#Some of the concepts here are based on their ideas

[kainabunny]

creative

Thought I'll post this here since been reading a lot. No, I never get exhausted on creating lore for any storyline. I've been in mcrp space for 10+ years, believe me when I say... I have ideas I really do. Issue is I'm not allowed to write that style of lore like im used to.

It wasn't a choice I was allowed to make but I make work with my writing. Especially since atm I love what I do. This is my job and I'll do my best to make a quality episodes.

Whether it's in the m c r p space or in v r or my own content. Please know that I we'll never run out of creativity for stories. I love characters.I love the environment.And I love how much i'm allowed to do. Certain careers, I work for allow me to write my own things that eventually become fan favorites. While others, I must listen to the rules since they are my clients. I never, ever run out of creativity, or else, how will I pay my bills🥺

I draw, Va, Body act,edit , make blockbench models and write. I do a lot since in the end of the say I wanna be supportive to my friends and clients. Many know me without even knowing me. I've been behind the scenes helping where I can since 2015 on projects with multiple people! So let's clear somethings up:

There seems to be a lack of communication with us.

TSBS fans of Femme:

I should paste here since im assuming majority are not not in the server. Femme Nights has shifted to Roblox. Was not by choice but unfortunately we roll with the punches. Davis is no longer at femme as writer. He is still around for other channels and for his health chose to drop femme. (Dude works on so many channels... so makes sense to drop one)

Flora and I have been the ones taking care of Femme since. So we'll support him same way he supported us. (I better not see a rumor that he hates us. My bestie is over worked plus I mod for him. So... we all friends who help each other. Also he is marring my bestie☺️) I've taken on the mantle as writer for femme while Flora has been overseeing my work and coming up with concepts( we are both figuring out our workload behind the scene🥺) I just got sick and tried of everyone just assuming we "ran out of ideas" or "oh this is a break bc they are overworked" Clearly we haven't met! 😈

Regardless, I promise each video isn't done with the intention of being "baby" we are trying our best with videos. Concepts that are wayyy more but we are hired to work here. So we have to listen to our boss. I can't promise lore will return the same way as VR. I can promise is giving a story and being entertaining. Flora and I hope everyone can understand that part.

Now with that said I know we will be losing a good chunk of the fan base. Hell ive read the comments and heard the hate you've posted about this. I do not blame anyone for leaving and dropping femme! I also don't know too much on roblox but I wanna be better! I wanna thank you folks for allowing us to grow in VR storyline. Now if you stick around please do it for Flora and myself. I promise you I'll do my best together. We just need some patience and positivity. Some actually good criticism then we hate it. We already talking on how we can add some certain characters. Storylines and expand. (Again we are trying so don't quote me. I wanna suprise you if I get the ok.) im excited, excited to see this through but Flora and I need your support.

Personal:

Now if you wanna see me more active please go to Twitter for me or join my live on twitch(Kainabunny). I really enjoying my time here and won't talk against fan bases I don't know. However, I'm trying to step up and understand the fan bases I work for. So please any questions about how I work or projects I don't mind💙 ( won't lie felt a little insulted you guys assumed Davis would leave a channel without someone who can keep up? Dude once I get approval on certain storylines I guarantee you'll adore what's to come!) Seriously, you guys should go do a little research on the projects ive helped. Most likely was the reason I've made you cry in the MCRP community 😅😅😅

Sorry for the rant hope everyone enjoys!!!

[isshonihongo]

Furigana & Okurigana

As you progress with your Japanese studies, you will see two very important kinds of Hiragana. They are called furigana and okurigana. In this post let’s take a look at each of them and how they both help Japanese learners and natives read Kanji!

But first, let me introduce a chart for the vocabulary that you’ll see in this post. Each word is written in Kanji and then in Hiragana, with its part of speech and meaning.

1) Furigana

Furigana, also known as よみがな or ruby, are the Hiragana characters either on top or to the side of Kanji characters.

As you can see, if the writing is horizontal, the furigana will be on top and if the writing is vertical, it will be on the right side. Either way, furigana tell you how to pronounce the Kanji characters.

There may be anywhere from 1 to 5 Hiragana characters represented by a single Kanji character!

We Japanese learners need furigana when we start studying Kanji and reading Japanese text. But Japanese children also need furigana when they are learning Kanji and even Katakana. Here you can see furigana used to learn Katakana characters.

Whether or not you see furigana depends on a few different factors:

the intended readers

the rarity of the Kanji

Generally, you won’t see many examples of furigana. However, if you pick up a book/novel intended for elementary-aged children, you might see lots of furigana. This is because (like us!) they either haven’t learned the Kanji’s readings or the writer intended the Kanji to be read in a certain way.

Some websites, books, IG posts, Youtube videos, etc that are intended for non-Japanese readers will also have a fair amount of furigana. Granted, it is helpful at first, but it’s a good idea to wane yourself off of furigana as you get better (or if you WANT to get better). The more you see a Kanji character, the more likely you are to remember its reading.

Gikun

Sometimes furigana doesn’t actually tell you the reading of the Kanji. Instead it’s used to add details or add shades of nuance, as in the examples below:

In these cases we call the furigana gikun, which loosely translates to “a false reading”.

On the left, the Kanji reads 希望, which means “desire or wish” but the furigana reads ひかり, which means “light”. This conveys to the reader that light is a metaphor for hope in whatever setting you are seeing that Kanji. 

On the right, the Kanji reads ちきゅう, which means “Earth” but the furigana reads ふるさと which means “home town” or “where someone is from”. This tells the reader that someone is an Earthling – as compared to a Martian or an alien from another planet.

This is a more-advanced way that furigana is used, so you won’t see it unless you are reading manga or novels aimed for native speakers.

First the Word, Then the Kanji (Ateji & Jukujikun)

On the day that I arrived in Japan, they asked me for my name in Katakana at the airport. I hadn’t really thought about it so they wrote my name how it sounds to the Japanese ear.

A few days later, I was thinking about this, and it occurred to me that in the same way that they just “assigned me” katakana, I could also give myself Kanji for my name! My name is Albert but I took my nickname Al and “Hiraganized” it, getting ある. At this point I needed 1 or 2 Kanji that sounded out ある. I eventually decided on 亜琉. I’ll come back to this a bit later.

亜琉 is what is called ateji. I started with a word and “worked backwards” to end up with Kanji, based on their readings. Another example of ateji is the Japanese word for The United States. Written with Hiragana it’s あめりか, but written with Kanji it becomes:

亜 read as あ 米 read as め 利 read as り 加 read as か

Keep in mind that these Kanji have nothing to do with the meaning of “America” or “The U.S.” (whatever that is lol). They were only chosen based on the way you read each Kanji. This is the idea of ateji.

A similar concept is Jukujikun. The word あさって means “the day after tomorrow”. When it came time to assign Kanji to this word, the following 3 were chosen:

明 meaning “tomorrow” 後 meaning “after” 日 meaning “day”

You can reasonably see how this combination of Kanji can come to mean “the day after tomorrow”. The thing is, the actual way you read those Kanji are nowhere close to あさって！They were chosen because of their meanings and not their readings. It’s almost the reverse of ateji. 2 more examples are:

今日 is read as きょう but 今 is not きょ and 日 is not う

下手 is read as へた but 下 is not へ and 手 is not た

When it comes to jukujikun, because the furigana can’t be separated between the characters, it will appear either in the middle of the characters or stretched across them.

As for my Kanji, because the characters sound out ある, 亜琉 is ateji. However, I also chose 2 Kanji with meanings that I liked. 亜 means “Asia” and 琉 means “gem” so I chose my name to mean “gem of Asia”.

2) Okurigana

Now, let’s talk about okurigana. It is similar to furigana, except that it only appears next to Kanji. Okurigana is thought of as “hanging off of” Kanji characters.

The okurigana tells you how you should read the 食 Kanji. In this particular example, both words mean “to eat” so mixing them up is not the end of the world (depending on who you are talking with!). Other times, however, the meanings will be drastically different so okurigana is a vital part of Japanese.

Adjectives and Verbs

Most of the time, you’ll find okurigana with adjective and verb forms. This is because they have a core part (called the stem) that will not change, and an ending that changes to add different shades of nuance to the core meaning. Think of the difference between “kick”, “kicks”, and “kicked” in English.

Notice that sometimes the adjective or verb stem doesn’t overlap with the okurigana (Type 1). Other times, part of the stem is included in the okurigana (Type 2). The main thing to remember is, the okurigana is the Hiragana after the Kanji.

Another time you will see okurigana is with compound verbs. This is where two verbs are combined into one. In these cases, there will be okurigana both between and after Kanji characters. Examples are:

思い出す, which means “to remember” 食べ残す, which means “to leave food half-eaten”

Nouns

Most of the time, nouns are made up of only Kanji. However, there are some occasions where they will have okurigana. Most times, they will end in a character from the い VSG.

This is because they actually come from verbs! Here are some examples:

匂い (from 匂う) 好き (from 好く) ーーーーーーーーーー 乗り場 (from 乗る) 立ち飲み (from both 立つ and 飲む)

Other times, they aren’t derived from verbs, they are just simply nouns:

勢い, which means “force, power” 後ろ, which means “behind, rear” 全て, which means “all, everything” 情け, which means “pity, sympathy” 斜め, which means “diagonal, slanted”

Same Kanji, Different Okurigana

The function of okurigana is to point you in the right direction of how to pronounce a given Kanji. There would be no reason for this if each Kanji had only 1 possible reading. As it turns out, a single Kanji can have many different ways to say it. Here are some examples:

As you can see, depending on the okurigana, 汚 can be read as きたな or as よご. On the other hand, the Kanji 広 is read as ひろ in all 5 of those words! For this reason, I would recommend learning Kanji like 広 early in your studies.  It will be much easier for you to remember a Kanji with only 1 or 2 readings than a Kanji with many different readings.

Same Kanji, Same Okurigana

It’s rare, but there are times when the okurigana unfortunately won’t tell you decisively how to pronounce the Kanji. Here is an example:

As you can see (with the help of the furigana!) BOTH the Kanji and the okurigana are the same, making them different words but homographs. If it weren’t for the furigana, you might not know which reading of the kanji to use. In this situation, they both mean “to open” but the way and the kind of opening is different. Japanese often separates very similar meanings by using different Kanji. In English, we just take it for granted that you can open your eyes and you can also open a door. In Japanese, they are two different kinds of actions, and so different Kanji are used. (It won’t matter when you speak, but when you write or type, it would be good to be aware of the difference.) In these kinds of cases, you will have to rely on either context or on furigana to know which reading is correct.

Conclusion

As you can see, both furigana and okurigana will help you when it comes to reading Kanji. Sometimes you will have both, other times there will only be okurigana. Later on in the Kanji section, we will take a look at other ways to help you guess a Kanji’s reading. Until then, good luck with your Japanese journey!

And with that, you are finished with the Hiragana section. Congrats!

Rice & Peace,

– 亜琉 (アル)

👋🏾

[mystxmomo]

I love your posts on Vhaeraun! They're really grounded in his character and I appreciate that you went into the reasoning behind his actions while not dismissing that he sometimes does messed up things. I've been insane about drow lore for years now and I'm curious about your thoughts on Eilistraee. She's such an interesting character to me in that while she obviously cares about the drow and seeks their freedom the way she goes about it come off almost naive at times. But at the same time she has a deep melancholy and temper. And she opposes Lolth but her clergy still operates similarly at times with the exclusion of males and almost dogmatic reluctance to accept change. Idk I think her contradictions are interesting and she's not frequently explored beyond a shallow, romanticized lens. Sorry for ranting lol but if you have any thoughts on her I would love to hear them!

Yeeeah. I'm glad you sent this, actually. I have another ask that I'm writing up a longer answer for dealing with Vhaeraun and Eilistraee's relationship, and to get into why I see their relationship like I do I had to sit down and spend the first part of that analyzing her character. So, I'm actually happy that I have the chance to separate the post into parts, both for length and just keeping things concise.

First off, yeah. I think the important thing about DnD gods is that they're as "human" as they are. They're not omnipotent, they're deeply flawed people and characters with motivations and histories that color their perspective on things. I think a more grounded approach to them is "the correct one" (in as much as any interpretation in DND can be a correct one, but my thoughts on that still remain that they're just building blocks for you to do as you'd like with.

Now. This post is going to be equally long. I actually have a lot of thoughts on Eilistraee, but to explore the thoughts that I have on her we need to go into the bigger real world concepts that influence her and the idea's around her. So, I do feel that a few disclaimers going into this before I hit it with our read-more are necessary.

I'm going to format this post a little differently than I did Vhaeruan's. The thing about Vhaeraun's character is that within the books and DnD proper, he's meant to be an evil. Right. So it's not very hard to get people on board with the idea that in their attempts to demonize him, they managed to create a compelling abuse narrative. However. Eilistraee and her church, as you mentioned, often ends up getting seen through this incredibly romanticized lens especially within in the role she plays in drow society. So when her church doesn't have the best portrayal in these books, there's seemingly this community impulse to disregard those portrayals as something lesser or like they hold less narrative weight because they don't play into the better parts of the church.

So I want to start this post by creating a groundwork using things that are strictly from the source books and official magazines, and then building on that to lend weight to the portrayals her and her church is given within the novels. And then I will get into sourcing things like Evermeet, War of the Spider Queen, and Lady Penitent when I talk about Eilistraee and Vhaeraun's relationship.

Secondly, you'll notice I mentioned her church a lot here. Eilistraee is in an interesting position. Unlike Vhaeraun and Lolth (Of who I believe the books are rather explicit about where and how their motivations differ from their churches) Eilistraee really doesn't get as much of that treatment. We're told some things about how she holds herself and what she values, but she's purposefully left as an enigma. You have to make a lot more assumptions about who she is based around the community around her.

Now, I DO think the gods are separate people from their churches, and often times do hold different views to the communities that are devoted to them. My favorite example being Vhaeraun being genuinely far more chill about woman than his church is, and you can see it in the way he has to go "Yes, oh my god, you even need to help the female drow rogues no matter what."

So, I want to explore her church and what is seen as "good" within it in relationship to her, though I do promise to account for the fact that it is not her. I just think that there are some conclusions you can draw about her based on her church.

Finally, same disclaimer I gave in Vhaeraun Analysis is worth giving here. I am about to focus on Eilistraee and her church in a lot of very critical ways. I don't hate Eilistraee, I think a lot of people do use character criticism as an excuse to engage in character hate, so I understand why people get a little defensive about it sometimes. But I think she's genuinely a very fascinating character, and the criticisms I have are part of the reason I'm so interested in her and who she is. I'm an author who's main interest comes from exploring these heavier themes of abuse and trauma and exploring how real world cultural influences show within art.

Basically. This is fun for me, and if it's not fun for you, you don't have to take my analysis as anything more then one persons insane ramblings on the internet. This is a red string board of media analysis. It's also a LOT more subjective and has a lot of my opinions baked into it as a result of what we're going to get into, so. Make of it what you will.

Now. This pre read-more part of the post is already quite long, but as a final note. I'm going to be getting into a lot of heavier topics here. Abuse is obvious given the drow, but I actually want to get into specfically emotionally abusive structures, what cultural catholicism is, and passive sexism (Especially with Gender Elitism) and how these ideas and their existence within our cultural effects her church.

Okay!

So, I will actually start on a more positive note:

I'm not going to be criticizing the nudity or sexuality of her church. I have made mention in the past that I'm of the belief that the drow and the cultures around it, despite often being played rather straight in-universe as horror and cult abusive narratives, were things created on a Doylist level to be very titillating, sexually explicit, and horrifying. I don't think this is a bad thing and I don't think it discredits the weight these characters and stories end up having. And in fact, I think these stories could only be as strong as they are because they were fueled by being as emotionally charged as they are (Sexuality is an emotion.)

I think. And I acknowledge that this one is a very subjective opinion, but my opinion you will have nonetheless. I think, in a time where cultural puritanical-ism is at it's height, it's actually growing to be very important to have casual portrayals of sexuality and nudity, let ALONE nonsexual nudity. I've always been of the opinion that it's fine. Let woman go topless (if that's something you want to explore of course, the beauty of DnD remains if you DON'T want to include it you don't have to. But to deny it as a source of inspiration would feel incorrect.)

So I'm not going to be criticizing the nudity and sexuality of it all when it comes to her church. I think it's fun, I think there are ways you can explore that in a meaningful way, and I think something is being done thematically there that's worth keeping and examining as is given to us.

Secondarily. While there are things I'm going to be critical of with her church, there are things I really, really love about her church. I think the thing that tends to draw people into her isn't all the things I'm about to talk about, but rather the focus on drow as a people with art, and culture, and community. And this is something I really like about her church as well. Having something that puts divine weight on the importance of these things speaks to a lot of people I think, especially given that DnD was created in fuckle America land of the "Continuing to cut more and more from arts and humanities and community everyday." Her religion really is the only of the drow religions that puts this much emphasis on celebrating that.

I like domestic fantasy. I prefer it to hero's journeys actually, but if I start talking about that I'll get off topic.

So yes. I think there is a reason she and her church gets as romanticized as it does. It's built into the text to be romanticized, because the people who originally made it were romanticizing it.

Okay. so with THOSE two things spoken for. Lets get into the nitty gritty.

DnD and it's alignment system, at it's core, has always had something of an issue with the cultural Catholicism of it all. Cultural Catholicism is the idea that when you're raised in a society where the dominant religion is Christian-Catholic, even if you yourself are not Catholic it's likely you'll still pick up idea's of Catholicism within your own morality, and that those ideas will be echoed within the media you consume because as it is the dominant culture it influences what is seen as acceptable. You don't have to be Catholic, or even be raised as Catholic, to end up holding a lot of trauma and shame regarding ideas that are only considered shameful through the lens of Catholicism. As an example, a lot of people are still taught to feel a lot of shame around nudity and sex as a result of living in a society who's dominant religion influences the way conversations around it are handled.

So. To make my point about this, I would like to start by exploring the concept of Sin Eating.

The Silver Haired Knights were a concept introduced in Dragon Magazine #315. Dragon Magazine, if you don't know, if an official supplement material in the age before the internet. Now, it's worth noting. This was 3e-3.5e, which was the start of their attempts to double down on the demonization of all drow. Nonetheless, I think they thought this was a good thing and I still see it talked about today in some communities as a Good Thing:tm:.

Sin Eating is an ability that the Silver Haired Knights contain. I'm going to copy and paste from the wiki rather than Dragon Magazine itself because it summarizes it far better than the Dragon Magazine article does, though the Dragon Magazine article isn't hard to find, I implore you to go read it for yourself to get the full context of the class.

Powerful Silverhair Knights had the ability to "consume sins", to take the full weight of cruelty and suffering inflicted by evil beings' (mostly fey, humanoids, monstrous humanoids, and giants, but especially drow) upon themselves, which gave the Silverhair Knights their nickname: sin eaters. This was a complex and dangerous ritual, taking some minutes, that required the sin eater to maintain uninterrupted physical contact with their subject. The subject creature could be willing or unwilling, usually kept bound in the latter cases, or else unaware of the sin eater's intent if the sin eater chose to disguise it. When fully performed, the target creature felt the weight of all their sins on their conscience, understanding firsthand the errors of their ways. In cases of success, the target creatures were freed from their evil, regretted their past actions, and chose a different path from evil, often taking after the Knight, while the sins themselves were absorbed into the sin eater's soul and destroyed in the light of their purity and faith. In cases of failure, the sin eaters themselves were overcome by the absorbed sins; filled with despair, grief, rage, drained of their vitality, and fell into a coma for a full day. This could potentially kill the sin eater, but they would rise again as a ghost, with the same evil ways as the one they had tried to redeem. A sin eater could only attempt this risky ritual once a week, and only perform it on an individual sinner once a year.

I think this is, a little gross actually! To view this as a moral positive you have to believe in four things.

One, that sin and the weight of it is real on a metaphysical level (I do not.) Two, that redemption is earned strictly with forgiveness (I do not), Three, that people who are "pure" are noble by nature of being pure (I do not) and Four, that doing things without peoples consent to make them a "Better Person" is an inherent moral good, and anything done in the name of making someone live a "more ethical lifestyle" is an equal inherent good (Which I REALLY do not believe in. What is "good." Why is "good." How are you so sure your idea of good is so correct that it is work inflicting violence upon another person over, and in this context, changing the core of who they are over.)

The modern idea of purity, sin, and redemption, all come from Christianity. It is the idea that you need to work to be forgiven. It puts moral weight on the guilt and discomfort people feel for not only their past actions, but the past actions of the community around them. That you need to save others from their sin and from "evil."

To DnD, Good and Evil have an Aesthetic. You can be a good person that does violent things so long as it's for "good" reasons, and you can be an evil person that does good things however those good things are still considered evil because you yourself are bad. It's this idea of evil not as this very nuanced ethical dilemma, but instead as something that can be "Removed" from someone. I do not believe in this. I don't believe in the concept of sin (In that I don't believe in the concept of spiritual transgression or the idea of it as a corruptive influence) I don't believe in the concept of redemption (On a religious level of being absolved of it). I believe in people and their actions and how they respond to their circumstance, and I believe in people choosing to do better than they did yesterday. And this is one of the big flaws of Eilistraee's church and world view to me. Because to believe in Eilistraee's Churches Dogma, you have to accept the idea that drow need to work to be accepted. That it is their moral responsibility to show other people that they deserve their place in the world. And I don't believe that.

Although her arrow went astray because of Araushnee's treachery, Eilistraee chose banishment from Arvandor (and the Seldarine) along with her mother and brother, foreseeing a time when she would be needed to balance their evil. On Toril, the Dark Maiden strove for centuries against the hatred of Vhaeraun and his corrupting influence on the Ilythiiri (southern, darkskinned elves).

We don't know how much of Eilistraee's churches dogma's are her own. But based around how she talks about and views the drow under her brother and her mother (Cited above), I am willing to make the assumption that she sincerely does believe they need to earn their place in the world. And that's... It's kind of a depressing world view, isn't it? No community needs to earn acceptance and approval of others. To be allowed to exist should be enough.

...

Not unlike how I think a lot of Vhaeraun fans want to kind of swerve around the drow racism of it all, I think a lot of interpretations of Eilistraee really don't want to acknowledge the sexism of it all. But not unlike how I think the racism of Vhaeraun is deeply important to understanding how he see's the world, Eilistraee's churches specific brand of sexism and how it is an echo of Lolth's is DEEPLY important to understanding her and the culture around her.

In a way, I think ignoring the sexism of her church is worse..? Because often times, I'm met with the impression that it's not that we're CHOOSING not to include it, it's that we're not aware that it is sexism, right? There are a lot of people who, because of the romanticized idea they have of her (and because, admittedly of my own belief, of what is normalized in our culture and dominant religions) just don't view her sexism as a sexism, or believe her churches sexism to be a less severe form of it. I think both in the real world and in the in-character context of the text, the passive sexism of Eilistraee's church tends to get downplayed because it exists in conversation with the more explicit and violent idea's of Lolth's church.

Let's talk about Gender Elitism. You're almost definitely familiar with the concept of it, but. Term needs described nonetheless.

Gender Elitism is the idea that some genders are inherently superior to others. That they are, by nature of the existence of being that gender, inherently more valuable, more knowledgeable, more deserving of privilege and authority. There is no way to build a truly inclusive community with any kind Gender elitism as the framework. The idea that woman are inherently more valuable or more knowledgeable or more spiritually attuned is in itself a sexist ideology, and in the real world is often a reflection of sexist ideas of the inherent spirituality of womanhood.

And well.

All clergy of Eilistraee must be female, but they may be of any intelligent race.

I don't think people are often willing to meet the text where it's at. in the books, there's very clearly a self aware inversion of patriarchy -> matriarchy and a destruction of passive patriarchy through the lens of fantasy sexism.

However. Unlike the cultural Catholicism of DND and it's surrounding idea's of good and evil, I actually don't mind it's inclusion within the text. The written prose with DND (in recent years) are generally actually pretty self-aware of this flaw of the church, and a lot of authors purposefully play into the themes of it. And it makes sense to have it be included within the world building given what what this religion is in response to with Lolth's being the dominant religion of society. Eilistraee's church tends to reach out and recruit fallen nobility, and these are woman who are going to keep the views and want to keep holding the power that they do within their communities.

When you look at the kind of sexism Eilistraee's church is guilty of when in contrast with Lolth's, it's more palatable it's something I think men and well meaning woman alike raised in a lolth society would see as better. These are a group of people who already grew up believing woman to be born intrinsically more important by nature of that birth-rite. I don't think it's bad writing to have the conclusion that the Good church comes to be "Because we're not beating and killing these men, we have defeated sexism," while not addressing the core of where that mentality came from, and as a result still replicating a lot of exclusion and dismissing the importance of the lives of the men around them. Because that's a reflection of real life. I think even in real life, people struggle to sympathize with men and especially men who are victims of abuse, and it's something that blinds them to how they're engaging with this media.

Instead, my argument is that it's bad media analysis to ignore thats whats happening in an attempt to stick to this romanticized idea of the church.

So. That's the two big things with Eilistraee's Church. That's the lead-up to exploring Eilistraee as a character. But what does all of this say about her. How do we explore Eilistraee as a person as a result of all of this. Because, as I mentioned, the gods are separate from their church. A lot of gods do hold different values to their churches and different idea's then what their churches end up doing.

So let's dial this back a little bit and actually examine Eilistraee as a person. I'm going to post how she's described, and then I'm going to go into the longest point I want to make about her.

Eilistraee is a melancholy, moody drow female, a lover of beau- ty and peace. The evil of most drow banks a burning anger within her, and when her faithful are harmed, that anger is apt to spill out into wild action. It is not her way to act openly, but she often aids creatures she favors (whether they worship her or not) in small, immediately practical ways. Eilistraee is happi- est when she looks on bards singing or composing, craftsmen at work, lovers, or acts of kindness.

Eilistraee (pronounced “eel-ISS-trayee”) is a goddess of song and beauty, worshipped through song and dance— preferably in the surface world, under the stars of a moonlit night. Eilistraee aids her faithful in hunting and swordcraft, and worship of her is usually accompanied by feasting. Eilis¬ traee has worshippers of human, elven, and in particular half-elven stock (partic¬ ularly around Silvery moon), and looks kindly upon the Harpers. She is usually seen only from afar, but her song (of unearthly beauty, driving many to tears) is heard whenever she appears. Roleplaying Notes: Eilistraee is a melan¬ choly, moody drow female, a lover of beauty and peace. The evil of most drow banks a burning anger within her, and when her faithful are harmed, that anger is apt to spill out into wild action. It is not her way to act openly, but she often aids creatures she favors (whether they wor¬ ship her or not) in small, immediately practical ways. Eilistraee is happiest when she looks on bards singing or composing, crafts¬ men at work, lovers, or acts of kindness.

....

It is of my opinion that, when you look at the Eilistrae-Vhaeraun Dynamic and how they were treated by Lolth and Corellon, you're looking at a classic Golden Child/Scrape Goat dynamic. This is important to mention here because I do think that's important context within how Eilistraee (the person) see's and understands the world, and where her mind is at when it comes to the perception of her sense of self.

To VASTLY oversimplify about how emotionally abusive family structures work by a lot, when you look at emotionally abusive families with siblings, you tend to find a pattern where one child ends up getting the bulk of the favoritism and affection (The golden child), while the other takes the bulk of the abuse and tends to take a of blame and is seen as being deserving of the abuse (The scrapegoat.) I'll get a little bit more into the specifics of what that means for their relationship in a later post.

Now. Calling her the Golden Child, but I don't think being the Golden Child is strictly a good thing. In a lot of ways, I think a lot of golden children end up very emotionally stilted, and I think you kind of see that in Eilistraee. She HAS to be the perfect one. And she's had this expectation to be The Good One placed on her shoulders since she was young. Golden Children are often blinded to the abuse their siblings face because they themselves are not subjected to the same kind of abuse.

I think you're right in that despite everything, I would consider her defining trait her naivete. And I think the issue with trying to get into that is that people have a very specific idea of what being naive is. Like I think a lot of people associate naivete with people who are very childish and hold themselves with a lot of immaturity, and I don't think that's true. I think Eilistraee holds herself with a lot of dignity and comes across as mature and gentle and soft spoken, and you feel the weight of her presence in a way that you don't realize until she's left.

Naivete is just a lack of wisdom, a lack of having experienced the thing first hand. Eilistraee grew up very sheltered. She was shielded from the worst of her mothers abuse as a result of being her fathers favorite. Lolth doesn't give her the same attention she gives Vhaeraun (Which is good, largely, considering what her attention entails), she disregards Eilistraee as foolish and cowardly and weak, so she doesn't bother at all. That she was so sheltered is the source of both her empathy and her blindness. She knows the sight of abuse, but I don't think she's experienced abuse to the same extent her brother has, let alone the people in her church have. So she doesn't understand it to the same degree.

Now. The other thing about Eilistraee is that I don't actually think she's as open as she implies she is. She's always come across to me as someone who's very guarded. On one hand, she's walking around nude and supposedly that's representative of the vulnerability she has. But on the other hand, she doesn't reveal a lot, does she? She doesn't change. While Eilistraee is explicitly involved in her followers lives in a way that a lot of non-drow gods aren't, she's involved in a very passive way. She listens to them. Maybe she'll bless them with a dance. She'll send signs of her pleasure and displeasure, and she'll help them in immediate, practical ways.

But do any of her followers know her? Do WE know her? We know Vhaeraun. We know his personality. But what we're given of Eilistraee is what she likes and how she feels. It points to this very careful presence she makes of herself.

And that's why exploring the flaws of her church is so important. She wants to give her followers freewill, she wants to be the "good" one that doesn't influence them and lets them make their own choices. But... I'm going to steal a quote from @pansythoughts who I ran my thoughts about this by before typing it up, and I think that they articulated this really well.

"[...] She’s worshipped and revered and symbolic but because she didn’t involve herself in the running of things people mistook that as she shouldn’t be involved or shouldnt be involved (“don’t concern our lady with such trivial things, she shouldn’t be bothered, it makes her so sad”) that that for a long time enabled a lot of abuse to run rampant under eilistraee’s nose. By becoming impersonal she’s removed her real thoughts from her church in the name of being impartial. But it’s not actually helping [...]"

So Eilistraee hits this weird note of... She seems to think that being impersonal is what makes her good, but in being impersonal, she enabled the culture in her church to get as bad as it did. It's the intent over action mentality. It's the separation of herself from her people.

....

Now. I also want establish. I don't think Eilistraee holds the same views as her church with it comes to how a lot of men are treated. All text points to the fact she loves men as much as she does woman, just as she does any other race (Though I said I wouldn't quote it too much, her prioritizing woman to dismantle her brothers power in evermeet should at least get a passing mention, I put that in the same spot as I put Vhaeraun trying to kill her in that it feels like she was doing that as an uncomfortable means to an end. She sincerely see's him an evil, and if that is what she had to do to get him out of power then so be it. And then it spiraled)

In rare circumstances, males who worship Eilistraee-or beings without any priest powers who work to further Eilistraee's aims and need her visible blessing and support (or just some light)- will temporarily manifest moonfire (see Eitistroee's moonfire below). Such manifestations are at the will of the goddess; the lucky recipient has no control over the duration, intensity, and location of the radiance

Eilistraee to me feels like someone deeply rooted in idealism, and romanticism, and fantasy. She loves the arts. She loves dance, and music, and romance and love of all kinds. She loves the fantasy of lovers.

And this goes over to her wider views. She likes the fantasy of what she thinks good drow can be, and I think she lives in that fantasy and denies the lived reality of what a lot of her people have been through, and the biases they hold as a result of what they've been through.

But, she's not comfortable with what drow are now, because what drow are now are what her mother and her brother made of them. And she views both as evil, and the same kind of even. She explicitly views them as people that are fallen and broken, because they're not good.

Only in recent centuries has Eilistraee's faith regained a small amount of prominence in Faerun, as the Dark Maiden seeks to lead the fallen drow back to the long-forsaken light.

And they're not good and they can't be good, because there is an aesthetic to good for DnD and thus there is an aesthetic to good for her. And inevitably, when theres an Aesthetic to good, when you only view good through a certain framework and you're only able to understand good through the lens of people that fulfill a certain amount of requirements, there are going to be those who are left behind not because they're not good, but because they can't meet that aesthetic. They can't change, or don't want to. And there is going to be abuse that slips through the cracks because the good goes unquestioned.

Pulling another quote from pansythoughts

[...] And to get metatextual, I think that’s why a lot of people miss the implied problems of her church too, besides the insidious nature of bio-essentialism. The narrative context of the drow is horror. It’s meant to be antagonistic and horrifying to players of the game. So of course the thing from that culture rejecting that culture completely looks “good”

To accept that her church needs to change is to accept that maybe, she wasn't good.

Because. If she's not the good one, then what is she...?

...

Despite you mentioning them, I also didn't really touch on her temper and melancholy all that much here. I do actually think that's like. A defining part of her character.

I think it's deeply telling that one of the few times she's mentioned as manifesting as an avatar is explicitly in defense of her people. She doesn't know how to approach them to celebrate with them ("The Dark Maiden seldom takes a direct hand in the affairs of mortals, but she sometimes appears in the midst of a dance in her honor, leaping amid the flames of the feast unharmed") And she's heard of seen in the distance more then she's directly engaging ("Most worshipers see Eilistraee only from afar, perched on a hillock or battlement, silver hair streaming out behind her. She appears to show her favor or blessing and often rallies or heartens creatures by causing a high, far-off hunting horn call to beheard.")

But she WILL appear to defend her worshipers. And she IS deeply concerned with defending those coming out of the underdark.

I don't know. I don't have canon proof of this one, but I do think that Eilistraee is a deeply lonely person. Despite having friends in other pantheons such as Mystra, she feels isolated in the image she has to uphold. She can't connect with her followers, she's left with this view that most of her family is evil, or has rejected her for leaving. Of course she carries herself with grief. Of course she doesn't know how to be anything other than "The good one."

[boiledkwamaegg]

I think it just clicked with me why when I first saw Faenil I thought they were really neat. they delve into the science aspect of Elder Scrolls which I feel like not a lot of OCs do unless they study Dwemer stuff or are House Telvanni. and I LOVE the slight sci-fi aspects Elder Scrolls has cuz if feels like no other fantasy series does that.

LONG ASS RAMBLE TIME!!! I'm putting most of it under a cut again. I'm gonna power through some other interesting asks today as well. But yes!!! I'm glad you sent this because I am so fascinated with the sci-fi themes in this series too! I guess when I started thinking about Faenil as a concept, I figured that a flesh mage should definitely know quite a lot about biology and medicine in order to properly work with their craft. But then I came across a problem - why would a society built around magic need a science-based doctor when there's alchemy and restoration magic?

I vaguely remember reading some story within one of the games (forgot which one it was) where someone gets sick and someone drives themselves mad trying to find a cure - so clearly there are limitations to restoration and alchemy when it comes to healing, but it's kind of left up for interpretation.

So here's where my own stupid headcanons come in. I mean, if a cure disease potion cures a contracted disease, kinda like an antibiotic, and restoration magic helps with closing wounds, then what do you do when there's something else wrong with your body? What if magic isn't always an available option? What do you do when someone has cancer, or even a benign tumor - what do you do when someone's appendix is about to burst - what do you do when someone has a heart condition - or diabetes - or failing organs... the list is endless, and I'm sure highly developed societies within fantasy settings have people who are specialized to figure these things out! And what's better than mixing magic with science?

I know in the games magic is pretty mechanical in the sense that most of it is only meant to aid you through combat, but the combat in the games is objectively pretty simple and boring, and I'm sure there are other unique ways to apply magic to the daily lives of people in Tamriel. What if you can use something like detect life (alteration) similarly to an x-ray? What if you can enchant medical instruments similarly to weapons and apparel? Could you create something like NSAIDs out of common alchemical ingredients? Can frost magic be used to freeze organs? Could you defibrillate someone's heart with dual shock magic? I have so many ideas. I'm especially obsessed with the notion that surgeries are so intricate that they might as well be considered magical rituals with the way poor preparation and the wrong tools will lead to a complete catastrophe. And obviously cleanliness and proper sterilization is vital to pretty much anything medical wise - but this is also a medieval fantasy land where medicine is still very experimental and understudied, so things will go wrong a lot! So, with that being said, I don't have to feel bad for not being a medical expert - I dropped out of medical school twice but at least I get to live my dreams through this fucked up and evil altmer OC haha

Thing with Faenil is that despite their absolute dogshit interpersonal skills giving a different impression, they ARE intelligent, not only because mages are a class built on intelligence, but because a doctor needs critical thinking skills; they need to be able to problem solve and they need to be highly analytical. So, while they are pretty inexperienced with the things they come across in Skyrim, they are constantly taking notes in their little journal and figuring out the easy way around taking down some new type of enemy or solving some weird dungeon puzzle. For example, I don't think Faenil has ever seen dwemer contraptions before, but they have definitely studied the dwemer from books and applied some of their mechanics to prosthetic limbs, so it's gonna be fun to explore how they will tackle something like a dwarven centurion considering they will most likely try to analyze its design to find out how to turn it off and then come up with a strategy to get to it. And, of course, they will realize eventually that teamwork is essential, just like it was with their work back in Alinor, and it will hopefully be pretty satisfying when Faenil gets an idea and everything falls into place just right every once in a while.

All this to say, Faenil is also one of those annoying "get destroyed by facts and logic" type people LMAO they will literally taunt a god in their face, get struck by lightning, and say it proves nothing.

[gerbiloftriumph]

So, how old is King Graham, anyway? Speculation under the cut, with dev statements and other supporting details! (but it's all speculation.)

To begin, we need to decide how old Graham is in the knightly tournament. Lead concept artist Evan Cagle once had a Tumblr, and once answered fan questions, but it's since been deleted. With the power of Wayback, though....!

The relevant piece is here:

This is also how supported by files in the game itself are organized, by general age blocks.

(interestingly, Achaka isn't called by name in the game files, but simply called WellKnight.)

So, Graham is in his teens, for certain. Old enough to drive. One could argue he's 16, with that rodent license, as that's traditionally when kids learn to drive. But he's clearly planning on moving away from home, and he has been to school and graduated. "I started looking for knight jobs while I was still in the academy, but once I graduated all the opportunities had dried up."

I propose, therefore, that since he's clearly graduated, he's slightly older. My guess? 18. In America, at least, people tend to graduate high school at 18, maybe looking for colleges, and they're old enough to join the military (knighthood). Possibly 19 (I truly don’t think younger works for how old he Must be at minimum in ch2), but I'm going to stick to 18, personally. (Grachaka fans, enjoy!)

Also: "You don't like the taste of lanky teenager" doesn't preclude 18, let's go.

How long was he a knight for Daventry before he was king'd by Edward? That's very unclear. However, his model doesn't change much (I think his hair gets a little longer? or is that just his cowl), and his concept art doesn't change much (it's just a hat adjustment and that little bit of scruff that I love oh so much). So, he's probably not that much older between contestant and king.

We've got to do some speculation here, and I'm going to select 3 years as a royal knight of Daventry. That would give him time to grow as Edward's favorite and establish himself in the space, without necessarily changing too much facewise. Maybe it's less time based on how little he's physically changing at this point, but I need him to get into his 20s for chapter two for the concept art and model name, and Edward needs at least A Single reason to crown this kid, even if the guards do say that this tournament "could lead to the throne of Daventry itself!"

Therefore, I'm going to put him at 21 years old in the prologue.

21 is another milestone in America, where you can start drinking legally, so it feels right to me to put him here at a big change in his life, even if in Daventry he's almost certainly been enjoying that mead for a while now. ;)

He's crowned immediately upon his return to the castle with the mirror, so he's got to be king at 21.

HOWEVER. There's something coming up soon that requires him to be, at minimum, 22 years old at some point in this year, if not older. I'm very fond of character birthdays being the date the game came out. Therefore, Graham's birthday should be July 28th, as that's the day the reboot came out on PC (2015).

I'm also fond of the idea that each chapter takes place in a different season in Daventry, Ch1 obviously being Fall, Ch4 obviously being Winter, Ch3 seemingly Spring with those bright greens, which leaves Ch2 in Summer. Monsoon seasons are often in Summer, which lets the rain Graham experiences be a typical Daventrian summer. Perhaps, July?

I propose Graham turns 22 in his captivity. Prison birthday! Sorry, your majesty.

There's a specific reason he's got to be 22 here. It's the absolute youngest he can be, so it suits his concept art. Why?

Taylor Fey.

Bramble is pregnant, and while we're not sure how far along she is, we're going to say Taylor's due soon, because we need Graham to look like his teen self for concept art reasons, and we also need to get him into his 30s for his next mile marker in concept art and game model naming convention.

In chapter three, if you visit the Feys, you get this exchange:

Graham: "Where's Taylor?" Bramble: "He's at home. Probably cutting up our curtains again." Wente: "When I was that boy's age, I would roll dough for hours every day after school in me ma's shop. But not my boy. He doesn't have the stomach for hard work." Bramble: "Or the stomach for sweets. Can you imagine? An eight year-old, not liking sweets? It's not like frosting is an acquired taste."

Taylor will eventually move to Serenia, to become the tailor, haha.

But! The important thing! The conversation reveals that, in chapter 3, Taylor is eight years old. So, eight years have to pass between ch2 and 3, and Graham's got to be in his 30s.

Therefore, in the goblin prison, he needs to be 22 years old, at minimum. (also, sidebar of mostly irrelevance, if you go straight into a 4 year college after graduating high school at 18, you probably get your first real job at 22, mmm delicious imposter syndrome in your first real adult position, except you've got a kingdom on the line this time.)

So. In Chapter 3, he shall be, to me, exactly 30 years old. (he's probably going to turn 31 in a couple months, as I'm sure this chapter takes place in the spring, for how warm the days are and cold the nights are, as Graham complains about in the tower.)

That lets him hit all the markers he needs. Barely, sure, but it works so far.

Now, again, we need a liiiiiittle speculation. We need 18 years between Ch4 and the Ch4!Prologue, to account for Alexander. And Graham probably doesn't propose to Valanice right away again.

Now, the youngest he could be to make the ages and everything work is 32. But that's a remarkably fast dating, marriage, twin time turnaround. Neese might be into it, Vee probably wouldn't. So, we're going to age him a bit. So, he could be 32, but I think he'd rather be 34. That feels like they have time to court (properly this time), be engaged, prepare royal documentation and all the other things required, and then have twins.

(you could argue 33 too, or push it much older, 35 or 36 or more, if you wanted, so long as you don't push out of the 30s for the model name convention, but I'm going to settle here on 34, personally.)

The important part is that 18 years pass, for Alexander to grow as Gwydion and escape Manannan (if we want to be super pedantic, he's 17 and a bit, but whatever, this is fudging and speculation and I'm not carefully considering where Graham's birthday falls in the year either or I'd get confused).

So, he's about 52 years old now!

Fantastic. This is the last time we have Josh Keaton voicing our younger Graham, and then we leap ahead to Christopher Lloyd and our Huge Glorious Kingly Beard.

Chapter Five, thank you, finally. The devs give us an actual age.

Olfie: "Yeah, your skin does look fantastic for 86." Graham: "Well, that's a shame… I'm 77."

Thank you, thank you.

Now, we have one more age to hit. Bedridden modern Graham. We have a little cheat here, too. Not in the concept art, which just lists ?, but in the game models. He's in his 90s.

Alexander and Rosella are in their 50s in the modern day now, as their game models say. If my math is right, Alexander should be 43 in Ch5's adventuring portion. So I need to add at least 7 years to get the twins into their 50s in the modern sections.

I'm not great at math, and I'm juggling a lot here, so correct me if I'm wrong, but if my math is right, modern day Graham *should* be 84 at a minimum now. But his model says he's in his 90s.

But if we make Alexander 56 in the modern day, I think we can make Graham 90.

So, he's probably exactly 90, for the character model naming convention.

I dare not figure out how this fits in classic series--which isn't helped by Graham apparently having gray hair at a younger age probably due to that heart attack at the end of kq3.

So, there we have it. My personal bad math and staring at concept art and game files and trying to make guesses about my favorite king and his ages.

tl;dr:

Ch1 - 18 (graduated high school) Prologue - 21 (he needs to be in his 20s, this works) Ch2 - 22 ("happy birthday," sing the goblins, off-key) Ch3 - 30 (aaaalmost 31) Prologue 2: Electric Boogaloo - 34 (...maybe) Ch4 - 52 (depends on the ch4!prologue) Ch5 - 77 (huzzah, stated!) Modern Day - 90 (for the models' naming conventions)

But what do you think? Decent mathing? Totally wrong? Would rather take a stab at it yourself and get Gwendolyn and Gart's ages involved? Let me know~!

[berosgarden]

This lingered in my head so lalala misc concepts of different variations of some attack types (going off the idea that there would be multiple types of chicken in each category, each based on a different breed and having slightly different stats/gimmicks). I didn't draw any boss chickens but i did have sketches for some of those too

I also threw in a bunch of possible other variants in bold

Standard: Just really big chickens. That's about it. Nothing too crazy besides that. (Possible Variants: Plymoth Rock, Wyandotte, Naked Neck) Pictured here is a Rhode Island Red variant.

_____________________________________________________

Flockers: If they're normal sized, it would make sense to base them off miniature/ bantam breeds. (Possible variants: Old English Game Bantam, Phoenix Bantam, Belgian D'Uccle, Ayam Serama) Pictured here is a Sebright Variant, which I also threw in some fantastical traits, so this Flocker type lights up and will alert other enemies in the area.

_____________________________________________________

Peckers: I didn't know what to do with the beak so I just added a bunch of spikes. (Possible variants: Fayoumi, Leghorn, Appenzeller Spitzhauben) Pictured here is a Polish Chicken Variant.

_____________________________________________________

Blockers: I added a funny built-in helmet to this one. (Possible variants: Silkie, Orpington, Speckled Sussex, Favorelles) Pictured here is a Cochin variant.

_____________________________________________________

Hiders: Stealth chickens that rely on camouflage and ambush. Often have unusual feathers and abnormal coloration that help them blend into their surroundings. (Possible variants: Ayam Cemani, Sicilian Buttercup.) Pictured here is a Genetic Hackle variant that would hide in foliage and on trees and attack the player in ambush.

_____________________________________________________

Giant Cocks: Based on Asiatic game breeds. Maybe have unique materials in their spurs too. (Possible Variants: Aseel, Shamo) Pictured here is an Ayam Sumatra variant with beyrl/ gemstones as weapons.

_____________________________________________________

STUFF I FORGOR TO DRAW:

Eggers: Enemy hens with unusual eggs they launch as weapons. They aren't Giant Mother Cluckers, they just launch projectile eggs.(Possible Variants: Americauna, Olive Eggers, Legbar)

_____________________________________________________

Also possible tweaks to the bosses: having some bosses be hens and others be roosters based on egg/meat farming birds.

Giant Mother Cluckers: Queens of the egg-laying coops. Eggs for days. (Possible Variants: Aracauna, Black Copper Marans, Production Leghorn, Production Red, note all these chicken breeds lay really unique eggs or are used in egg farms)

_____________________________________________________

Big Meaty Cocks: The KINGS of their respective roosts. Instead of an egg-laying matriarch, maybe some coops have a protector rooster instead. (Possible Variants: Dongtao, Brahma, Bresee, Cornish Cross, all types of chickens with unique meat or lots of meat)

_____________________________________________________

k bye

No you know what? Fuck it, I'm going to talk about my chicken apocalypse idea.

Scientists continue pursuing methods of creating bigger fatter tastier chickens. In the process they also accidentally make the chickens more aggressive.

They also accidentally create a virus, a variation of bird flu that sweeps through the country like wildfire. In all the horrors of the pandemic, nobody realises the lab chickens have escaped, breeding like crazy and growing rapidly.

By the time anyone realises the scope of the problem, thousands of chickens the size of raptor dinos are running around eating people.

Years later, settlements have walked themselves off to hold back the flocks of predator chickens, and only a few brave souls dare to venture out.

But there is one, a legend of a woman, who refuses to now down. A daughter of Kentucky who's great with a gun and quick with a blade, Ellie-May Sanders, last descendant of the great Colonel Sanders, is determined to free humanity from fear, and put chicken back on the menu!

Killer Freak Chickens!

Coming... Never...

[bisexualeddies]

wait so apparently some people get mad if someone else writes fanfiction based on headcanons they shared on tumblr??? so now i got to ask

[hauntingjasper]

We need candy Marshall and vampire Gumball!!!

Waow okay anon imma give you a lil concept, sorry for making you wait too long 🥹

My current takes on Candy Prince Marshall Lee and Vampire King Gumball

[assumedcryptid]

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Been seeing a lot of other people's takes for Flatlander Bill cross my dash, and I thought I'd dabble a bit with some of my own potential ideas for both him and Mina.

[mad-hunts]

here comes a list of the different levels of friends that you can be with barton, because i said that i would explain what being a ' level 2 friend ' to him would mean and i fully intend to keep that promise! so here we gooo.

level 1 friends: you're the type of friend to barton that he would wave to whenever he sees you. he would also complain about his work with you, but NEVER about his second 'business.' ( his organ trafficking && dollmaking. ) and in turn, he would let you complain about your work to him as well, or anything that might be bothering you. barton isn't really serious about your relationship emotionally, but he will encourage you and praise you for accomplishments / achievements. you two also may share a few interests, which barton enjoys talking with you about.

level 2 friends: you're the type of friend to barton that he is now moderately emotionally invested in. barton will DEFINITELY share his number with you at this stage, so expect him to call you if he needs something, or even if he just wants to talk with you. he also trusts you to a medium level and will help you reach your goals without ever being asked for it. barton does subconsciously have the expectation that you are willing to do the same for him, however, which is really neither a good thing nor a bad thing. you two go beyond just having similar interests... you share certain values with him and/or ideals, and because of that, barton sees you as someone he can depend upon. he would also save you in an emergency situation, BUT i can not say for sure that he will be willing to die for you.

level 3 friends: barton is now FULLY emotionally invested in you, so don't expect to be getting rid of him anytime soon! because you're stuck with him now, MUAHAHAH. barton will do things like raising a toast to you just because you're friends and will reach out to you himself whenever he sees that you're struggling with something. barton also lets you take a glimpse at what's really going on in his head sometimes, and in return, he'll be there for you as well whenever you need him. at this stage, literally, all you need to do is be around barton to make him smile. expect him to feel safe enough to be as silly as he wants around you and do things like give you unprompted hugs + allow you to cuddle with him. barton trusts you with his life, and he would put himself at risk of dying to protect you. so, yes, he would be willing to die for you.

[phanboyo]

The notes kind of went wild so I'm just going to ignore most of them.

But yeah I feel like this is essentially correct. I mean Danny uses phrases like "ghost half" and "ghost powers" and we can argue about whether or not he actually died, or if he actually counts as a ghost or just a human with very ghostlike traits (this is why morphology-based phylogeny is problematic and I think it's kind of up to interpretation) but in the show he never really says he died or half-died or became a ghost or anything. And it's perfectly valid to say that it's a kid's cartoon so they wouldn't say that, that's very possibly true, but the point of this post is to point out that the common interpretation of Danny having died and revived in the portal is not technically canon. It doesn’t contradict canon but it's not canon either (unless you count Phantom Planet but hardly anyone ever does and I really don't blame them lol).

And while I also tend to default to the interpretation of "Danny somehow half-died" because it opens a lot of cool doors for the exploration of a lot of cool themes, there is merit in exploring the other interpretations as well. Especially with superhero crossovers being so popular recently, an accident with cutting-edge experimental tech that altered your DNA and left you with otherworldly powers is right up that alley (mostly because it was supposed to be a superhero show but still).

I think it'd be cool to see the theorized implications of some other interpretations of canon, and no, it's not a bad thing to make posts remembering what canon actually is when participating in fan spaces, especially in large fandoms where a lot of people aren't super familiar with the source material. It leaves more room for concept interpretation and creates more genuinely transformative works :)

Y'all know Danny isn't canonically a ghost, yeah? That his "half-ghost"/halfa status is because he got ghost DNA infused into him? That he didn't die/half-die and become a ghost/half-ghost and just has ghost-like powers? He's supposed to be a Spider-Man rip off, Danny's not a ghost the way Peter's not a spider. Danny is a Ghost Mutant: mutated to be ghost-like, the way Peter is a Spider Mutant: mutated to be spider-like.

Canonically anyway. Sure, I personally like the interpretation and angst of Schrodinger's Boy, alive and dead at the same time, but it is fanon and not canon.

[em1i2a3]

Crying Lightning

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Lab Tech!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been studying a flower that Bucky brought back from one of his missions. When Bob comes to visit you in the labs to bring you lunch and messes with the unbloomed item you realize the sinister effects of it very quickly.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Ahem…We got a sex pollen fic, so there is smut, and fluff afterwards, and aftercare as well. Reader and Bob are close, and both of them have feelings for one another but it has all gone unspoken…Until now at least lol. There is swearing too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…Y’all know what I’m gonna say. Wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Handjob, There’s a little bit of dominance from Bob/Sentry…And he talks you through it ahhahahahahah (oh god), Messy/Sensual Sex, There are like hints of primal energy sprinkled in here, but nothing too major, there’s mentioning of pheromones and stuff like that, Praise/Worship Kink, Spitting, Dirty Talk, Scratching, Some Choking (not rough), Cum eating, Aftercare.

Author’s Note: Woot Woot! We love a good sex pollen fic lol. Did I expect to be writing one? No. But I’ve always liked the concept and I’m so glad @mccinnamon-bun asked me to do this! Thank you <3, I really loved writing it! So so fun! Enjoy!

Word Count: 15,684

“I brought you something,” Bucky announced, stepping into your lab just as the doors slid open with their usual quiet hiss.

You didn’t look up right away. Perched cross-legged on the edge of your workbench, you were half-buried in mission reports that were a week overdue, scribbling notes with one hand and nursing a cold cup of coffee in the other. Your head snapped up, however, the second you heard the rustle of fabric and gear–a familiar sound you’d grown used to distinguishing in crowded hallways.

Bucky stood in the entryway, wind-tousled and still in partial tactical gear. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed up to the elbows, revealing the flex of muscle and dull gleam of vibranium beneath. He had a look in his eye that was hard to read–half sheepish, half pleased with himself–and he was already fishing through one of the many compartments in his bag. He didn’t speak again until he pulled something out with a sort of slow care.

”Ta da.” You raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him pull something from his bag like it was a treasure he’d smuggled across enemy lines. You hopped off the bench with a soft thud and crossed the room toward him, curiosity instantly piqued–mostly because Bucky Barnes was not one to say ‘ta da’. Not unless he was hiding something behind that half-smirk of his.

Your eyes immediately caught sight of what he was holding.

The flower hadn’t bloomed yet, but even in its dormant state, it was breathtaking. The outer petals were tightly furled, each one smooth and iridescent like the type you would find on shells of certain mollusks–but it was shaded in a gradient you couldn’t quite place. They started as an inky, oil-slick blue at the base, then rippled out into smoky violets and blushing wine tones near the tips. Delicate veins shimmered faintly across the surface, catching the lab lights with a strange metallic luster, almost like the petals were dusted in powdered silver.

The stem curved gently, a deep green tinged with gold, and the leaves were narrow, slightly translucent, and lined with fine threads of coppery red. Even when it wasn’t fully bloomed, it had an energy to it. A heat, almost. As if it were responding to the proximity of warm skin and breath. You squinted at it.

”Bucky, if this is your idea of asking me out on a date, you really need to brush up on your courting skills.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter, head dropping forward briefly with a grin.

“Hey,” He said, handing the flower over to you carefully, “You’re the one who told me, if I saw anything weird, unknown, alien, or otherwise ‘botanically suspicious,’ I should bring you back a sample.” You gingerly accepted the stem, trying not to touch the tightly closed bud itself.

”Yeah, I meant specifiers, not some interstellar looking thing.” You shot back. He leaned against a nearby counter.

”Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He commented back. You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed your fondness.

”You absolutely broke every rule of containment protocol by walking this thing straight into my lab, but…” You gave the top of the flower another slow once-over, still entranced, “Thanks for thinking of me.” You turned, crossing to your bench and plucking a clean beaker from the rack. You filled it with a few inches of distilled water, and set the flower inside, watching it float just enough to stay upright. The petals didn’t open, but they flexed slightly–like they were stretching, or drinking the water you had put the stem in.

”So,” You started, glancing over your shoulder to where Bucky was still leaning, “Where’d you find it?” You asked, watching him give you a small, casual shrug.

”There was a patch of them, right off the tree line. I spotted them on my way back to the quinjet. Figured I’d snatch one up before anyone else trampled it.” You hummed, turning your head away–not noticing the way his gaze lingered on the flower for a beat too long. You were too busy cataloguing the possibilities in your head. It was too vibrant to be terrestrial, but it wasn’t necessarily alien. Possibly hybridized. The energy you felt coming off of it could’ve been psychosomatic–but you weren’t one to write something off without running tests.

“And you’re sure no one else touched them?” You asked, looking back over at him to see if you can spot any of the tells he had when he was lying. His brow lifted toward you.

”I mean…I touched one obviously.” You gave him a pointed look, and he immediately held up both hands.

”Didn’t eat it. Didn’t stick it up my nose. I was the only one that touched anything. Scout’s honor.” You snorted, and shook your head.

”Alright, Barnes…I’ll bite. I’ll run some diagnostics. Spectrograph, chemical composition, basic pollen analysis when it blooms…All the sciencey things that you don’t understand, then I’ll get back to you.” He gave you a mock salute and pushed himself off the table he was leaning against, going toward the door.

”Just make sure you name it after me if it ends up trying to kill you.”

”Noted,” You called, “But if it ends up giving me superpowers instead, I’ll be naming it after myself.” He was still laughing as the door slid shut behind him. You turned back to the flower, now gently swirling in the water–its petals flexing once more, as if hearing your voice. You leaned in just a touch, and breathed in slightly.

You could’ve sworn it hadn’t smelled like anything before, but now…

Now it smelled faintly of summer rain, citrus, and the soft trace of jasmine. It was warm, soft, and inviting, like it was trying to beckon you to come closer to it. You straightened slowly, then reached blindly across the workbench for a spare sheet of scrap paper, grabbing the pen you had tucked behind your ear.

”Initial scent: None. Notable change after water exposure–New profile: humid, citrus notes, floral base (jasmine like). Unsettling–shift occurred in under two minutes.” You tapped the end of your pen lightly against your chin, your gaze never leaving the beaker. The flower was still half-closed, petals fluttering slightly in the water like they were breathing–like they were aware. The surface tension of the liquid shimmered faintly around the base of the stem, as though reacting to something within the plant.

You didn’t like that.

Flowers didn’t just change their chemical profile that fast. Not unless they were highly volatile. Not unless they were engineered.

A muscle tensed along your jaw.

You slid the note aside and moved quickly now, grabbing a glass containment dome from one of the side drawers–a heat-tempered cloche you typically used when running long-term decay tests on bio-samples. It wasn’t hermetically sealed, but it would be enough to contain most airborne particulates.

Just in case.

You placed it gently over the beaker and the flower with practiced care, watching as the edges sealed against the bench with a soft thunk. The scent dimmed immediatel-ybut didn’t vanish. It clung to the air like it had already soaked into the fibers of your clothes, your skin.

You took a step back, and another, suddenly aware of the way the heat of the room felt a degree too warm.

Your eyes narrowed. You made another note.

“Mild thermal increase noted (subjective). Investigate potential volatile compounds. Possible synthetic ancestry. Unknown reaction to water exposure–possible activation trigger?”

You stood still for a moment longer, arms crossed over your chest now, staring at the flower like it might start humming.

Then you exhaled through your nose, gave your head a small shake, and muttered, “Okay, mystery plant. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

You turned on your heel and crossed to the far side of the lab, grabbing gloves, pipettes, and a test slide. You didn’t see the way the petals quivered beneath the glass dome. Or the way the center of the bud pulsed–slowly, rhythmically–as if something within it had begun to wake.

You were too busy prepping your tools.

You’d get your first sample from the outermost edge of the petal, where a small amount of condensation had begun to form–right where the flower had interacted with the water. It wasn’t much. Just enough to suggest a subtle chemical discharge. A secretion, maybe. Or pollen.

Your gloved fingers hovered just beside the dome.

You paused.

A thought scratched quietly at the back of your mind, the way instincts sometimes do when they’re not fully formed.

You didn’t ignore it.

You stepped back again.

Instead of removing the dome outright, you retrieved your small fume extractor arm—used mostly for soldering–and wheeled it over until its head hovered just above the cloche’s apex. You flicked the switch, and a soft hum filled the room as the extractor began to filter the air directly above the sample.

Another note:

“Smell is still detectable after containment. Strong. Possibly psychoactive. Proceeding with caution.”

Still, despite your wariness, you found yourself walking back toward the glass.

One more glance. Just to be sure.

The flower was still closed–but now its bud looked fuller. Like it had begun to swell. One of the petals had unfurled the tiniest bit. Barely a sliver.

But just enough for you to see a glint of gold pollen resting in the shadows of its center.

It shimmered like dust caught in a sunbeam.

You stared.

And then, carefully, you reached over to your comm unit and tapped the call button for your assistant team over in the biocontainment lab.

“Hey,” You said when the line clicked open, voice low. “I’ve got a…Weird one. Found by Barnes. It’s stable, but I want a second containment unit prepped in case things escalate.”

A pause on the line. Then:

“Escalate how?”

You glanced back at the flower. That scent. That impossible shimmer. You didn’t know yet.

“Just…Prep it,” You replied. “I’ll send over a sample in a few.”

And then you muted the line.

You looked down at the flower one more time.

It was no longer just beautiful.

It was waiting.

———————

It had been three days since Bucky dropped the flower off, and by this time it had bloomed. Not delicately, and certainly not in the way flowers usually did–with gradual graceful predictability. No. This thing had opened like it knew it was being watched and studied by you.

When you came down to your lab the morning after Bucky brought you the mysterious flower, the petals had fully unfurled–broad, sweeping things with a high-gloss sheen and hypnotic gradients that shifted from gold to scarlet to bruise-dark purple depending on the light. The stamen in its center now pulsed visibly, a slow inhale-exhale rhythm that made the entire structure look…Alive. The pollen shimmered every time it moved, a near-invisible cloud that never seemed to settle but floated in still air like it was defying gravity. Or logic.

You had kept it sealed tight under the reinforced cloche, and had the triple-filtered vents on and the entire section of the lab cordoned off with containment protocols. Your notes had doubled in size, and still, nothing definitive had come back from the biocontainment team. There were just vague updates telling you that they were behind on other specimens and that they would get around to it when they could.

So you worked around it. You monitored. You wrote. You catalogued symptoms–your own included, though they were still annoyingly ambiguous: mild temperature spikes, random surges of adrenaline, difficulty concentrating in bursts. But no rash, no lesions, no hallucinations. There was a kind of pressure, similar to urgency but just on the cusp of it, desire maybe–but for what, you had no clue. You had only inhaled a bit of the pollen and hadn’t been exposed since, so you didn’t dwell on it–not with your schedule stacked, and not with your own lab being as backed up as it was.

You were just rinsing a pipette when the door to the lab slid open with a soft hiss.

”H-Hey,” Came the voice you’d come to recognize more easily than your own thoughts lately. You didn’t need to look up to know that it was Bob, but you did anyways, just to catch a glimpse of him.

He was towering and soft-shouldered in a dark grey hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, worn sweatpants hugging the curve of his hips, and his crown of light brown hair was in absolute disarray, like he had it tied up and decided to let the locks fall free in front of his face. He looked like someone who didn’t have the slightest clue what he did to people around him, and he truly didn’t know.

The plastic takeout bag in his hand swung gently as he stepped inside, smiling at you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Brought y-you lunch.” Your stomach growled at the word lunch, and it echoed through the moment of silence that settled between you, which only made Bob’s grin stretch wider.

”Let me guess,” You started, pulling off your gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin, “You timed this perfectly because you knew my stomach would start making monstrous noises, didn’t you?”He shrugged, with a small smirk on his face, setting the bag down on your cleared desk near one of your monitors.

”You skipped b-breakfast.” You held out a finger.

”No no…I postponed breakfast.” He shook his head.

”You always p-postpone breakfast,” He said, moving past you to pour you a cup of water from the cooler, his big hands making it look smaller than what it actually was, “And if I d-dont show up with something d-decent by 2 p.m, you would just end up inhaling the vending machine c-crackers and freeze-dried apple s-slices…Which is not s-sustainable i-in the slightest.” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his comments.

”Seems like someone has been watching me a bit too closely.” He turned and handed you the water, fingers brushing yours as he didn. His hands were boiling as usual, and it left the paper cup feeling warm from where his fingers had been holding it. His eyes lingered on your face a beat longer than necessary.

”I-I always watch you c-closely,” He said softly, like it slipped out before he could catch it. Immediately his eyes glanced down away from you, dropping to the floor for a second, before flicking away toward the cluttered end of your bench like he suddenly remembered a far more interesting smudge on the tile. His cheeks were red–not just a flush, not just a tinge, but a slow bloom of color climbing from the collar of his hoodie up to the tips of his ears.

You said nothing in response. Not because you didn’t notice–because you did. More because if you said anything, if you so much as looked at him with any kind of expression that acknowledged the truth buried in his voice, he might self-destruct on the spot. So instead, you took a slow sip of the water he handed you, letting the quiet hum of the lab fill the air between the both of you.

Then you turned on your heel toward the takeout bag.

”So what’s on the menu today, Chef Bob?” You asked lightly, pulling the plastic open and peeking inside, “Please tell me it’s not another one of your hot dog stir-fry’s.” He let out a groan.

”Listen…I-It was one time, I-I know nobody was a fan of it.” You grinned as you pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped container, unraveling it with careful fingers. A rich, savoury scent wafted up–soy and sesame and something sweet under it, like cane sugar with more of a freshness that was unexpected, “So what am I looking at?”

”Sticky rice, soy-glazed chicken, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, “T-There’s some grated g-granny smith apple in the glaze…C-Cause I didn’t have honey.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Pretty decent alternative.” You replied.

”Yeah,” He said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, “You know how S-Sentry gets with processed s-sugars in his system. Makes him a-all buzzy.” You let out a soft laugh.

”So this is officially Sentry-approved, then?”

“F-For the most part,” He mumbled, “I-I think you’re the real t-test though.” That made you pause, glancing up at him, still holding the half-unwrapped meal in your hands, finding his gaze had landed on you again. This time it held something quiet but vulnerable. Expectant, even. Like he really cared what you thought.

And that was the difference between Bob and everyone else–you knew he didn’t make things just to impress. He made them because it gave him joy to offer them. He brought you food not because he wanted credit–but because he worried you wouldn’t eat otherwise. He brought you books because he remembered which ones made your eyes light up. He let you take his blood every month without protest, even when the Sentry made his pulse unpredictable or his veins hard to find, because he trusted you with every part of him–even that. And because of those little things, you always made sure to praise him.

Even when he burned the eggs.

Even when the pasta came out overcooked.

Even when the hot dog stir-fry almost gave you heartburn.

You forked a bite of the rice and chicken, chewed, and let your eyes widen a bit as the warmth hit your tongue. “Okay. Wait. This is actually good.”

He blinked, caught between shock and a smile. “Y-you don’t have to lie.”

“I would lie,” You said, pointing at him with your fork. “But not this convincingly. This? Bob. It’s delicious.” He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. He rocked back slightly on his heels, running a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to hide the shy little grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. You watched the way his fingers threaded through the strands, the way his forearms flexed under the soft stretch of the hoodie.

You took another bite and leaned against the counter beside him, letting out a hum of satisfaction.

“Y’know,” You said between chews, “If Val found out you were secretly good at this, she’d start expecting meals during debriefs.”

”She’d want a report first,” He said, playing along, “T-Then she’d make Walker taste it for poison.” The both of you laughed lightly. The silence that followed was companionable. Safe. You brushed your shoulder lightly against his as you leaned forward to set the food container down beside the monitor.

His body went still at the contact.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did. You knew that reaction well by now–the micro-freeze, the way he’d let the warmth of your hand or arm settle into him like he was still learning he could have it. That it was for him.

You let your arm linger against his for just a second longer.

Then you pulled back, slow and easy.

He looked at you from the side of his eye. His voice was low when he spoke.

”H-How’s the flower?” You glanced toward the containment dome instinctively. The petals shimmered under the harsh lab light, colors shifting in slow gradients like they were part of something fluid, something still breathing. It looked even larger today. Full-bodied. Restless.

“Still haven’t heard anything back from the biocontainment lab,” You said, turning back to Bob and picking up your fork again. “Apparently they’re still backed up from the Skrull fungus incident.”

His face pulled slightly. “God…D-Don’t remind me of t-that.” You nodded grimly.

“I won’t…But this?” You took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “No movement. Just… opened. Big. Loudly. Like it knew I was looking at it.” Bob followed your glance as you continued to speak, “I breathed in a little bit of the pollen when I first got it–just a trace. It made me really warm. Flushed. But otherwise nothing dramatic. No side effects. No changes. So I think it was just my body reacting to whatever compound it’s putting off–probably a weird hybridization. Something experimental maybe.” Bob’s brow furrowed at this comment.

”You s-should’ve been wearing a m-mask.” You huffed a laugh, nudging your shoulder into his again.

”Please, I’m pretty sure I’ve been exposed to worse.”

“S-Sure,” He said quietly, his gaze fixed on you now, “B-But definitely not like this.” There was something layered in his voice—concern wrapped around protectiveness, softened by something you didn’t dare name.

You didn’t say anything to it. Just took another bite of the meal he made, let the flavor distract you from how closely he was watching you now. He shifted beside you, and you knew it was only a matter of time before–

“How’s the Golden God doing, by the way…Totally forgot to ask.” Bob rolled his eyes, “You know you’ve got bloodwork today, and I know how much he looks forward to that.” He grimaced.

”D-Darn…I f-forgot that was today.”

“You always forget,” You mumbled between bites, mockingly stern in tone, “Even though we’ve had the same schedule for, what–eight months?”

“Nine,” He corrected, “You count too?”

“Only because I have to track your blood chemistry, Bob.” He gave you a crooked smile, “Stick around,” You said waving your fork at him, “Let me finish this delicious lunch and I’ll get everything set up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a faux salute, backing off to give you space. You watched him for a moment out of the corner of your eye as he wandered slowly around the perimeter of the lab, hands in his pockets, shoulders soft beneath his hoodie.

Bob moved like someone who didn’t want to disturb anything. Not just the tools and data, but you–your space, your rhythm, your day. Even now, when he stopped in front of the containment dome, he didn’t lean close or peer in like most people would’ve. He just stood there, quietly watching.

The flower didn’t move. But the pulsing in its center seemed to slow, slightly. Steadying. As if recognizing something.

Bob tilted his head faintly.

But said nothing.

You finished your lunch in a few final bites, wiped your hands on a cloth, and pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

“All right,” You called, walking over to the locked cabinet beside your centrifuge. “Time to sacrifice a little plasma for science.”

Bob grumbled playfully as he headed back toward the stool you always set aside for him during these sessions. “Sentry’s gonna make it d-difficult again. Last time you had to chase the vein for like five minutes.”

“Oh how could I forget,” You said playfully, drawing the phlebotomy kit from the drawer, “I’ve never met a God who’s afraid of needles. He flared your heart rate on purpose and kicked the adrenaline response. Your veins were literally jumping.” Bob winced at the memory and sighed.

”I-I don’t think he m-means to be a jerk a-about it.”

“No, he just is,” You turned with a teasing smile and raised your brow, “You listening in there Sentry, I called you a jerk.” A flicker of gold passed through Bob’s eyes, and his expression shifted just slightly. A pressure just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You saw the way his jaw flexed. The way his breath caught on the edge of a heartbeat. It was gone just as fast as it appeared. You gestured to the stool.

”Alright, you know the drill.” Bob sighed and tugged his hoodie over his head with one hand, letting it fall across the nearby stool in a heap of worn fabric and static-charged threads.

Your breath caught for just a second–not that you’d ever admit it.

He was wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath. Simple, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. The fabric clung in all the places that mattered: broad shoulders, a narrow waist, the gentle taper of his torso. His arms were sculpted, the muscle built from the serum and his own training he did on the side with Walker–solid biceps veined faintly beneath pale skin, his forearms thick and freckled with golden hairs. Even through the shirt, you could see the subtle rise of his chest when he breathed. His body wasn’t exaggerated or showy like some of the other enhanced agents. Bob’s strength was honest, clean and quiet. The kind that didn’t beg to be seen–just was. He sat on the stool, leaned slightly forward, and offered you his right arm without hesitation–palm up, wrist relaxed, fingers curling just slightly where they hung over the edge of your tray. As always, he was warm. Always a degree or two above everyone else. Like the Sentry lived just beneath the surface, pulsing against the skin.

You pulled your chair close and gently cradled his arm in one gloved hand, “You good?” He nodded, jaw ticking faintly.

”Sentry’s a-already getting stirred u-up.”

“I figured,” You murmured, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol pad, watching the way the fine blond hairs on his arm caught the light, “You twitched when I called him a jerk.” Bob exhaled a shallow breath, half-laugh, half-wince.

”Y-Yeah he–uh–didn’t like t-that.”

“Well, tell him to behave,” you said, voice softening as you spoke, instinctively adjusting your tone. You’d found, over time, that it wasn’t just what you said–but how. The Sentry didn’t respond well to authority. But he did respond to calm. To care. To you.

“I’m going to insert the needle now, okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” He said quietly, “Keep talking through the process, t-that would help.” You gave him a smile–genuine and soft.

“All right…Just a little pressure here…” You slipped the butterfly needle in with smooth, practiced hands, watching the dark blood flood into the first vial like a ribbon of garnet. He didn’t flinch. His fingers curled just slightly, but that was it. You could feel the tension in him, though–not fear, not even discomfort, really.

Just a heightened presence.

You always felt it when the Sentry was nearby. Like a third set of lungs had begun breathing somewhere in the room. Like the molecules in the air shifted their charge.

“I’m taking five tubes,” You said gently. “You’re doing fine. Your blood flow is nice and steady today.”

“Y-Yeah,” Bob said, watching you with his head slightly turned. His voice had dropped to something deeper. Thicker. “That’s because o-of you.”

You glanced up.

He blinked, quickly. “Your voice. It…I-It helps.” You kept working, carefully switching out the first full tube for the second, then the third, eyes flicking to him only briefly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Or a cosmic honor. One of the two.” That got a smile out of him, even if it was small. The rest of the draw passed in familiar quiet–soft beeping from your equipment, the slow, gentle swirl of the containment fans, the hum of the overhead lights. His blood was warm in your hands. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you reached the fifth tube and carefully capped it.

You retracted the needle in one smooth motion, placing it in the sharps container before gently pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site.

“Pressure here, please.”

Bob complied, two fingers resting lightly over the spot. You retrieved a bandage, peeled it open, and pressed it into place over the cotton. Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. His skin was flushed warm beneath your glove. He smelled faintly of cedar and limes, probably from his shampoo. Then you leaned back in your chair and gave him a mock-serious look.

“So,” You said, cocking your head, “Does Sentry want a lollipop for his troubles?”Bob groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“D-Don’t get him riled up…” You laughed at the way his cheeks turned rosy again, as he attempted to hold back a smile, which failed.

”You sure?” You teased, “You don’t want me to pull out the glittery sticker chart?”

“W-We talked about this…He remembers t-things like that.” You both burst into soft laughter again, the kind that curled at the edges of your ribs and left everything just a little lighter.

And somewhere behind you, the flower twitched.

The petals shifted.

The pulse in its center matched his heartbeat.

But neither of you noticed.

——————

The next day, just after 2:00 p.m., the soft hiss of the lab doors made your head snap up again.

You were halfway through a long-winded notation on the flower’s latest chromatographic analysis when you heard the now-familiar rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable creak of someone cradling a takeout bag with too much care.

“Brought you lunch!” Bob announced.

He looked warm again–an oversized hoodie only blue this time, the same worn sweatpants from yesterday, and hair pulled back messily like he’d tied it in a rush. His free hand shoved deep into his pocket, but the other held a paper bag from a café you liked downtown. He wore the same small, crooked smile that made it difficult to think straight.

“Careful,” You warned playfully, turning in your seat to face him, “If you keep feeding me, I’ll start to expect this kind of treatment.”

Bob shrugged, walking in slow, casual steps toward your workstation. “M-might be worth it…Just to s-see you eat.”

You smiled at that–too caught up in the rare softness between you to notice the way the flower behind its containment dome had begun to stir.

Not much. Just a twitch of its outermost petals. A subtle change in the shimmer of its stamen. But you were facing Bob. You didn’t see the way it reacted to his voice.

“I-I got you the g-grain bowl you like. The one with roasted squash, the f-feta, that spicy vinaigrette you always try to recreate in your lab notebook–”

“I do not take vinaigrette notes in here,” You interjected, grinning.

Bob set the bag down gently on the corner of your cleared space shaking his head at you, glancing over at the dome just as the hum of your equipment shifted slightly. The air changed. Subtle, at first. Like something pressurizing behind glass.

He leaned over–only just–peering closer at the flower inside.

That was all it took.

The dome fogged instantly with a pale gold haze. Then–without warning–the containment glass shuddered with a sharp, pinging sound, like internal pressure had snapped a seal.

Then it ruptured.

The top of the cloche blew off with a muted pop, and a cloud of glittering golden dust erupted from the flower in a slow-motion burst. It expanded like fog, like breath in cold air–drifting, floating–straight into Bob’s face.

You froze for half a second. Then your instincts kicked in hard and fast.

“Shit—Bob!” You yelled, already leaping from your stool and hitting the emergency switch on the wall.

Red lights flashed as the isolation protocols kicked in. Vents slammed shut with a metallic clank, and the air filtration units hummed to life. Your console blinked through a security override as the lab sealed itself airtight. Your heart thudded in your chest like a drumbeat.

Bob had staggered back, coughing hard and pawing at his face, blinking rapidly. The golden dust coated his cheeks, his lashes, the curve of his nose, and clung to his stubble like cosmic pollen. It shimmered with a strange, otherworldly sheen–like it was alive, almost.

“Hey–hey–Bob, come here.” You grabbed him gently but firmly by the wrist, leading him toward the decontamination corner. “Don’t rub your eyes. Just come with me. You’re okay, just–just keep breathing.”

He nodded, still coughing, blinking fast. “I-it got in m-my face–feels like sand, b-but–s-sticky, maybe–” He stumbled slightly as you pushed the lever on the eyewash station.

“Lean in,” You ordered, voice steady. “Both hands on the sides. I’m gonna guide you.” You pressed the large silver button. The twin streams of water erupted instantly, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the cold hit. You steadied him, one hand braced on his lower back as he tilted forward.

”Keep blinking,” You instructed, “Get it flushed out. It’s probably just pollen but I can’t take chances, we still don’t know what that stuff is.”

“It’s–f-fine,” he said, spitting water out, breath hitching. “It doesn’t b-burn, just f-feels weird–” His voice was strained, breathless. You didn’t like the way his skin had started to pink at the edges, how the golden dust had clung even beneath his collar.

When the two-minute flush was over, you helped him lean back slowly, grabbing a towel from the stack nearby and pressing it gently to his face.

“We’re not done yet,” You said, pulling a second towel out and pressing it to the back of his neck. “Blow your nose. Three times. Then cough hard. I want that stuff out of your lungs if you inhaled any of it.”

He obeyed without protest, still coughing lightly between ragged breaths. The dust had left faint shimmer marks down the front of his hoodie, now slightly wet from the eyewash station. You reached over to the wall unit, flipped on the emergency fan array, and turned your console back toward manual override. The air slowly began to cycle through a localized carbon scrubbing system.

You turned back to him, grabbing a disposable cloth and wiping under his jaw, where a little gold still shimmered. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Breathing shallow, but not distressed.

You stepped back, hands braced on your hips, the overhead scrubbers humming louder now as the first cycle of filtered air began to push through the sealed lab.

Bob sat perched on the deacon bench, towel still clutched in his hands, his lashes dripping, cheeks damp, and glittered with flecks of gold the eyewash hadn’t quite cleared. He looked flushed–not sick, not distressed–just… warm. Lit from within, like something in him was beginning to glow. But you didn’t let yourself think about that.

Not yet.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly, kneeling slightly so you were more at eye level with him, voice softening as you scanned his face for any irregularities. “Are you dizzy? Lightheaded? Anything weird?”

Bob blinked slowly, the water still dripping off the tips of his hair as he met your gaze.

“N-No…” He murmured, voice rough with lingering grit, “Just…Feel kinda like I s-snorted fairy dust.” He gave a weak little smile. “M-might be glowing in the dark now.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a half-relieved breath, giving him a playful–but firm–swat to the arm.

“This isn’t funny. You know we have to be in isolation for twenty-four hours now, right?”

Bob groaned, slumping back slightly against the bench. “Ugh. Great. Cool. L-love that.” You crossed your arms.

“We’re both trapped in here. With no way out. The lab is in full lockdown. Airlocked. Everything. Biocontainment protocol 9A.” He sighed, tilting his head toward you dramatically. “

It’s not like we don’t already spend the majority of our free time together or anything.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t act like this is some cozy movie night. You almost got yourself pollinated into another dimension.” Your voice was softer now. More affectionate, more playful. Your gaze dropped briefly–to the faint shimmer still clinging to the edge of his collarbone–and that’s when you noticed it.

You looked down at yourself.

Tiny flecks of gold sparkled faintly across your sleeves, dusted across the dark wool of your sweater and even the collar of your lab coat. The stuff was finer than you thought–so fine you’d barely felt it settle.

“Shit.”

“What?” Bob asked, alarmed.

You pulled your lab coat off immediately, shrugging out of it and tossing it into the nearest biohazard bin. Your sweater followed next, leaving you in the tank top you had underneath–thin, breathable, already damp with nervous sweat. The cold air bit at your arms, but it was better than risking more exposure. You grabbed a clean disposable mask from the supply drawer and tugged it on.

“You got exposed?” Bob asked, sitting up straighter.

You gave him a wry look as you reached for a pair of gloves. “You think that cloud only wanted you?”

He flushed again and shifted where he sat. “S-Sorry…”

“Not your fault,” you said quickly. “You didn’t provoke it.”

Bob’s eyes slid to the corner of the lab where the flower still sat in its shattered dome, motionless now, but unmistakably altered–its petals twitching like cooling muscles, the last of the pollen still floating down like it hadn’t quite obeyed gravity yet.

You pointed to his hoodie.

“That’s gotta come off too.”

He blinked. “W-What?”

“Bob. Your hoodie is covered. You’re basically wearing a glitter bomb.”

“Oh…Right.” He looked down at himself and, reluctantly, peeled the hoodie off over his head, careful not to shake loose any more of the clinging dust. The fabric crackled softly as the static gave way. You moved forward with a biohazard bag already open and waiting.

“Drop it in,” you said, and he obeyed, his white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. You caught a glimpse of pale skin, faint golden freckles across his lower ribs, the subtle cut of his hip. You averted your eyes quickly, pretending not to notice.

But he noticed.

You didn’t speak for a beat.

Then:

“Okay,” you said, stepping back with the sealed bag in hand, “Contaminated clothing secured. Isolation timer has started. We’ve got twenty-four hours to kill and a potentially sentient flower that just gas-bombed the strongest man on Earth.”

Bob blinked at you, then gave the tiniest smirk.

“Th-this gonna be in the report?”

“Oh, absolutely,” You muttered, deadpan. “‘Subject A leaned into mysterious glowing flower. Subject B now has fairy glitter in her bra.’”

He laughed. Harder than you expected. The sound echoed softly in the sealed room and you let it hang there for a moment. Eventually his laughter faded, but the heat that was beginning to build in the lab didn’t.

It wasn’t just the tension between you anymore–it was physical. Palpable. You could feel it crawling along the inside of your spine like static. Your skin felt…Tight. Like your clothes were holding in too much warmth. Like the fabric of your tank top was suddenly too heavy in all the wrong places and far too light in others.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, towel now draped loosely across his lap, chest rising and falling more steadily than before–but even from a few feet away, you could see the faint shine of sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his throat.

You squinted slightly.

“Is it just me,” You said slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your neck, “Or is it…Hot in here?”

Bob lifted his head toward you, blinking slowly. His cheeks were still pink–flushed in that way people only got when they were either just out of a fever or just getting into something much more compromising.

“I-I thought it was just me,” He said, adjusting how he sat. “I figured the air filters w-weren’t moving much cool air yet. It’s… It’s an enclosed space, so…” He trailed off, eyes catching briefly on your arms, the exposed slope of your collarbone, and then darting away again, as if ashamed of the glance.

You nodded, trying to focus–but it was getting harder. Your tank top clung to the skin beneath your ribs like a second layer of sweat-dampened silk. You could feel the heat collecting at your lower back, a slow, stoked furnace of warmth that wasn’t just the room. Your breathing shifted slightly. Shallower.

There was a kind of pressure building behind your sternum. An ache–not painful, not sharp. Just…Present. Gnawing. Low in your belly. You cleared your throat.

“Do you feel weird?” You asked, keeping your voice as casual as you could. “Like… more than just warm? Any lightheadedness? Sensory changes?” Bob didn’t answer right away. His shoulders rolled back slowly, and his hand came up to drag across the back of his neck. You watched the way his palm moved over the sweat-damp strands of hair, the tension in his forearm, the way his biceps flexed just slightly under the tight stretch of cotton.

He wasn’t looking at you now. But his voice was quiet when he answered.

“M-My heart rate i-is up,” He admitted. “But I d-don’t feel sick. I just feel–” He stopped. Swallowed. Then: “Wound up. I-it’s like I’ve been waiting for something to happen and m-my body’s just trying to stay ahead of it.” You stared at him, hearing as he listed out the same symptoms you were feeling.

Then there was the ache again–twisting low and slow, enough to make you shift your thighs closer together without thinking. You noticed the way Bob’s eyes tracked the motion and immediately flicked away. His chest was rising faster now. His jaw clenched, breath audible through his nose. Something was happening. Something chemical, something hormonal. Something Induced.

You took a slow breath, then glanced at the ruined containment dome, the flower sitting quietly like nothing had happened. Its stamen pulsed gently, and the last wisps of pollen still hovered in the filtered air like gold-lit ghosts.

”You said it didn’t burn when the pollen hit…” You murmured, “Just felt weird…Right?” He nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward your face, then to your mouth, then away. You swallowed hard, wiping a bead of sweat off your forehead. ”How weird?”

Bob exhaled a shaky breath. His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching.

“It just felt really…Light,” he rasped. “Like ash. N-Not like sand–softer. Barely even there. But now–” He trailed off, and when he looked at you, it was like being seen for the first time. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of ocean-blue clinging to the edge. His voice lowered.

“Now I feel like my skin is on fire. L-Like I’m burning…And everything’s so damn sensitive. I c-can’t stop–” His voice cracked, “–I can’t stop looking at you.” Your breath caught. The ache between your legs deepened sharply, twisting upward through your belly like someone had plucked a string that now hummed through your bones. The realization slammed into you with full force. The heat. The ache. The scent. The shimmer. The reaction.

Fuck. You staggered backward from the bench slightly and slapped your hand down on the comm panel by the edge of your lab table, hitting the line for Bucky.

“Come on, come on, pick up–”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice crackled over the line. “What’s up?”

“Bucky,” You said, trying to steady your breathing. “Where exactly were you when you found that flower? Be specific. What were the surroundings?”

“I told you, it was near the tree line,” He answered, confused. “On the way back from the ridge. Why?”

“Was there anything else? Anything that stood out?”

There was a pause. Then, “Uh…There was kind of a–garden? Like, a bunch of them. Just a whole patch. Maybe fifty or sixty, I dunno, they were all clumped together.”Another pulse of heat ripped through your core, and you clenched your thighs, biting back a soft, involuntary groan. You half-collapsed, catching yourself on the table edge before sliding down the side of it, pressing your forehead into your forearm.

“Where were they, Bucky?” You grit out through clenched teeth. “Was there a lab? A compound? A goddamn marker on the ground–anything?”

“What? Y/N, I don’t–wait, there was a lab…But it wasn’t even close. Maybe two miles east of it. Looked abandoned. You think it’s connected?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, voice rough, stomach clenching. Your vision was starting to blur around the edges. “That’s not wild growth, Buck. That’s a planted field. That was cultivated. You brought me a fucking bioweapon.”

There was silence.

Bob had shifted, and when you looked up, he was no longer on the bench. He had crouched behind one of the heavy lab tables on the far end of the room, head bowed, palms braced hard against the floor like he was praying—or like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I-it’s getting worse,” he called out, voice hoarse and echoing faintly off the tile. “I—I can feel it in my hands, my back—like I’m buzzing from the inside out. You need to go to another room, Y/N. Please. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen—”

“There is no other room,” you snapped, clutching your own torso, fingers digging into your tank top like it could peel the sensation off your skin. “We’re sealed in. Remember? Isolation. Twenty-four hours.”

You turned back to the comm, swallowing back the pulse building low in your belly. “Bucky, something happened in that lab. This isn’t just a flower. It’s engineered—enhanced. There’s pheromone manipulation in the pollen. Maybe synthetic hormones. We both got exposed.”

“What kind of exposure?”

You hesitated.

Then you exhaled shakily, voice lowering. “The worst kind. I think it’s… I think it’s sex pollen, Bucky.”

A beat of stunned silence on the other end. Then:

“…You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was,” you hissed, grinding the heel of your hand into your temple, heart pounding. “And unless I get a suppressant cocktail in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to lose it.”

“What about Bob?”

You turned your head just slightly toward where Bob was crouched, shaking. His knuckles had gone white.

“He’s already losing it,” You whispered.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” you said, too fast. “Just…We’re locked in for twenty-four hours. There’s nothing anyone can do. Just… Just keep the others out. Don’t let anyone near the door.”

There was a long pause. Then Bucky’s voice dropped.

“Y/N. What exactly happened in there?”

You clenched your jaw and gave the only answer you could.

“I’ll tell you if we survive it.” Then you hung up the comm, bracing your hands on your knees as the ache spread like wildfire across your thighs, your chest, the hollow between your hips. Everything was overstimulated–fabric too rough, air too dry, skin too tight.

And then there was Bob.

You looked up slowly, panting now, vision swimming with heat and color. You could barely see his face in the shadow of the bench, but you heard his voice.

“I-It’s in me,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is. I can feel it in m-my blood. My skin feels like it’s too small. I’m–I’m shaking. I c-can’t stop it.” His breath hitched, voice breaking apart. “I can smell you. I c-can hear your heart. I can feel every molecule in this goddamn r-room. God, what is this stuff?” You were already dragging yourself across the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the nearest storage cabinet, yanking open drawers for anything–anything–that might help regulate internal chemistry. You were half-crazed with heat, sweat dripping between your shoulder blades, your whole body lit up like it had been set on fire from the inside.

“Okay,” you muttered, teeth clenched. “We’re gonna–we’re gonna figure this out. Just don’t come near me, Bob. Not yet.”

You couldn’t see him now, but you heard the thick, wet swallow from where he hid behind the bench.

“I w-won’t,” He rasped. “But…If you don’t figure it out soon…” His voice was barely audible now. “…I d-don’t know if I’m gonna b-be able to stop myself.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they hit you like a blow to the chest. A sharp pulse rippled through your core–your muscles tensed like a wire had snapped in your belly. The ache between your legs twisted again, hot and hungry, and a broken sound escaped your lips before you could stop it.

A whimper. Soft, shaken, and needy.

”Shut up,” You gasped, your voice hoarse with panic and arousal, hand bracing against the cabinet, “Just…Stop talking, Bob please…Your voice. Fuck sake.” Another wave of heat surged under your skin like a current of electricity. You curled slightly into yourself, arms trembling, every breath catching high in your throat.

“I–I’m sorry,” Bob groaned from across the room, his voice cracking with guilt and something far darker. You heard him shift, heard the thump of his back hit the cabinet behind him like he’d braced himself against it, like he couldn’t trust his limbs to obey. He let out a loud breath, shuddering.

”G-God, I’m–I’m sorry, I c-can’t even think straight–“ His voice broke on the last word, thick with restraint. You dragged open another drawer with shaking fingers, rummaging through cold metal and sterile pouches, tossing one after the other to the side. Glucose packs. Emergency syringes. No suppressants. No hormonal regulators. Nothing for this kind of exposure.

Your vision blurred as your stomach clenched again. You could feel sweat beading at the base of your spine, making your tank top stick like a second skin. You couldn’t stop panting. Couldn’t stop trembling.

”Fuck…” You hissed, almost on the brink of sob. You slammed the drawer shut with a metallic clang, the sound too loud, echoing in the sealed lab like it was mocking you. ”I can’t–I-I can’t find anything.” You wheezed, voice cracking. You braced your hands on the cold tile, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

The need was crawling over your skin like insects. Every breath was friction. Every shift of your body felt like dragging yourself through static. Your nipples were tight beneath your tank top, aching. You could feel your own pulse in places it didn’t belong.

“Shit–shit,” You whispered, eyes welling with frustrated tears. “Oh my god.”

Behind the bench, Bob made a low, strangled noise.

A grunt. Guttural. Desperate.

You couldn’t see him.

But you didn’t need to.

Because you could feel him.

You could feel the way the air changed when he moved. You could feel the ripple of heat that seemed to follow the sound of his voice. And worst of all–you could feel your body answering it.

Every cell in you was lit up with something heavy and humming. Something wild. Something designed.

You curled forward against the floor, pressing your forehead into your arm. You were panting now–wheezing, almos-trying to hold on. Trying not to cry.

You didn’t hear him crawl over, not until it was too late. Your breath was ragged, and your vision was swimming–and then warmth touched your arm. A large hand. Familiar. It closed over your bicep–but it lit your nerves on fire. You jerked away violently, scrambling back on instinct, collapsing onto your ass with a gasp. Your palm slammed against the tile and you skidded slightly, breath hitching as you spat out–

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice cracked, sharp and wet with panic. The motion made your spine arch, your tank top riding up slightly as your hip knocked into a rolling stool, the metal clattering away. Bob’s eyes widened in horror, hand halfway outstretched like it had betrayed him. He dropped to both knees in front of you instantly, not touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off his body like a wave.

“Y/N–” He breathed, his voice hoarse, chest heaving, “Y/N I-I feel it too, I p-promise. I feel everyth-ing” His hand hovered near your shoulder again, hesitant. Then, slowly, gently, he reached behind your neck, cradling it with a trembling touch. His fingers were hot against your skin, too hot. “Look at me. W-We’ll be okay. We’ll be o-okay.” You shook your head, lip quivering as the tears came faster now. Not the kind you could hide or blink away–these ones slid heavy and helpless down your cheeks, pooling at the corners of your mouth. You were trembling all over, shoulders shaking, thighs clenching without relief.

”I-I feel like I’m dying,” You whispered, voice raw, “Fuck, Bob it’s so painful.” He nodded once, his face contorting with shared agony, as his hand slipped from the back of your neck to your jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you or let go.

“I-I know,” He rasped, his other hand gripping his thigh so hard it shook, “I-I’m burning from the inside out. I can smell y-you…I can s-smell everything–“ You swallowed, chest rising in short, hard jerks. Because so could you.

His scent was all over the room now. Thick and devastating. It rolled over you in waves—heat-warmed cedarwood, sweat, and something deeper. Instinctual. Masculine. Not cologne. Not soap. Something completely and totally him. A biological beckoning, chemical and holy and blinding.

It made your thighs twitch and your breath break.

And your own scent…You could smell it, too. Like heat-glazed citrus and clean skin. Something golden and heavy, threaded with notes of sun-warmed vanilla and fresh-cut stems. Like the wild edge of spring. It filled your nostrils, clung to your skin, hung in the air between you like a dare.

Bob’s eyes fluttered, jaw clenching again. He let out a low grunt, like the effort of staying still was costing him something visceral. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I-Isn’t there…a-any way we can stop this f-from getting worse?” You didn’t want to say it, you really didn’t. But the truth came out anyway, scraped and raw from your throat.

”Only if…” You swallowed. Your tongue felt too thick in your mouth, “Only if we have sex…” The words dropped like a stone.

Bob’s breath hitched so hard it almost sounded like a choke. His throat bobbed, and he blinked down at you, eyes wild and dilated, dark lashes damp with sweat and desperation.

There was a pause–long and shaking.

Then, softly:

“W-Would it be t-that bad if…If we did?”

You flinched. Just barely. The air stilled, vibrating between you. And then you shook your head slowly, tears welling again–not from heat this time, but from something deeper.

“I really didn’t want our first time together being l-like this.”

That stopped him cold. All the breath punched out of him in a single exhale. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand fell away from your jaw like it had been burned. His whole posture shifted–still close, but paralyzed with guilt.

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him now–if you looked into that face, flushed and desperate and filled with longing–you’d give in. Your breath hitched sharply—twice—before you folded forward on a gasp, one hand clutching your lower stomach like it might soothe the throbbing pulse building between your legs.

“God,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Oh my god, I—I can’t fucking take it.”

The ache had bloomed into something unbearable—wet and slick and throbbing through your core with every heartbeat. You were drenched, panties stuck to you, heat radiating off your skin like you were about to combust. Across from you, Bob made a strangled sound, his fists tight on his thighs, chest heaving as he forced shallow breaths through his nose—like if he didn’t, he might do something reckless.

“I c-can’t smell you,” He whispered, more to himself than to you. “I–I can’t smell you–I can’t–”

But he could. You both could. Your scent was everywhere–sweet and sharp and thick with want. It hung in the air between you like perfume, like bait, and you knew it was driving him mad.

You twitched again as another rush of slick gushed between your thighs and a broken moan slipped past your lips–soft, needy, involuntary. Your eyes squeezed shut as your hand pressed harder against your stomach, trying to contain it.

But it was useless.

“I can’t–fuck, I can’t take it–” You gasped, and before you could stop yourself, you were lunging forward.

You grabbed his face with both hands–hot, flushed skin beneath your palms–and crushed your mouth to his like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collision.

A mess of lips and teeth and spit.

You moaned into his mouth the second you felt him gasp beneath you–his lips parting wide in helpless surrender, his hands flying to your waist like magnets. The second he touched you, it was over. You melted into him, mouths sliding and sucking and devouring with sloppy, panting need.

Spit slicked your chin, his chin, your mouths, your skin. It dripped down between you as your lips broke and reconnected over and over in increasingly desperate, wet smacks. His tongue slid against yours, hungry and hot, and you whimpered into the kiss like your whole body was unraveling.

His hands squeezed your hips, hard–fingertips digging in, dragging you toward him roughly until your knees bumped his thighs and your chest hit his. You felt the tremble in him, felt the heat pouring off his body as he let out a low, feral grunt into your mouth, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

You pulled back just an inch, breath catching in your throat as a strand of spit still connected your lips, both of you panting so hard it echoed in the sealed lab.

“Fuck–” He gasped, chasing your mouth again, not even giving you time to respond before crashing back into the kiss, even hungrier this time. “You taste like–God–l-like sunlight–like h-honey–fuck, I can’t–can’t stop–”

“Don’t,” You moaned, sliding your tongue into his mouth again, letting it tangle with his, swallowing his sounds, his heat, his everything. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking at the damp curls as his hands roamed, gripping your waist so tightly it made you whine. He guided you into his lap without thinking, until your knees straddled his thighs and your body pressed flush to his. You could feel everything–the twitch of his erection beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed his, the way his hands couldn’t stop moving–gripping, sliding, needing. Every inch of you was pressed tight to him, and he felt all of it. The heat. The wetness. The hunger.

”G-God…” He gasped, his head dropping to your shoulder for a split second, voice thick, “I c-can’t–can’t stop–need…Need something–“ And then his hands flexed, dragging you forward–against him. You cried out, the sound strangled and high as he rocked your hips into his, grinding you against the thick line of his cock through his sweatpants. The friction sent a lightning bolt through your core, and your whole body spasmed in response, clutching at his shoulders as the contact jolted through your nerves.

“Oh–God–” You moaned, tearing your mouth from his as your head tipped back, spine arching. “Oh fuck–do that again–” He didn’t even answer. Just groaned–loud, filthy–and rolled your hips again. Rougher. Harder. Enough that your soaked panties dragged hot and slick over the outline of him, soaking into the soft cotton of his clothes and yours.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled on either side of his lap. Your hands found his hair and tugged–hard–and he moaned so deeply it vibrated through your ribs. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging over sweat-slick skin. His tongue was everywhere–greedy and reverent–and then you felt him kiss the top of your chest, right along the edge of your tank top.

You were panting, shaking, drenched in sweat and arousal. You couldn’t stop grinding down against him now, couldn’t stop chasing that friction as you rolled your hips again and again, letting your swollen heat drag along his cock in slow, devastating passes. The pressure built fast, sharp and aching, pulsing low in your belly with every movement.

Bob’s mouth trembled where it kissed just below your collarbone. His fingers slipped up your sides, shaky but sure–and then they hooked under the thin straps of your tank top.

“P-Please–” He rasped, looking up at you like he was about to fall apart. “Can I—can I see you?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”

He didn’t wait. He dragged the straps down your arms, kissing the slope of your shoulder as they slipped, one by one. Then he tugged the neckline down–slow, desperate–and bared your breasts to the heavy, sweat-damp air.

The second your nipples were exposed, he let out a groan–a sound so broken, it barely sounded human. His eyes glazed with worship, with hunger.

And then his mouth was on you.

He wrapped his lips around one tight, aching nipple and moaned–like he was dying for the taste of you. His tongue flicked, sucked, lapped, over and over, and you cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably in his lap as you rutted down against him.

“Oh my god–Bob–“ You gasped, fingers burying in his hair, yanking him closer, needier. “That–fuck–you’re so good…” He didn’t stop. If anything, he got more desperate. His tongue traced circles around your nipple, sucking it deeper into his mouth with each slow pull of his lips. One of his hands gripped your ass, guiding your hips faster against his erection, grinding you down until your whole body was quivering.

“Y-You’re so warm,” He panted between kisses. “So soft–God–“ And then he took the other nipple between his lips, just as eager, just as mindless. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe across the swell of your breast and you sobbed at the contact, your whole body arching into him. Bob groaned around your nipple one last time before pulling off with a wet pop, his mouth red and slick with spit. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so dilated there was barely any blue left–but there was something else swimming behind them too, something ancient, hungry, waiting to surface. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned in close, nudging your jaw with his nose, mouth grazing your cheek. Then suddenly–

He surged forward.

Your back hit the cold tile in one fluid motion, the breath punching out of your lungs as he guided you down with firm hands, mouth still dragging across your chest. The contrast between the icy floor and the furnace of your skin made you cry out softly, arching up into his touch.

“Bob–” You gasped, but your words cut off with a moan as his hands slipped low, gripping the waistband of your pants and underwear in one practiced motion.

“L-Lift your hips,” He instructed–voice rough and tight with restraint. You obeyed instantly, and he peeled both garments down your legs in a single fluid movement, baring you to the air, to him, to everything.

Your thighs quivered as the rush of cool air met the wet heat between them. You leaned up, grabbed the hem of your tank top, and tore it over your head. It hit the floor behind you just as Bob stripped off his shirt–his chest gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing, dusted with faint gold shimmer and a constellation of freckles across his collarbones.

You barely had a second to breathe before he dropped between your thighs again, mouth finding yours in a kiss so urgent and deep it knocked your head back against the tile. It was messier now–hotter, more desperate, his tongue fucking into your mouth with wild hunger.

Then he broke away just far enough to speak.

“I-I’m going to c-crawl on my fucking knees,” He growled, “And you’re gonna spread those thighs wider for me, and let me eat you until you come on my tongue.”You arched up with a moan, hips twitching off the floor. Your hands reached for him blindly, pulling at his shoulders as he trailed kisses down your throat, your chest, your ribs.

“I need you so fucking bad,” He whispered, his voice darker now–lower, smoother. The stutter was gone.

You blinked through the haze, the heat, the sweat clinging to your lashes–and that’s when you saw it. The eyes. Not Bob’s soft blue. Gold. Molten.

“Sentry,” You whispered, breath catching.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

His teeth scraped gently along your stomach, sending electric pulses through your nerves, and then he kissed the inside of your hip bones like he was worshipping an altar.

“You smell so fucking sweet,” He murmured, nose dragging through the crease where your thigh met your core, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “I can’t wait to have a taste.” You sobbed his name as your thighs opened wider for him, your body obeying without question. He slid his hands beneath you, lifting your hips off the floor, draping your thighs over his shoulders–his palms spreading across your lower back to anchor you in place.

“Look at you,” He groaned, lips brushing against your soaked folds without yet tasting. “You’re drenched…You’re so fucking wet I can see it drip.”

Then he leaned in.

And licked a slow, devastating stripe up your center.

You choked on a scream. Your hips jerked hard against his mouth, and his arms tightened around your thighs, holding you down as his tongue moved again–sloppier this time. Messier. Hungrier. He licked into you like he was starving. Long, deep strokes. Quick flicks. Circles around your swollen clit that had you crying out his name.

“God, fuck–yes–”

You gripped his hair hard, yanking at the sweat-damp strands, and he groaned like he liked it–no, loved it. The vibration of the sound against your core made your whole body shake.

“You taste like summer, like heat, like stars.” He moaned. “Absolutely fucking sinful.” He pulled back only long enough to look at you, his mouth wet, chin dripping with slick.

“I can’t wait to make you come on my tongue,” He growled.

And then he dove back in.

Tongue sliding flat against your clit, then swirling, sucking it into his mouth with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your vision blur. You cried out, grinding into his face, your hands clutching his hair, your whole body vibrating with sensation.

“P-Please–” you whimpered, barely able to breathe, “Please don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

He licked and sucked and groaned like you were his favorite meal, like he could do this for hours. His hands gripped your ass, dragging you tighter to his mouth, keeping you from squirming away.

You were going to come.

It was building fast–tight and white-hot and burning like it had nowhere else to go. You were right on the edge when–

He slipped one thick finger inside you.

You let out a loud gasp. It wasn’t pain–it was too much. Too good. The stretch, the pressure, the way his mouth never stopped moving.

“That’s it,” He murmured against your clit. “Take my fingers…Just like that…You’re so tight, fuck…I’m imagining how you’re going to take me.”

You clenched around him, and he groaned again–louder this time–and slid a second finger in, stretching you open. His fingers curled up, rubbing slow, teasing strokes into that perfect, devastating spot. Your walls fluttered, your thighs trembled.

“Oh god, oh god–”

“Come for me,” He growled. “Right now. Let me feel you.”

And he sped up.

Fingers pumping hard, mouth sucking your clit with filthy precision. You sobbed his name, your back arched clean off the tile, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire, like lightning–your thighs locking around his head, your hands gripping his hair as you wailed through it.

He didn’t stop.

Not when you cried out.

Not when you begged.

He kept sucking, licking, fucking his fingers into you as your body convulsed.

Your body was still twitching when he pulled his fingers free–slick and trembling, your core fluttering from aftershocks as he slowly sat back on his heels.

His chin was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes–those molten, god-touched eyes–burned down the length of your naked body like sunlight through stained glass.

“I should feel sated,” He murmured, voice too calm for the storm coiled in his chest. “I should be full from what I’ve just taken.”He leaned in. Slowly. Pressed one open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, then another–hot and reverent, just shy of your folds. His breath dragged over you, still sensitive, and it made you whimper.

“But I’m not,” He said low, his nose skimming up the inside of your leg as he worked his way toward your face. “I’m still starving.”

You were trying to breathe, but it wasn’t easy. Not with your pulse echoing in your throat, not with the ache between your legs still pulsing with the memory of his tongue, and certainly not with him looking at you like that.

“I’ve waited…So long to taste you.”

His voice was velvet heat–slick with need, rich with something that throbbed like want and worship tangled together.

He braced a hand on either side of your head as he crawled up over you, hair wild around his face, sweat glistening on the slopes of his shoulders and chest. The weight of him caged you in. It wasn’t heavy–it was all-consuming.

You reached up with a trembling hand and cupped his face. His skin was flushed, warm and slick, his jaw tight as though holding back something enormous.

“I can still feel you,” You whispered, voice raw. “On my mouth. On my thighs. Inside me.”

He smiled at that–but it wasn’t gentle.

It was hunger.

“You’ll feel me even more soon.”His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, and his gaze flicked down–watching the way your mouth parted for him instinctively. He leaned in again, voice now a whisper of thunder against your cheek, “Imagine what it’s going to be like when I fuck you…” Your hips bucked helplessly beneath him, but he only smirked, catching them with a firm palm.

“Sentry,” You gasped, voice trembling as your thighs clenched under the weight of him, “P-Please. God—don’t you feel it too?!”

His nose brushed yours, breath hot against your cheek. He didn’t answer at first–just let that small, dangerous smile curl across his lips, teeth barely catching his lower lip before he released it.

“Of course I feel it,” He murmured, hips dragging downward, grinding his clothed cock into your slick heat. “It’s everywhere in me. In my chest, in my spine, my teeth.” His voice dropped to a darker pitch, and the gold in his eyes flared one last time before dimming. “I-I just know I’m going to get what I-I need…

Bob sat back on his knees between your spread thighs, hands sliding slow and sure down his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants. “I-I already came once just from eating you out,” He confessed, voice timid now, “I t-think I have more in me…”

Then he tugged the sweatpants down.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

His erection sprang free, flushed dark and glistening at the tip, already slick with the evidence of his earlier release. A thick bead of cum sat heavy at the crown, dripping slowly down the curve of his shaft, and your whole body twitched at the sight of it. The raw, shameless arousal surged in your belly like wildfire.

“Fuck–” You whispered, pupils blown wide.

He was beautiful. Veined and heavy and so hard it twitched with every breath. You couldn’t stop yourself. Your hand moved without thought–licking your palm once, slow and deliberate, before wrapping your fingers around him.

Bob groaned immediately–deep. His head dropped forward, curls swinging around his jaw, and his hips bucked into your touch as your hand slid down the length of him in a slow, sticky stroke. His cock throbbed in your grip. Hot. Pulsing.

“Mmmf–fuck,” He growled, the sound rattling against the walls. He dropped one hand down to your thigh to steady himself, the other bracing behind him as you worked him with your slick hand–up and down, tight and wet and slow, like you wanted to savor every second.

His breath came out in sharp pants, his face flushed, his eyes fluttering shut as your thumb rubbed just beneath the swollen head, gathering that leaking slick and spreading it over his cock.

“God, I didn’t even have to touch you and you came.” You whispered,

“That’s what y-you do to me,” he gasped, voice shaking. “I couldn’t help it—god, I couldn’t fucking help it—” He surged forward, kissing you hard, and you moaned against his mouth as his hips began to stutter forward, chasing the motion of your hand with every pass.

It was hot, the way he kissed you–messy. His mouth was open, panting against yours, lips dragging along your tongue, teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth with a wet pop. He moaned into you with every stroke of your hand, deep in his chest, growling like it hurt not to move faster.

He kissed like he was about to fall apart in your arms.

Like he wanted to ruin you and thank you at the same time.

And you could feel it–he was close again. Already.

“G-God–don’t stop–don’t stop–” he choked out, hips bucking into your grip, his cock twitching hard in your palm.

Then his mouth tore from yours with a ragged moan, his body going rigid as he came–again.

Thick ropes of cum spilled across your stomach in hot, wet spurts–slicking your skin, painting the swell of your belly in messy, sticky heat. Bob cried out, breath catching, his hand clutching your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints as his hips jerked against your hand one last time.

You watched it all, feeling it dripping down your skin. You slowed your hand, and then looked up at him. His eyes were fluttered closed. His mouth hung open, panting raggedly. His cheeks were red and damp with sweat, hair curling against his temples in loose, disheveled strands.

And then–

You ran your fingers through the puddle of cum on your stomach.

Bob’s eyes snapped open.

He watched, transfixed, as you dragged two fingers slowly through the mess he left on you–slicking them up, glossy with white.

Then you brought them to your mouth.

And sucked them clean.

He groaned–low and guttural, more animal than man. He surged forward and kissed you, hard–his mouth hot and open, tongue licking into yours like he needed to taste what you’d just tasted.

And when he pulled back–just barely–he looked drunk. Starved. His voice was hoarse, reverent.

“W-We taste so g-good together,” He whispered.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.

And then your voice broke.

“I need you inside me.”

His breath hitched sharply. His eyes searched your face like a prayer–like he needed to make sure this wasn’t just the pollen, wasn’t just chemical.

But your body told him everything he needed to know. The slick between your thighs. The tremble in your voice. The way your legs fell open without fear. He saw your hand reaching for him–trembling, open, desperate–and instead of just taking it, he kissed it.

One slow kiss to your palm. Then your wrist. Then each fingertip in turn, reverent and breath-warmed. His eyes didn’t leave yours, even when his lips brushed the soft pads of your fingers. It felt like something sacred.

“I-I’m yours, Y/N…” He whispered, his voice wrecked–hoarse and honeyed, lined with awe. “All yours.”

Your chest trembled. Not from the pollen. Not from the heat. From the weight of it–his words, his body, his need. You brought your other hand to his cheek, touching the sweat-slick curve of his face, thumb stroking over his flushed skin.

“You’re burning up,” You whispered.

“So are you,” He breathed back.

But the ache had shifted now. It was lower. Thicker. No longer frantic. Just heavy. Full. Demanding.

His lips met yours again–slow this time, almost trembling. Not chasing. Not crashing. Just pressing. Full and warm. Your mouths moved in sync, deeper with every pass, until he adjusted his weight above you, one forearm braced beside your head while the other hand snaked down to your thigh.

His fingers curled around the underside of it, tugging you closer until your legs wrapped around him again and your slick heat pressed against his length. He groaned into your mouth at the contact.

“G-God, Y/N,” He muttered, dragging his mouth down to your throat, kissing the line of your pulse. “You’re s-still dripping. I can feel it–so hot, so wet for me…”

His hand shifted, reaching between your bodies. He stroked himself once. Twice. The glide was obscene, slick with both your arousal and his release from before. He cursed low under his breath–voice strained with restraint–and guided the thick head of his erection to your entrance. Then–he paused, letting his forehead press to yours, his nose brushing yours as he whispered

“T-Tell me you want it.”

”I want you, Bob,” You breathed, “I’ve wanted you for so long…Please I want you inside me.” You begged, almost on the brink of tears just from the sheer anticipation that wracked through your body. He let out a long sigh and slid in, with such slowness you felt your whole body tense up.

You both gasped at the same time–loud, broken, raw. Your back arched and your thighs locked tighter around him as he pushed forward, inch by inch, stretching you wide with the thick, pulsing heat of him. He groaned above you, mouth falling open as your walls clenched around him, impossibly wet and tight.

“Oh–f-fuck…” He stuttered, his voice cracking like it couldn’t contain the feeling. “You feel…God…You feel like…Like e-everything.”

You whined under him, nails scraping lightly across his back. Every inch dragged through you like it was carved for you–hot, thick, filling. It was too much and not enough at once.

“You’re stretching me so good,” You gasped, voice shaking. “Bob–go slow–I wanna feel all of it.” He obeyed, hips moving with devastating care, sinking into you until he bottomed out, fully seated, buried to the hilt. The moan that left your mouth was guttural. His wasn’t any better. It came from deep in his chest–an animal sound, trembling and wrecked.

He stayed still inside you, just for a moment, just to feel everything, just to breathe.

Your chest rose beneath him in shuddering gasps, your nails pressing into the flex of his back as your hips trembled beneath the weight of him. He was deep–so deep it was hard to breathe–but it wasn’t painful. It was perfect. Like a lock clicking into place after too many years of holding the wrong key.

His forehead dropped to yours, your sweat-slick skin sticking where it touched, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek. His arms trembled faintly from the restraint, from the fire still licking through his blood, from the unholy grip of your body around him. His hands slid slowly from the curve of your thigh up to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your hips as if memorizing them. One hand trailed higher, tracing the line of your ribs, his touch light, soothing, trembling.

”You feel–“ He choked on the words, voice wrecked and shaking, “–Like…L-Like you were made for every inch of m-me.” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your back arched slightly, hips shifting. The movement made him twitch deep inside you, and the sound he let out was hoarse and broken. Your lips brushed his, breath mingling.

“I need you to move,” you whispered. “Please, Bob. I need you to–”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not desperate. Not wild. Just deep. Intentional. His lips dragged against yours in slow, soft strokes, his tongue slipping into your mouth like a secret. You kissed him back with a whimper, your hands cupping his face, fingers sliding into the damp curls at the base of his neck.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first.

A long, slow withdrawal that had your breath catching in your throat, followed by a deep, steady thrust that made you moan into his mouth. His hips rocked forward again, harder this time, but still slow. Still deliberate. Still savoring.

You felt every inch.

And he felt everything.

Your slick heat around him. The way your body welcomed him, tightened for him, trembled from the fullness. He moved like he wanted to stay inside you forever–long strokes that dragged through you with devastating patience, hips grinding at the end of each thrust like he wanted to feel the slick press of your clit against his skin.

He kissed you between thrusts–messy, wet kisses that dragged across your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. His lips caught your whimpers. His tongue tasted your gasps. He moaned into your mouth when you clenched around him.

And then–

His hand slid up your chest, broad and warm, until his palm cupped the base of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there. Anchoring. Feeling the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You’re burning,” He whispered, lips dragging across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “S-So warm…So soft…So alive…”

His hips rolled again, slow but deep, pressing into you until your breath stuttered beneath his palm. Your body arched into him helplessly, your thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, your mouth parting on a moan that he caught with a kiss–hot, slick, and panting. He swallowed it greedily.

The pressure of his hand on your throat didn’t restrict. It grounded. Like he needed to feel your heartbeat just to believe this was real.

You whimpered, and he pulled back enough to look at you–his curls dripping sweat, his lips swollen and damp, and those eyes, half-lidded and molten gold at the edges.

“G-God, I could be inside you forever,” he rasped, voice trembling like the words themselves threatened to undo him. “I–I never want to l-leave this. Never wanna stop feeling you like this…”

Another thrust–this one deeper, grinding. Your head dropped back with a gasp.

“Bob–” You sobbed his name like it was the only word you remembered, your fingers twisting hard in his hair. He groaned, deep and wrecked, his hips stuttering slightly as you tugged, his body responding like you’d yanked something primal out of him. His mouth found yours again, frantic and hot, tongue flicking into your mouth with messy, desperate hunger.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your face–flushed, dewy with sweat, eyes glassy and wide.

“Y-You’re close again,” He murmured, like it was something holy. His hand still cradled your throat lightly, thumb stroking gently beneath your jaw as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I–I can feel it, you’re tightening every time I move–you’re doing so good for me Y/N.” You whimpered beneath him, your hands clutching at his back, at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, harder, anything–

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, rocking into you again, the friction slow and devastating. “Let go for me. Come around me. I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You moaned–high and soft and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice breaking. “Just like that. You’re doing so good—G-God–you’re so perfect.” Your thighs shook around his hips. His hand slid down from your throat to your chest, splaying wide over your sternum, as if he could feel the orgasm building beneath your ribs. His other hand slipped to your hip, holding you still as he gave one slow, deep thrust that hit the exact spot that made your vision blur.

Your mouth dropped open in a cry.

“Come for me,” He begged, hips rolling again, steady and relentless. “Please–I wanna feel you–let me feel you come around me–”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the floor, your breath catching in a series of sobbed gasps as the orgasm ripped through you. He kept moving, kept whispering praise through your climax, voice ragged with awe.

“That’s it…That’s it, Y/N…You’re so beautiful like this–“ You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you on earth, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing beneath him with every wave of pleasure. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, feel how it dragged a strangled moan out of his throat.

“I-I’m so close,” He gasped, his voice wrecked, his rhythm faltering. “W-Wanna fill you up–please–can I–?”

You nodded, breathless and trembling. “Yes–yes, please–I want it–give it to me–” With a broken groan, his hips jerked forward one last time–and he spilled inside you. His whole body shook as he came, burying his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he needed to hold every part of you to survive it.

You could feel it–every throb, every pulse of warmth deep inside you. His moans, soft and shaking, buzzed against your throat as his breath caught in your skin.

He didn’t move for a long while.

Just stayed there–buried inside you, mouth warm against your neck, arms tight around your waist like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to the rhythm of your heart against his chest. His breath was still coming in short, shaken bursts, and yours wasn’t much better. You were both trembling a little–not from fear, not anymore–but from the rawness of what had just passed between you. Like your bodies hadn’t quite caught up to the aftermath of something so explosive, so full.

But the heat was different now.

It had shifted. Softened. Still warm. Still thick. But no longer blistering, no longer maddening. Just…Lingering.

Your hands slid slowly up his back, fingers tracing through the sweat that slicked his spine, dragging across the faint bumps of his vertebrae. He let out a soft, shaky sigh against your skin. Your fingertips wandered to his sides, palms smoothing gently over the curve of his ribs as if to say I’m here. Still here. I’m okay.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his shoulder—soft, damp, reverent. His skin tasted like salt and breathless devotion.

Bob shifted then, his arms loosening around you as he lifted his head just slightly, enough to look down at you. His hair was a light brown mess, damp curls stuck to his temples, a few clinging to his cheeks. He blinked at you–slow, still dazed–but there was something clearer in his eyes now. Something tender. His hand dragged along your side, skimming your ribs, and he leaned down to kiss you again.

His lips moved against yours like he hadn’t quite gotten his fill–like maybe he never would. He kissed your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, peppering slow, breathless kisses along the column of your throat. You giggled once–just a little–as his nose brushed the underside of your jaw, tickling your skin.

He pulled back just enough to blink down at you, lips wet and parted, chest still heaving.

”Y-You know I like you, right?” Your breath caught. Your fingers paused where they rested near the nape of his neck. His voice had cracked slightly on the word like, and you could tell he meant something so much more than that. Of course you knew his feelings for you, it was easy to spot, but hearing him say it aloud–even after the both of you just had the most carnal sex ever–still made you a bit breathless. You swallowed, then nodded–eyes searching his face, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“I like you too,” You whispered, your voice shaky and soft. “Always have…” Your cheeks burned, and not from residual heat. You traced a finger over the curve of his shoulder. “T-The circumstances right now are a bit c-crazy…But…Maybe after this…”You tried to continue, but your nerves tangled the words together.

He finished them for you.

“I-I’ll take you out,” He said, nodding once, as if promising both you and himself. “We…We can go to your favorite r-restaurant. And we can do this right…” He ducked his head a little, voice lowering to a smile. “W-Without the sex pollen.” You let out a laugh–helpless and bright–and leaned up to kiss him again. He grinned into it, just a little, and kissed you twice more, slower now, like sealing the agreement. When he finally pulled back, his thumb was brushing your cheekbone, his other hand still lazily tracing your hip.

His gaze dropped to your chest for a moment, then back to your eyes. “A-Are you still aching?” He asked gently.

You paused, body still humming with the memory of him, but no longer sharp with urgency. You shifted slightly, feeling the wet stickiness between your thighs, the throb finally quieting to something warm and dull.

“It’s dulled a little,” you admitted. “But I think we should wash up…”

He blinked, nodding. “R-Right. Yeah.”

You offered a small smile, brushing the sweat-slick hair from his forehead. “We’ve got that little makeshift shower unit in the corner storage. Emergency setup. I-I can activate it.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, one hand trailing lightly over your ribs again.

“I-I’ll come with you,” He murmured. “Just to m-make sure you’re okay.” His curls hung loose now, wild and slightly matted from where your fingers had yanked at them during your climax. The gold shimmer on his skin caught the low lab lights, making him glow faintly where he hovered above you.

“Aww,” you murmured, brushing a hand lazily over the sharp line of his jaw, “That’s sweet, Bob. Really. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re joining me.” Bob flushed immediately, lips twitching into a bashful grin.

“O-Okay,” He said quietly, nuzzling your cheek with the tip of his nose. “M-Maybe it isn’t…M-Maybe I just wanna wash you, and k-kiss you under the water…Until all this heat dies down inside me.” Your chest stuttered at that, heart tripping over itself. His voice was so soft, so wrecked, so full of you.

“Now that’s much better,” You whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He smiled into it, and you felt the way his arms curled tighter around your middle, the way his cock–still half-hard inside you–twitched slightly at the praise. He sighed, then slowly pulled out, both of you gasping a little at the drag of it. You shivered, and he was already reaching for a nearby towel to cover you while you sat up. His hand cradled the back of your head as you steadied yourself. Always gentle, even now.

You stretched your sore limbs and started for the far corner of the lab where the emergency hygiene setup was stored. Still naked, still glowing with post-orgasm daze, you knelt beside the console and started activating the emergency rinse station–a compact but functional retractable stall with hot water access, a single pressure-nozzle head, and sealed drainage for contamination containment. You flipped open the sanitation kit, pulling out the packet of unscented soap, a washcloth, and the emergency towels folded like paper bricks.

Bob padded over behind you, and you heard him laugh softly as you organized the supplies with shaky hands.

“What?” You said over your shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

He scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “N-Nothing. Y-You just look really focused for someone who’s still naked and covered in glittery sex pollen.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you murmured, standing and turning to face him, “Remind me to access the cameras in here later and delete the footage of what happened…”

Bob raised his brows. “You think there’s audio?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. We shouted at each other and cried out mid-orgasm while covered in science glitter. If there’s audio, we’re already blackmail material.”

His face turned scarlet.

“Y-You think they’ll–”

“I don’t think we want our sex tape leaking,” You interrupted, grinning wickedly as you flicked the shower head on. Warm water streamed out with a pleasant hiss, filling the space with a light mist and the sound of soft rainfall. You stepped under it first, pulling him gently in after you. The water hit your skin and instantly began washing away the gold flecks still clinging to your chest and thighs.

Bob’s hands found your waist again.

“…M-Maybe I’ll take a copy,” He mumbled.

You looked over your shoulder at him with mock exasperation. “You’ll have the real thing almost every night, Bob,” you said, voice low and teasing. “I don’t think you’ll need a copy.” His breath hitched–barely–and then you felt his mouth press to the back of your shoulder, his arms circling your waist from behind.

“I-Is that so?” He asked, lips trailing kisses up your damp neck.

You tilted your head back against him, smiling into the steam.

“Oh, it’s definitely so,” You said, reaching back to cup the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the water cascaded around you both–cleansing your skin, but not your hunger.

[youthguk]

Parasocial | jjk (m)

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: smut, best friends with benefits, a little bit toxic, jungkook and reader are a little messy and ruin life’s of people around them

words: 2,3k

summary: Everyone in your circle knew that where there was you, Jungkook wasn't far behind. It was just your natural state of being - together. Your relationship had this beautiful, messy way of coloring outside the lines of typical friendship. But somewhere between algebra homework and growing pains, his protective streak went from "adorably concerned" to "intensely involved in literally everything."

"You're being dramatic," you sighed, feeling the weight of another argument settling on your shoulders.

"The cake should be brought out by someone who is the closest," Ren huffed, his voice dripping with barely concealed venom. "Not just some... friend."

Your birthday evening had started like a scene from a dream - a cherished midnight surprise from Jungkook (your ride-or-die since the awkward days of braces and bad haircuts), heartfelt wishes from your uni squad, and what should have been a perfect dinner surrounded by your favorite humans.

But of course, Ren had to be that guy. The one who couldn't wrap his head around the radical concept that guys and girls could actually be friends without ulterior motives. Revolutionary, right?

And yeah, okay, maybe you'd spent years defending your friendship with Jungkook like it was your dissertation. Maybe you'd drawn lines in the sand that said "this friendship isn't negotiable." But here's the tea - maybe, just maybe, Ren wasn't totally off base with his jealousy.

There were... reasons. Complicated, messy, beautiful reasons why your friendship with Jungkook was slightly more than your average childhood bestie situation.

Reason #1: Lose of virginity

"This is a bad idea," Jungkook loomed over you, blocking your path. His gaze was dark, almost threatening.

"Why?" you whined, genuinely confused. "Eric and I have been dating for six months now, everyone else had their first time at sixteen, and I'm literally the only seventeen-year-old virgin in our friend group!"

You bit your lower lip in frustration, wondering why you were even discussing your potential first time with Jungkook of all people.

But that's just how your friendship had always been - joined at the hip, consulting each other on every little decision. You'd even helped him pick out protection for his sixteenth birthday when he decided Sarah from the neighboring school would be the one. Of course, this was only after your thorough background check on Sarah's credentials.

Everyone in your circle knew that where there was you, Jungkook wasn't far behind. It was just your natural state of being - together.

And honestly? You lived for it - having someone who knew you better than you knew yourself, who loved you fiercely, looked out for you relentlessly, and accepted every messy inch of who you were... that was the real definition of blessed.

He always said you two were like parts of a whole - if one missed something, the other would catch it. Your relationship had this beautiful, messy way of coloring outside the lines of typical friendship. But somewhere between algebra homework and growing pains, his protective streak went from "adorably concerned" to "intensely involved in literally everything."

Take your first kiss, for instance. There you were, thirteen and dreamy-eyed about Matt from Bio class, when Jungkook swooped in with his "I can't let your first kiss be terrible" campaign. And you? Sweet, trusting you? You bought it hook, line, and sinker.

"These moments stay with you forever," he'd insisted, eyes burning with something you couldn't quite name. "What if he's awful and ruins kissing for you forever?"

So there you were, letting your best friend cradle your face like you were made of porcelain, his lips soft against yours. And because Jungkook never did anything halfway, it wasn't just a peck - oh no. He kissed you like he was teaching you a language only he knew, and god help you, you were fluent by the end.

You floated on cloud nine afterward, convinced everyone must kiss like that. (Narrator voice: They did not.)

"You've already had sex," you challenged now, hands on hips, chin tilted in defiance as you tried to make your point.

His eyes traveled over you like a caress—taking in the way your black dress hugged every curve, how it whispered secrets about your waist, how the neckline played peek-a-boo with your cleavage. His gaze dropped to your stockinged legs, and something in the air shifted, grew heavier.

In truth, those stockings weren’t just a fashion statement—they were a secret pact between you and Jungkook, a whispered promise of wild desire. You both knew they ignited something raw in him, and if he got excited, then so would every other man who caught sight.

“So you’re doing this just to spite me?” he teased, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he licked his lower lip with playful intent.

“What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind? Snap out of it,” you shot back, dramatically snapping your fingers right before his eyes. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

A self-assured grin curved his lips as Jungkook reached into his back pocket and produced a gleaming condom wrapper. Today was too significant to be marred by embarrassment—too important a day for you to be caught buying them yourself or relying on Eric to even remember. When you asked Jungkook to buy it for you, his response had been effortlessly clear: “Consider it done.”

You knew Jungkook grasped everything when you asked that favor, even though you knew how much he couldn’t stand Eric.

Eric was nothing special. You might have ignored him otherwise, but among all the boys at school, he was the only one bold enough to make a move on you, while everyone else cowered, intimidated by Jungkook’s very presence.

Reaching out for the coveted wrapper, your hand barely brushed the air before Jungkook pulled it just out of reach. Frowning, you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Don’t be childish,” you chided. This wasn’t the time for games on such an important day.

“With all due respect, I’m not a child anymore,” he grinned, the mischief dancing in his eyes. “Let me help you,” he said, teasingly waving the condom before you.

Incredulous laughter bubbled from you. “This isn’t funny, Jungkook,” you warned, making yet another feeble attempt to grab the wrapper as he deftly dodged, slipping further into your room like a shadow.

A heavy exhale marked your moment alone as you closed the door behind him—a familiar habit in moments like these.

“I’m not joking,” he murmured with unexpected seriousness, his hand gripping your waist with the firm tenderness of someone who knew your secrets. Guiding you onto your desk, he sat you down as your heart pounded in equal measure to your rising anticipation. Slowly, he eased your legs apart, positioning himself precisely between them.

“What are you doing, Jungkook?” you asked, your voice laced with disapproving wonder even as your heart thundered. An unfamiliar ache began to bloom between your legs, a desire both new and unwelcome in its intensity. What was it about him, simply standing there, that set your body ablaze? Damn.

In a hushed whisper, he replied, “I’m your best friend.” Leaning in closer, his presence made you arch your back, compelling you to lean into his tender gravity. You bit your lower lip in silent acknowledgment. He truly knew you better than anyone. “No one ever understands you like I do,” he murmured, his tongue etching a tantalizing, wet trail from your collarbone to your earlobe.

Your hips responded before your mind could catch up, arching in invitation as you yearned to feel him even closer. What was happening to you? Why did your body betray you with such raw, unbridled passion? Your pulse quickened, each beat echoing the promise of more—so much more.

“Jungkook, this isn’t right,” you murmured as you closed your eyes, throwing your head back to grant him more of your soft, exposed neck for his kisses.

“But the first time has to be unforgettable—a memory that lasts a lifetime,” he insisted, his strong hand tightening around your waist to pull you closer. As his arousal spoke its own language, you couldn’t help but notice the growing evidence of his desire, intensifying the ache that pulsed beneath you. “I won’t let that pathetic jerk spoil what should be your perfect moment.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, you opened your eyes, biting your lower lip to hide the undeniable excitement coursing through you. Jungkook, with a mix of care and audacity, lifted you and laid you gently on the bed. You watched your chest rise and fall in rapid, fervent rhythm as he stood over you, a vision of raw, impossible beauty.

He had always been attractive, undeniably so - every girl at school secretly wishing for just a taste of his world. You learned to duck your eyes back then, knowing one look in those mesmerizing orbs could unravel you completely. And now, with a slow, deliberately teasing reveal, he slips off his shirt to expose broad shoulders and chiseled abs that practically whisper seduction. Seriously, the guy is ridiculously gorgeous.

You lean back into the bed’s soft embrace, eyes glued to him as he unbuckles his belt and slides his jeans off until only his boxers remain. The desire radiating from him is almost a silent dare you simply can’t resist.

“Like what you see?” he asks with a cocky grin, edging closer until you can feel the heat rising between you. You gulp, nerves mixing with that undeniable pull. “Are we really gonna do this?” you ask, your voice laced with a mix of uncertainty and raw, undeniable longing.

“Chill, Y/N,” Jungkook murmurs, drawing you deeper into his orbit. “This is gonna be unforgettable, and you’ll never look back. I’m not just passing through—unlike that clueless high school guy.”

His nearly bare body presses you deeper into the mattress as you shift just enough to let him settle perfectly between your thighs. He leans in close and whispers, “I can stop anytime, just say the word,” sending a rush of heat straight to your core. Without hesitation, you loop your leg around his waist, pulling him even closer. His smirk tells you he’s enjoying every moment. “Good girl,” he rasps, eyes sparkling with mischief as his fingers begin to toy with the hem of your dress. You arch your back, eager for the barrier between you to disappear.

“Jungkook…” you moan as he wastes no time moving to your most sensitive spot, his tongue expertly exploring every curve as it nudges your black thong aside. Wild thoughts swirl through your head—friendship lines blurred, jealousy simmering, and an overwhelming craving for more. Who cared if he was your best friend? You tilt your head back, watching him with hungry eyes as your hips squeeze around his head, silently pleading for another taste.

He had everything you needed, and if anyone could deliver it, it was Jungkook.

You breathe out his name, your cheeks burning either from the confession or the heat of the moment.

“Jungkook, I want you… inside me.” Your admission hangs in the air as he keeps lavishing attention on your most sensitive spot, his tongue relentless. “Please…” you whimper.

But with a teasing glint in his eye, he responds, “Not so fast—think you can handle me right off the bat?”

Rising slightly, he hovers above you, and you catch sight of his arousal straining against his boxers. How could you even know if you were ready when everything felt so deliciously wet?

He chuckles, clearly amused by your unabashed stare, then leans in to kiss you, his lips still carrying the remnants of your shared desire. Your tongues tangle in a messy, passionate dance—your first real kiss as an adult. Your fingers dig into his hair like you can’t get enough. Breaking away briefly, he trails a string of kisses down your neck, and you arch into him instinctively. One hand massaged your breast, playfully tugging at your nipple, while his mouth worships the other, licking and nibbling in just the right way. Soft, stuttering moans escape you—damn, he was so good.

You simply can’t hold back any longer. Sensing your impatience, Jungkook lets a hand slip into your panties, teasing you with one finger before inviting a second in. You’re dripping with desire, teetering on the brink.

“Please…” you moan again, lightly tugging at his boxers, marveling at your own newfound boldness.

“Your wish is my command,” he murmurs, his warm breath mingling with yours as he skillfully opens a foil packet with his teeth. You watch, captivated, as he unrolls the condom along his length, and you instinctively spread your legs wider, signaling that you’re all in.

Jungkook slides his body onto yours, aligning himself perfectly with your entrance. “Mine,” he growls with a note of satisfaction, and you nod silently. In that charged moment, nothing else exists—you’re completely his, as if you always have been.

He enters you slowly, each movement smooth and deliberate, and you can hear his soft moan echo your own rising pleasure. Knowing you excite him as much as he excites you fills you with a satisfying warmth. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him in close as his rhythm quickens, filling the room with the wet, symphonic sounds of your passion—a duet of shared moans and intimate moves propelling you both to the edge.

Eventually, Jungkook collapses against your chest, both of you catching your breath in the aftermath. Rather than pulling away, you linger together in those blissful moments. Finally, propping himself up on his elbows, he looks down at you with a teasing glint.

“So, how was that?” he asks, running his thumb over your still-sensitive, swollen lips, inviting your answer.

“Not bad,” you manage a casual reply.

“Little liar,” he chuckles, sitting up, then adds, “But if you ever need a hand—or a friend, you know where to find me.”

Now you were painfully aware that you couldn’t meet Eric’s eyes after this. With Eric, things never went all the way, despite his half-hearted attempts when Jungkook wasn’t around to intervene. You’d always held back—just a touch here, a flirtatious finger there. Sure, there was a twinge of guilt, but with Jungkook, it never felt like cheating; it was him, your Jungkook. And the truth was evident: Eric was a terrible lover, each touch reminding you just how much better Jungkook made you feel.

That night sealed the deal. Far from any awkward afterglow, you and Jungkook grew even closer—if that was even possible. Hugging, cheek kisses, having him casually plop on your lap during movie nights, or simply cuddling in bed became your new normal. It drove Eric mad, as any boyfriend in his position would be. You broke up with Eric right after graduation, that summer before heading off to university with Jungkook by your side. A bold new life was on the horizon, and you stepped into it together, united by your little, delicious secret.

part 2

🖤

[just-a-space-duck]

So About That Armor…

I regret to inform myself that I like it.

If you haven't seen it:

I'll give you time to take it in. This is a static, (hopefully) eternal text post, so take your time.

Ok so before I go further, you are allowed to have any and all opinions about the armor. Do not listen to me; I am a stranger on the internet who attaches himself to fictional murder cyborgs and treats them like kitty cats.

So first of all, it's weird. And I like it for that. Even if I found it to be the most infuriating piece of costume design ever, I still wouldn't be able to help but respect it for how strange it is.

When it comes to fanworks, adaptations, new installments in a franchise, or even just different takes on the same trope, I love it when creators take things in an unconventional or even seemingly unrelated direction that upon closer inspection still relates to the base or original concept. To get what I mean, think goth interpretations of Rarity or Cosmopoliturtle's Pokémon redesigns. The TV series armor sits alongside these for me, because this was the thought process of the designer, Tommy Arnold:

First of all, it is so funny that The Company would just brand their armor and by extension their secunits, their combat/security products, like Louis Vuitton bags. Also, the logo of The Company strikes a nice balance between being simple enough to be easily reproducible and recognizable, but complex enough to read as a logo and not just a simple shape or pattern. Plus, The Company logo being mostly just concentric Cs, clever there.

But there's also some worldbuilding and character expression in this design.

The Corporation Rim is just capitalism but more. A company slathering everything and everyone they create and own in mountains of logos, even when it's potentially impractical, showcases just how extensive corporatism is in this setting. Additionally, this design could be something of a status marker. Secunits are high end additions and/or alternatives to other security measures. Much like how logos on purses, tennis shoes, and cars serve to tell observers, "I have the fancy, expensive version of [insert category of thing here] ergo I am a very wealthy/powerful/cool person", a secunit covered in corporate logos communicates the high status and access of the client(s).

Now what was one of the first things we learned about Murderbot in the books? It disabled its governor module, the thing preventing it from defying orders and having any level of freedom, but instead of doing what it could to leave The Company, Murderbot just stayed with it and kept doing its intended function. For over four years. What else do we learn in the first book? That it feels most comfortable in the armor because this prevents humans from seeing its face, from treating it more like a person or human rather than a tool or bot. This makes the armor being composed of the logo of the group that both created and hurt Murderbot very symbolic.

Murderbot has internalized the message that it is a dangerous weapon and not a person deserving of care to the point that, at least at the beginning of the series, it shies away from anything that insists that it deserves the same kindness that humans do. It's only ever been taught what the company built it to do, so it doesn't know what to do next once it's obtained some semblance of freedom for itself by disabling its mental shock collar and so keeps doing what it's always done, even though it very much would rather not be in such a situation. Even by the most recent book, System Collapse, Murderbot is still wrestling with the idea that it matters beyond how it can assist others. Murderbot finding comfort hiding behind the very thing that will not let you forget the company that enslaves it, is just juicy theming.

Also, the helmet looking so weird works well with how many humans don't know what secunits look like, with some not even thinking they have human-like faces. If you had no context for this image, you might very well assume this is a fully robot character or even a statue.

I have my own gripes and worries and hopes concerning the upcoming show, but I just couldn’t get this fun bit of character design analysis out of my head. Shouldn’t have watched so much TB Skyen.

[cj-the-random-artist]

I let them get friendship married so Narinder can get his tax benefits lol

But legitimately. I mulled this one over repeatedly for literal months. Like. Do I want them to get married in front of the cult? Should they even get married? It would be hilarious if the Goat married them and then cried at the altar the whole time, but also... that doesn't feel right, so maybe I won't do that. And then once I decided it should be a personal friendship-marriage ritual where it's just the pair of them making vows to each other, I wrote four different scripts and hated them all and ended up just pulling this one out of thin air pretty much on the spot and that was that. At one point, I wanted Lambert to basically suggest this idea and then have them get friend-married on the spot, but that didn't feel right (and it was also gonna be unreasonably long) so that's why there's no context going into this one. And the actual friend-marriage ritual is... maybe not the best designed one ever? I wanted it to in some ways be similar to like, the way I imagine a romantic marriage happening in the cult- the parties exchange vows and do rings and stuff...? (If it's not obvious, I haven't been to many weddings...) But I figured they wouldn't want an audience, or to party with the whole cult afterwards, or anything like that. I also had them kiss each other's rings as opposed to like... faces... because one of the fights I had with myself in deciding how I would want this to go was whether it would make sense for them to kiss or not. And I ultimately decided that in this AU at least they just wouldn't want to. They're also wearing the rings on their not ring fingers cuz. Honestly it just felt right that way. Based on vibes. But basically I just wanted them to exchange a vow of eternal partnership in a very casual, chill setting, because I don't picture QPR AU Narilamb doing... anything other than that.

Also this is the rest of Lambert's office, which I actually had a pretty clear vision for after my last doodle but I didn't really bother to draw before starting this comic. Maybe I should've but eh it looks good enough. Interior backgrounds are hard......

Anyways. I think I'm happy with this one? I was enamored by the concept of a chill friendship marriage, so I definitely leaned into it here. As per usual, it's not perfect, I think I could've done a lot of stuff better / differently, but honestly?? If I were to ever get friend-married I would want it to go about like this, it makes my little aroace heart happy, and I spent too long on it to not show it to anybody. Thus. Enjoy, and also happy new year cuz I totally forgot to make a post individually about that...