing him with those puppy dog eyes. “I promise I won’t get blood on it. Well, I’ll do my best. Please don’t make me wear a garbage bag.” 

He laughs. “I forgot I had that. I guess I didn’t need these.” He takes the garbage bags from her and is about to throw them in the back when Lucy speaks up.

“Actually I’ll take one,” she says ripping the cardboard and freeing a single bag. She proceeds to rip a hole in the top of the garbage bag and pulls it over her legs like a skirt. Then she puts Tim’s plaid shirt on overtop. Tim is watching her with raised eyebrows.

“What? It’s just temporary. I promised I wouldn’t get blood on your shirt.” She puts everything she needs in her bag and goes into the bathroom to clean herself up. When she returns Tim is just finishing cleaning the blood off the passenger seat. 

“I would have done that.”

 “It was no trouble.” “Here spray some of this on your dress before the stain sets,” Tim offers as he hands her the stain remover.

Lucy does then drapes her dress over the backseat.

“Ready to go,” Tim asks.

 Lucy nods and by 1pm they’re back on the road.

 ---

By 2pm they’re both hungry and decide to stop for lunch. The place they choose is a fast food joint connected to a gas station. It’s busy. Probably because it’s the only place to eat for miles around. While they wait in line to order, Lucy goes to use the bathroom, only to find another line just as long. She decides to try the gas station bathroom instead, telling Tim that she’ll be right back but if he gets to the front first he knows her order. He goes to argue but she’s already gone, which is probably a good thing since he has no rebuttal, considering it’s the truth. 

A few minutes later Tim has their food: a veggie burger with extra pickles and fries for her and a burger and fries for him, but she still isn’t back. He wanders over to the gas station to find her standing in line at the register. 

“Put the candy back Chen.”

“Make me,” she says shaking the bags as she holds them by her shoulders.

Tim reaches for them but Lucy moves to evade his grasp. “Too slow,” she teases.

“You’ve already had two pastries, one bag of candy, a chocolate bar and a frappa-cappa-crapacciuno or whatever.”

“It was a chai tea latte and you know it.”  

“It was more sugar than anything and we still have more candy in the car. You’re going to give yourself diabetes.” 

She shrugs. “It’s not a road trip without excessive amounts of junk food.” 

“It’s not a road trip. It’s a commute home.” 

“It’s whatever we make it,” she says as she taps her card to pay for the candy. 

They find a state park a few minutes up the road and unpack their lunch at one of the picnic tables. They talk as they eat, familiar banter flying across the table. As they near the end of their food Lucy is animatedly telling a story about a recent arrest. She has a french fry in one hand and as she gestures, a little too aggressively, a glob of ketchup flies off the end of the fry and right into Tim’s face. 

She sinks down a little in her seat and covers her mouth to try to suppress a laugh.

“Did you just throw ketchup at me Chen?” he glares as he slowly removes the offending condiment.

“Not on purpose,” she giggles.

“If you start a fight you better be prepared to finish it,” he says as he rips open a package of mustard and squirts it at her.

Although it has poor projectile power a small amount lands in Lucy’s hair. She looks back at him mouth wide. “That was on purpose. That’s assault. I’m calling the police.”

“We are the police,” Tim deadpans as he rips the top off another mustard package.

“You wouldn’t” Lucy warns as she opens a mayo.

Then words are abandoned as condiments fly. They go through 5 ketchup, 3 mustard, 2 mayo, 1 bbq sauce, 1 ranch dressing, 1 aioli and 1 pepper packet before they both surrender. In fact the only packets left untouched are the hot sauce and salt. Both their faces are covered in assorted condiments. Most that had been scooped off the picnic table and smeared directly onto their target when it became clear the packets could barely project their contents a foot. The only one that was truly an effective weapon was the pepper which successfully gave Tim a sneezing fit. 

As they sit back down to finish the last bit of their lunch Lucy picks up a fry and runs it along Tim’s cheek then throws it in her mouth. 

“Not bad,” she says as Tim makes a face of disgust.

When the last fries are gone they throw out their garbage, wipe down the picnic table, then turn their attention to themselves.

“It’s a good thing I bought these wipes,” Tim says as he passes one to Lucy. 

She laughs as she takes it and begins to wash her face. 

“Did I get it all?” she asks when she thinks she’s done. “Because you didn’t,” she adds as she reaches up to wipe the side of his mouth.

He’s startled at first then his expression morphs into something she can’t quite read but something that makes her linger just a little longer than strictly necessary. Then she steps away and climbs into the drivers seat and by 3pm they’re back on their way.

---  

By 4pm Lucy’s in the middle of a seemingly endless monologue about the bachelor franchise when she looks over to realize that Tim is fast asleep. She would be insulted but instead she sees it as an opportunity. She starts to take every turn she can. Whenever she comes to an intersection she turns on to the smallest street. By the time Tim wakes up, about half an hour later (of course he would have is body trained to nap the ideal more than 20, less than 40 minutes), they are in the middle of nowhere. She waits until he’s fully awake then slams on the brakes.

“I’ve been shot. Where are we, Tim?” she demands in her best Tim Bradford voice. He looks out all the windows to see nothing but ranches then back at her, confusion clear on his face.

“Did you get us lost just so you could prove a point?” His tone an odd combination of annoyance and amusement.

“We’re not lost I’m taking the scenic route.” 

 “I’m pretty sure the scenic route is supposed to run along the ocean not through the desert in the middle of no where.” 

“We’re not in the middle of no where we are North of Martinus Corner at the intersection of Cross Rd and and Lockwood Jolon Rd,” she brags. 

“Great you know where we are. Do you know how to get us back onto the main road?”

“It’s not all about the destination, you know, It’s about the journey,” Lucy offers. “When’s the last time you did something just for the fun of it.”

“We go for a hike or a walk along the beach with Kojo every weekend.”

“I know I’m fun to be around,” she teases, “but that’s an errand, Tim, the dog needs exercise.” 

“I see your point but what are we supposed to do in the middle of ranch land? You want to go cow tipping?”

“We won’t be in ranch land for long,” Lucy replies, but half an hour and at least twenty turns later they’re still surrounded by fields and livestock.

“Will you admit you’re lost now?” Tim asks.

Lucy sighs, “Fine, can you please google map how to get to Route 1”

“We were on 5.”

“5’s the freeway. 1’s the scenic route,” Lucy explains. “the one that runs along the ocean.”

Before Tim can bring up the app they’re emerging into a small city centre. As Lucy continues down the main street she excitedly points ahead. 

“Let’s go bowling,” she says indicating the bowling alley sign.

“I thought you wanted to go to the ocean.”

“We can still take the scenic route home, after we go bowling.”

Tim sighs.

“Come on let’s have some fun, make some memories,” Lucy encourages.

“You’re not going to take no for an answer.”

Lucy shakes her head and happily pulls into the bowling alley parking lot.

Several minutes later they have their bowling shoes on and their names entered in the computer on lane 4. Tim goes first and immediately gets a strike.

“You want to put money on this game Chen?” he asks cockily.

“Lucky shot,” Lucy replies. “I’m not betting money but if you win I’ll let you pick the route home but if I win you can’t complain when we take the scenic route.

“Deal,” he says shaking her hand.

Lucy goes next and gets two gutter balls in a row. “Why didn’t we get the bumpers?”

“The bumpers are for kids.”

On her third throw she throws the bowl with two-hands after swinging it between her legs.

“Speaking of for kids,” Tim teases.

“Don’t argue with results,” she counters as her ball connects with the pins.

They continue going back and forth, Tim using the classic one-handed bowling throw and Lucy trying a different technique each time. She tries sitting down and pushing it down the lane, pulling out the ball slide meant for toddlers, standing backwards and throwing the ball between her legs but eventually settles on the two-handed granny throw. 

By half-way through the game Tim’s score is double Lucy’s and he starts to get cocky. He throws with his eyes closed, on one-foot and after spinning in a circle 10 times. 

3 quarters through the game the black lights come on and they laugh at each others teeth glowing in the dark. The disco lights and music follow. Then Lucy who had been giggling and joking around all game suddenly becomes serious. 

“I have two more turns and I really want a strike,” she states. She has a couple spares on the board but strikes remain elusive. Tim on the other hand has three.

“Can I show you? he questions handing her a ball.

He initially tries to coach her through the throw but she isn’t catching on so he steps behind her, puts his hand over hers and leans into her back as he guides her through the motion. The ball knocks over all but one pin but Lucy almost misses it because she’s looking up at Tim. He lets go and steps back.

“You think you can do that on your own next turn?” he asks shaking the huskiness from his voice.

She nods. Tim bowls, then it’s the moment of truth as Lucy throws her ball imaging Tim’s arm along hers, guiding it. The bowl rolls straight down the alley where it connects with the pins and knocks them all down. STRIKE flashes on the computer screen as Lucy jumps for joy then right into Tim for a celebratory hug. He’s initially surprised but is able to catch her and himself before they fall over. He spins them around as she laughs and he’s suddenly really glad Lucy made him stop.

With that the game is over. Tim’s still ahead but the margin had narrowed. They return their bowling shoes and head out to the truck.

“Fine you win this time, we can go back to the interstate but I want a rematch. I’m thinking mini-golf or the arcade,” Lucy says as she pulls out of the parking lot. 

“Nah, go to the 1,” Tim says as he starts to read the directions off his phone.

Lucy looks at him quizzically but doesn’t push her luck. By 6pm they’re driving along the ocean.

---

By 7pm, although it’s not that late, it’s already dark. That combined with her lack of sleep the night before is making Lucy sleepy. When she yawns for the third time in less than 20 minutes Tim suggests they switch drivers. Lucy happily obliges pulling into the next rest stop. During the day it would have a beautiful view of the ocean but now all one can see is darkness. The only evidence of the ocean’s presence being the rhythmic, crashing of waves against the base of the cliff below.

They pull into the abandoned lot; Lucy takes her time backing into a spot, mostly just to annoy Tim and they both get out, reflexively closing their doors behind them. As they pass each other Tim holds his hand out for the keys. 

“I just left them in the ignition,” Lucy explains. Tim looks over to the truck then back to her a look of defeat on his face.

“Your doors lock automatically, don’t they?” Lucy asks rhetorically, “I fucked up.” 

They try the doors just in case but sure enough they’re locked. 

“Well it could be worse,” Tim offers much to Lucy’s surprise, “at least it’s not running.” “I’ll call Angela and see if I can convince her to grab the extra set of keys from my house and come meet us but its going to be a couple hours.” 

Lucy nods. “Thank-you and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tim shrugs, “we’re making memories remember.” Then without another word we walks away from her as he hits a button on his phone and puts it to his ear. The conversation doesn’t last long. Angela obliges but insists that Tim now owes her one. He thinks she still owes him a couple from everything he did as her man of honour but decides now isn’t the time to bring that up. When he hangs up he finds Lucy has lowered the tailgate of his truck, where she now sits. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, but she’s smiling as she looks up at the sky. 

“You can see the stars here,” she explains hearing him approach, “away from the lights and smog of the city.” 

Tim climbs up into the bed of his truck and removes a stack of old moving blankets from the storage box he keeps in the back. 

“Angela’s on her way but in the meantime we should stay warm.” He wraps one around Lucy’s shoulders. Then lays the rest on the floor of the truck bed. 

“Good thing I left these in after helping Tamara move last weekend.” He shimmies his way in-between two layers then taps the spot beside him, inviting Lucy to join. She climbs in beside him eager for more warmth. With the sun gone the temperature had dropped fast. 

Lucy pulls up an app on her phone and hands it to Tim so he can identify constellations for them while her hands and arms stay hidden under the blankets. Then they lay down and look-up at the stars. Tim uses the app to find constellations, points them out to Lucy, then reads the story about them provided by the app. Meanwhile Lucy snuggles deeper and deeper into the blankets. Tim stops in the middle of the story he’s reading about the the swan constellation as the blankets are pulled off his torso. 

"Stop hogging all the blankets,” he complains pulling them back.

“Sorry, I’m freezing,” she confesses. 

He pauses for a second clearly debating something internally before opening his arm out to the side. “Then come closer,” he finally says. 

She hesitates for a second before slowly moving to snuggle against his side. The possibility of warmth far outweighing any awkwardness she’s feeling. She rests her head on his chest. She can feel his heart racing to match her own and can’t help but smile to herself.

“Better?” he asks once she’s finished squirming around trying to maximize her view of the stars and the amount of body heat she’s receiving from him.

”You're comfier than a pillow,” she confirms, nodding. 

Tim doesn’t respond just wraps his arm around her shoulders. He continues to point out constellations and read the stories in Lucy’s app. 

“None of the constellations actually look like their name sakes,” Lucy says after a while.   

“You have to use your imagination.” 

“I could use my imagination to name my own constellations.” 

He shrugs. “Go for it.” 

She finds a cluster of stars that vaguely resembles a duck. She points it out to Tim then makes up a story about a duck that joined the LAPD and saved the city from a gang of geese. When she’s finished she turns to Tim,. “Your turn.”

He gives her his best ‘not happening’ look but he’s met with those pleading brown eyes that hold more power over him than he’ll ever admit and caves almost instantly.

He points out an X made of stars. “That is where the space pirates buried their treasure.” Lucy looks up at him expectantly. “The end,” he finishes.

“That’s your whole story? One sentence.”

“I’m not as creative as you.”

“Then tell a real story,” she says, “here I’ll go first.”

She points to a jumble of stars. “That is Caligula’s toy chest,” she says then proceeds to describe in great detail all the filthy, horrid things she had seen the day he taught her the DEAR method.

“Why would you tell me that?” he asks when she is done.

“Now you share my pain.”

Tim laughs and points at four stars arranged in a rectangle. “That is the phone that was used too much at work.” He spends his entire story essentially mocking her for always being on her phone. Lucy would be annoyed or insulted but the amount of detail he remembers about the completely benign things she has done is kind of sweet and a little exhilarating.

She next finds a ’surf board’ and tells the story of a weekend getaway with some collage friends that ended with a black eye, a broken board and a lot of great memories. 

Tim follows suit finding a ‘football’ and telling the story of a particularly memorable championship game during his high school career. He’s half-way through his story when he interrupts himself. “You're crushing me,” he tells Lucy who is draped over his torso. “What are you even doing?” I can't breathe with you on me."

“I’m tucking in the blanket so our heat doesn’t escape,” she says as she pushes the edge of the blanket under Tim’s side along the length of his body. When she’s done she rolls off of him, cuddles back into his side then tucks the opposite blanket edge under herself. 

When Tim finishes his story they continue to go back and forth, learning more and more about each other each turn. Lucy tells stories from the time she spent travelling and working odd jobs, from her time as a psych major and her time in the academy. Tim talks about his family, his time in the army, and his early years on the force and with Isabel. 

He tells her about a colleague who despite being a great cop made the mistake of using his radio near an explosive and paid for it with his life. He is the reason Tim baby powder bombs every Rookie: so no other good officers will be lost because a critical piece of information was taught so dryly that it couldn’t possibly be recalled under pressure. 

She tells him about her ring as she twirls it around her finger. About how she found it in her grandma’s dress-up chest when she was six and it immediately became her favourite item. How every time she played dress-up the ring was part of the costume, whether she was a princess or a ninja, a cat or a witch, a clown or a police officer. How unlike her parents, who always thought she’d follow their career paths, her grandma always told her she could be anything she wanted. How when her grandma passed away she had found the ring again as she helped her parents pack up her things. How she had started wearing it to feel closer to her. How as she looked at the ring day after day she heard her grandma’s voice in her head:  “You can do anything you put your mind too,”  “the sky’s the limit,” “do what makes you happy.” How that made her realize she was not where she wanted to be and led to her decision to quit her Master’s program.  How her parents had chalked it up to grief and tried to use psychoanalysis to convince her to return. How that had pissed Lucy off and led to her applying to the LAPD. How she had continued to wear the ring as a reminder and motivator during her training. How much it had meant to her to have it returned. How now it not only symbolizes her grandma’s belief in her, but also Tim’s and her own. How it continues to give her strength.

As Lucy talks Tim rubs circles on her back as if connecting the stars that constitute Lucy’s ‘ring’ constellation. 

Just as she finishes she excitedly points up. “Look a shooting star!”

“Make a wish,” Tim advises.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” She surprises herself by how quick and confident that comes out. She hadn’t even thought about it, but it is true. In this moment everything is perfect. She is no longer cold. She is warm and happy in her little burrito with Tim: wearing his shirt, listening to the ocean, surrounded by stars. 

Lucy half hears Tim name a constellation “the best boot I ever trained” and start to tell a Coles notes version of their story but she’s already falling asleep.

She wakes up some time later to Tim shifting beside her. 

“Don’t move,” she groans still half-asleep.“

“Ange is here Luce. It’s time to go home.” 

“Am home,” she mumbles before falling back asleep.

Tim manages to free himself from Lucy and the blankets. He shuffles out of the back of the truck and walks around it to meet Angela who is just getting out of her car.

“Where have you been,” Tim asks. 

“Driving.” 

“I mean, what took you so long?” 

“I thought you might be enjoying your alone time with Lucy more than you’d admit, so I didn’t rush.” 

He wanted to argue but he couldn’t. “Thank-you for coming.”

She shrugs. “Honestly, when your baby refuses to sleep anywhere but a moving car a 4 hour drive is not as inconvenient as it sounds.”

As if to prove her point the infant starts wailing from inside the vehicle.

Before Angela can move Tim’s opening her car door and removing his god child from the car seat. He holds the baby to his chest and starts rocking him. As the baby continues to scream and Tim continues to rock, sway and bounce, Lucy emerges from behind Tim’s truck seemingly woken by the crying.

“There’s my favourite little guy,” she coos as she approaches. “You’ve gotten so big. Next time I see you you’ll be taller than your Uncle Tim,” she continues as she rubs the baby’s back. Despite all the attention the baby continues to fuss.

“He’s hungry,” Angela explains. “Give him this,” she continues handing him a full bottle, “I pumped on the way here.”

“You pumped while driving?”

“It’s called multitasking.”

Tim takes the bottle and offers it to the baby who immediately begins suckling. While the baby drinks Lucy goes back to Tim’s truck and grabs some blankets. She gives one to Angela, drapes another over Tim and the little boy and wraps herself in the last. 

Over the next half an hour Tim and Lucy work together to feed, burp, and change the baby before putting him back in his carseat, all while his mother watches with a very amused expression. When he’s buckled in they say their goodbyes, thank Angela again, then head back to Tim’s truck, which is now unlocked.

By 10pm they are back on the road. They spend the rest of the drive cooing over baby Evers and talking about their own theoretical future kids. While conveniently avoiding any mention of theoretical future spouses or co-parents.

By midnight Lucy is just getting home. As she walks through the door she sees Jackson on the couch watching TV. 

“Why are you so late?” he asks turning towards her.

“Long story.” 

“Is that Tim’s shirt?” 

“Longer story.” 

“Aha,” Jackson says giving her a knowing look.

She just rolls her eyes and goes to get ready for bed. She falls asleep almost immediately and dreams of sweets and stars, babies and bowling and a life with Tim.

[woodrokiro]

Bar Service (fic)

Fandom: Bleach

Characters/Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: Bartenders--especially bartenders around the corner from her apartment--are strictly off limits. Restaurant AU. Written for @ichirukimonth . TW warning for mentioned child abuse. 

She doesn’t think much of the restaurant a few blocks away from her new apartment.

She always passes it to and from her work commute, of course. Maybe from time to time she glanced over, musing how it looks cute enough--a great place to take a date or some friends....

Before Rukia remembers: 1. She doesn’t have the time or capacity to date, and 2. She has no friends here yet… And probably won’t for a while, considering her lifelong difficulty making them in the first place. 

It’s fine by her, honestly. She likes throwing everything she has into her job, loves doing her best to earn a smile or laugh from her patients. That’s enough social interaction for her, and at the end of the day she can go home, pour a glass of wine, switch the television on to some silly drama and order takeout without mourning the “loss” of a Friday night.

So for the first few months that she’s living in Karakura: no. She doesn’t even think about stepping foot in Amore e Morte. 

Until she gets a particularly bad case at work. 

The fact that it was a foster child case alone makes her heart hurt--but of course, there’s always more with these sort of situations. 

A little girl named Hina, aged eight but looking so much smaller waiting there in her office. The social worker sitting with her--a woman named Rangiku, who Rukia knows a little and actually quite likes--squeezes Hina’s tiny hand before pulling Rukia to the side, quietly explaining the situation. 

Physical abuse from her former home where she had been for a year. Her teacher kept noticing bruises in odd places and finally called CPS, who did nothing for two months before the behavior escalated and Hina ended up in the ER.

Her new foster mom is a real nice lady, says she hasn’t been acting out or anything but… Rangiku shrugs, flashing a reassuring smile when the little girl looks their way. You know. 

She knows. 

So Rukia does what she does best: she goes to the little girl, introduces herself by her first name, and focuses on her work until she can sob angrily in her car at lunch break. 

And when her workday is done, when her emotions are fried and she’d really like a drink or three anywhere but her lonely apartment--she sees the restaurant’s sign, glowing warmly in the dusk light. 

Amore e Morte. Love and death. A weird name for a restaurant, she thinks, and wonders if the owners either don’t know Italian and thought the name was cool or are just uppity snobs. 

If you’d stop being so cynical you might go out and actually enjoy life. She can practically hear Renji’s voice scoffing in her ear now.

She parks her car at home before walking back over to the restaurant.

--

The outside of the restaurant is nice enough, but the inside is… Well. Lovely.

Brick walls painted white make the entire place look minimalist yet cozy. A couple of trendy paintings hanging sparsely through the restaurant makes the environment chic, but not overbearing. A few hanging lanterns bring just enough light to let everyone see where they’re going, but otherwise candles are utilized at each of the tables for a romantic touch.

Rukia sees by the sheer number of couples there that it is indeed a good place to bring a date.

And by the looks of one dish smelling deliciously of chicken and bell peppers that passes her by in a waiter’s hand, the food isn’t too bad either. Rukia’s mouth waters. 

“A table for one, miss?” 

Rukia startles from her musings, feeling rather silly as the bright and cheery hostess smiles patiently back. 

“Oh! No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I wouldn’t want to take up one of your tables. Do you have bar seating?”

“Of course! Right this way.” 

The hostess leads her into an adjacent room that sits tucked away from the main dining room. There’s still a couple of tables in this room, and two of the eight bar stools are occupied but it’s so much quieter here, the noise of the dining room a mere buzz. She breathes a small sigh of relief as she takes the stool at the far end. She wanted to be out and about, just… Not that out and about.

“Our bartender Kurosaki-kun will be taking care of you. I believe he’s just in the back talking to Chef, he should be right back.”

Rukia thanks her, taking a glance at the menu. 

She quickly finds out Chef Yasutora Sado’s menu inspiration is Mexican-Japanese fusion cuisine, which is… Interesting, considering the restaurant’s name is Italian. In any case, she’s fascinated. Rukia by no account considers herself a foodie, but the thought of blending traditional Japanese dishes with Mexican spices and turning them into something like sukiyaki tacos makes her stomach growl. 

“Can I get you something other than water to drink?”

Her gaze flickers from the menu to the well-toned arm extended out toward her, pouring a glass of water. Her eyes move up the arm to the man it’s attached to. 

A handsome guy, she’ll admit: if it wasn’t for the obviously bleached orange hair, the sword tattoo on his forearm peeking out from under his rolled sleeve, and the fact that he looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else.

If she had to pick him out from a crowd, there’s no doubt she’d know him as a bartender. What a walking cliche. 

“Yes, I’ll take--” She didn’t even take a glance at the drink menu. She looks down quickly. “Sorry. Can I get a matcha mojito?” 

He nods, his hands suddenly flying through liquors and shakers and mixes to make her drink. “You ready for food, too?” 

“Any recommendations?” 

“Everything.”

She snorts. She’d be irritated by the subpar service if it wasn’t for his small smirk at her response. 

“Seriously, everything’s good here. If you get something you don’t like, drinks are on me.”

“Risky.” Rukia lifted an eyebrow. “You place that bet with every customer?”

“Every single one.” 

She highly doubts that, but she appreciates the trust in his workplace nonetheless. She orders a couple of small plates, and he tends to his other drink orders while she sips her own. 

The food, when it comes out, is… Infuriatingly good. Infuriating because she would have loved to have scored a couple free drinks off the arrogant punk bartender, but she’ll have to swallow her pride because the sukiyaki taco is absolute divinity. She sips her second drink, already accepting that she’s gonna have to admit to him she’ll be paying full price for everything she ordered.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like she’ll have a chance to gloat. From what she hears next door, dinner service has picked up and with that: drink orders. He’s doing as well as he can--hands expertly flying through the liquors, garnishing the cocktails with an expert flourish before passing them on to a server--but she can tell he’s feeling the stress, particularly when he reads his second to last ticket in the rush.

“Fuck,” she hears as he rolls his eyes, stalking over to the wine cabinet. A server comes by, concerned. 

“You need anything, Ichigo?”

He waves a hand, not turning to look at his coworker. “No, no I’m fine. Just annoying when I don't open a bottle before rush, that’s all.”

The server scuttles off to tend to her tables while Rukia watches him bang a (very expensive looking) wine bottle on the counter, clumsily ripping into the foil with an opener. At one point he cuts his thumb, and he half-hazardly wraps a paper napkin around it while he tries helplessly to pull the cork up. The wine opener doesn’t grip the bottle steadily a couple of times, she waits on baited breath to see if he’ll break the bottle. After a few dangerous-looking test runs, he manages to hoist the cork up, cursing out a “fucking finally” at the sound of the cork popping.

The whole thing must have taken ten minutes.

Maybe it’s the matcha mojitos finally hitting her, but she can’t help it. She laughs. 

He shoots her a wild look and she covers her chuckles with the back of her hand. 

“Sorry, sorry! I’m not--it’s not funny. I just… That was the most atrocious opening of a wine bottle I’ve ever seen.”

Ichigo stares for a moment before scoffing, turning back to his (finally opened) bottle and pours the wine into a glass. “Yeah, well… I don’t do wine service here, lady.”

“Excuse me? That’s ridiculous. You’re a bartender.”

“Exactly. Bartender. I do cocktails, not fancy wine stuff.”

“Let me guess, you consider yourself a mixologist.”

“Don’t ever call me that. Ever.” He’s shaking his head as he moves on to his next order, but oddly enough Rukia feels like she knows he’s suddenly having a good time. “Like I said, I don’t do wine etiquette and all that. That’s for the servers.”

“I’m just… It’s hard to believe you’ve made it this far in a nicer restaurant’s bar without knowing how to open wine.”

“Not that far. I’ve been here for like, six months.” He shrugs at her inquisitive stare. “Old buddies with the chef. I bar backed in college where he was a line cook, so… And if he ever got sick of me, my sister is his sous chef. Then again, she’s more likely to fire me than he is, the brat.”

“Especially with you not knowing how to open a fine vintage.”

“Get over it. When it’s not busy I get one of the servers to help me.” He looks down, having seemingly forgotten about his paper toweled thumb. “Shit. Hang on, I gotta get a bandaid from the back--”

“I have some, if you want.” Rukia starts digging through her purse. “If there’s not some restaurant code for the kind of bandage you’re supposed to use, of course.”

“If it looks neater than a shoddy paper towel job, ‘should be fine. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Here.” 

He stares at her outstretched hand. She stares back, getting more irritated as she waits. 

“What?”

“... It’s a Chappy bandaid.”

“So?”

“So why are you a grown ass woman carrying around Chappy bandaids?” 

“They’re for my patients, for kids.” She’s telling the truth, technically. To say she also quite enjoys Chappy as a character does not need to be mentioned. “Do you want it or not? Swallow your manly pride or go looking for an ugly beige bandage while your tickets pile up again. Tick tock.”

“Fine! All right, already.” He takes the bandaid and starts unpeeling the paper adhesive. “You a pediatrician or something?” 

“Child psychologist.” Suddenly Rukia remembers Hina’s sweet face and feels terrible for not thinking about her once this entire dinner. 

“Jesus.” Ichigo’s shaking his head, pressing Chappy to his cut.

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the guilt, maybe it’s the fact that it’s such a weird response to her revealing her profession, but Rukia can’t help it. She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms.

If he’s uncomfortable with her sudden hostility, he doesn’t show it. He shrugs. “It’s just… I can imagine it’s a hard job. Sometimes, anyway.” 

Oh. 

“Oh,” she exhales. “I’m sorry, I--yes. It can be, yes.I just… That sort of response I’ve only ever gotten from people that don’t believe in the importance of mental health. ‘Shrink talk’ and what have you.”

“Nah, I believe it.” He’s finished his job of covering his wound and moved on to his next drink order. 

She’s abashedly stirring the ice in her glass when she barely hears him say: “I had to go to a children’s therapist once, as a kid. Helped me a lot.”

She raises her head to look at him. He hasn’t changed his facial expression, nor is there any change to his body language as he continues to do his job--but as a psychologist, Rukia can’t help but wonder whether she’s the first person he’s ever told this to. 

“Me too. When I was a child, I… A therapist had helped me, too.” She raises her glass and clears her throat. “To recognizing childhood trauma, I suppose.”

He lets out a short laugh at the sudden dark joke, a sound so quick and so… So nice she can’t stop the fleeting thought that it’s a sound she’d like to hear more of. She shoves it away. 

Bartenders are absolutely off limits. 

He raises the glass that he’s mixing a cocktail in. “Yeah. Cheers.”

--

Later when she finally picks up the check, she pauses.

“Excuse me.” She waves Ichigo down, maybe just a tad tipsy. “You got the check wrong.”

He frowns, taking the bill from her and scanning it. “What are you…”

“You forgot to put a drink on there. My third one.”

It clicks and he rolls his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“What? I’m being honest.”

“It’s on me.” He slides the receipt back to her. 

“But I didn’t dislike any of the dishes!”

“Take some advice, will you Doc? If the restaurant staff didn’t put something on your bill and you still got it, chances are: we wanted to give it to you.” They lock eyes for an intense moment before he clears his throat, looks down to wipe his (suspiciously clean) bar. “‘To childhood trauma,’ and all that. Now stop yapping so loud about it. You want everyone in the restaurant to hear about me giving out free stuff?”

She shuts her mouth at that, but one small detail about what he said is bothering her.

“It’s not ‘Doc,’ so you know. I have a name. It’s Rukia. Rukia Kuchiki.”

“Okay. Whatever, Rukia.” He turns around and waves his hand. “And I’m Ichigo. Just pay your damn bill and come back soon or whatever.”

And with that: she guesses she has a new spot.