#i just happen to really love those three!!

[blackcrystalball]

I find this take really interesting, I also feel like a part of my doesn't fully understand what's off-putting about self-centred social media.

I was born in 2004, so when I was growing up, self-centred social media apps were on the rise and then at their peak. I didn't use any of it until I was like 14 because I didn't really care and I had books to read. I only really became earnest in my usage of Instagram during lockdown and I downloaded tiktok from the first time in 2022.

I started making tiktoks in 2023 because I was in university, away from home and finally in an institution that didn't have a uniform. So it was a lot of fashion and hair content. Near the end of last year and all of this year so far, it has been a lot of dancing and edits of celebrities and characters I like.

Overall my social media accounts are centred around myself and the things I like, 2 parts because I want to have a space to store those things that isn't just my phone in case something happens to it, and 1 part I just think I'm really pretty and I like looking at myself.

I find self-centred social media to be really fun because then you can easily find people you have things in common with and make friends, I live in a relatively small town and I was one of three alternative kids in my school. Since posting online I've made a bunch of alt friends in my area and the vibes are immaculate.

Self-centred social media kind of feels like having a communal diary with your mutuals and I love that about it. It's really fun to share the vibes.

But at the same time, I literally went through all my formative years with this type of media at its peak, it was literally every. Every piece of media tried to brute force social media into their stories and in general kind of normalised it to people my age. So my stance is coming from a person that literally knows no other way of life. I think my stance might have been different if I was born in the 90s instead because in general I'm a pretty private person. All my super personal information stays completely under wraps. The only things I put on social media are things I would comfortably talk to a stranger about irl.

Overall, I feel like it might be because of a bit of a generational gap and different influences.

I feel like I kind of meandered off topic a bit, but yeah, the idea of this type of social media being off-putting has never once crossed my mind, and maybe that's a bad thing. Being perceived on such a large scale really isn't a normal experience and it is probably doing some weird stuff to our brains.

social media has evolved into such a voyeuristic spectacle over the last five to ten years its truly shocking to me like excluding tumblr 90% of the explore pages on other apps is just videos of peoples faces set to music or people talking directly to the camera etc etc......by contrast on tumblr there is still a sort of sheen of anonymity based on how its formatted and usually when you interact with a post you read or watch the content first and then learn the users identity second by clicking on their profile ie the dash is not just a wall of people filming themselves unless its a repost......i remember even only a couple of years ago there was a distinction between people who were influencers and got paid to film themselves 24/7 for instagram but now its like every average person on reels/tiktok is performing the same kind of theater for free......i cant imagine what that would do to your psyche long term

[corseque]

I honestly just wanted one single plot step that I could not predict given the 10 year wait. More behind the cut, I talk about Emet too, and I'm comparing his writing favorably to Solas' writing and why it worked better for me personally, but I am just talking about the writing skill that went into the games and not the dudes themselves, I love them both dearly of course. idk this is a mess and I am not going to edit it for clarity

For me, the game was a series of me saying

"ok I knew that. cool."

"oh yeah, I knew that. I guess it's good that the larger fandom knows about that now."

"nice, but yeah I already knew that too"

"that was something we've been talking about a lot for years"

"this thing they are acting like is a huge enormous reveal that the characters could not possibly have deduced through simply thinking about it in depth over the 10 years... the fans easily figured out by thinking about it in depth 10 years ago. So you would think his girlfriend would be able to figure it out more easily than we did. Like, why couldn't the game have been like 'oh lavellan already figured that out a while ago' it would have cost them nothing"

"this is something I've been thinking about for years, and now that it's being revealed, the companions' reactions to it are very irritating and jarring and unnecessary and I really dislike the experience I'm having right now, in this, the hour of my greatest triumph"

"this thing that is happening on my screen right now is something that I wrote an essay about 2 years ago describing how it would be a letdown if it happened without the correct setup"

"this way that they're characterizing Solas makes him less likable and less interesting than I have been finding him for all these years, and I have had people tell me 'no, he's simpler than you think' for years but I guess I was wrong, he really is simpler than I thought, so that fucking sucks. I wish I could take that information out of my brain."

"this thing is a retcon of information I have been thinking about for 10 years, and so I don't know how to follow along with this new direction, and I'm not sure if I even want to because it's not particularly interesting anyway"

"aw that was sweet"

"why is it like, so very impossible to have an honest back-and-forth with my favorite character about the dilemma that was most interesting to me about the previous game"

and then, as soon as, like, the other fans had caught up to the Solas lore that was really obvious from the other games, the game was.... over without anything surprising happening, or introducing a new element or plot point or perspective, or a real true twist (or two, or three) for those of us who have thought about it too hard for too long. It was very simple and easy, much, much, much, much easier than I was imagining. It all felt sort of like that Nicholson quote:

The thing was, the whole story was so interesting to think about because in 10 years, I couldn't figure out a good solution to it!!!!! It's why I was never able to write post-game fanfic about it. So I was stoked to find out some reveal we never knew about, some new information, in maybe a SERIES of steps of new information, that made the situation more complicated but also something that could be navigated by everyone involved. I know it was asking for a lot, but they had TEN YEARS, and they seemingly had set up the things they did in DAI on purpose, so surely they had some idea of a complex and satisfying narrative that would reconcile everyone.

The reason why I was expecting this is because FFXIV did a very similar story arc, which was started AND concluded WITHIN those 10 years (so it took the FFXIV team far less time to deliver as well). And the conclusion to the story in FFXIV did what I was expecting Dragon Age to do. So I thought, "holy shit, if this is the FFXIV version of this plot, how much more complicated is DA4 going to be!?!?" The DA devs also PLAYED FFXIV so they were completely aware, several years ago, of a satisfying story ending that was pretty darn similar.

People are probably going to think "oh, well Chelsea was disappointed because she spent too much time building it up in her head" but that's exactly it - I actually speculated and thought about FFXIV's story IN DEPTH NONSTOP for a year+ before its ending came out, and the ending absolutely blew me away. FFXIV Endwalker managed to introduce information and new story elements that I was not able to figure out in the YEAR I spent speculating on the ending of FFXIV's story. It took a complicated situation and revealed several several more facets to it that I was not able to predict, but were very interesting and thematically compelling, and took us all to surprising and climactic places that we could not have predicted.

Endwalker ("end" is in the title on purpose) too, was written to be THE ULTIMATE SATISFYING ENDING for a very long-running story in the exactly way that Veilguard SHOULD HAVE for Dragon Age, so while this complexity is being explored, FFXIV also gave catharsis to many different plot threads that have been built up through the previous expansions, until finally it ends with a bang. The story is desperately good to me, I loved it, it gave me closure for Dragon Age long before Veilguard was even revealed, and going back and looking at its story has made this whole thing far less painful for me.

So, I actually did not have a picture in my mind for how things SHOULD go. I just had the thought "I hope it's complicated and there are points of view or facts that we haven't before been exposed to, and the situation is resolved respectfully for Solas, not making him look like a fucking idiot (lol, the only thing I asked for). I don't even care what happens to Solas and Lavellan, I just need the story to be complicated and interesting to think about. Please, god, don't let it be "solas is wrong and he just needs to be convinced" because that's like the simplest story you could tell with this setup"

(btw they managed to tell Emet-Selch's story without making him seem like he's being an idiot on purpose or can never get anything right, and in fact the more the story goes on, the more you think of him as smart and capable and cool, so it is possible to write.... I wasn't asking for the entire moon)

And I played it and... yeah. Most of the story beats were more simple than I wanted them to be, a lot of them didn't make sense in my heart given the writing from Inquisition. (This is another essay, but if Solas' thematic story arc was always about him needing to let go of regrets, why was his personal quest the way it was? After that quest, doesn't he end up regretting not doing more....? Why did he never really talk about regret during Inquisition? If he was so trapped by regret, why was he able to do so many actions? It doesn't mesh well to me. The whole regret thing was very quarter-baked to me, I don't even like thinking about it.) His story never seemed like one that was as simple as being about one man's regrets, but then, I guess, it was always just about one man's regrets.

Emet-Selch's personal storyline (and the way it interacts with and affects the larger story) is very similar but much more cohesive and satisfying to me. It would be difficult to explain why without the aforementioned 5-hour essay. Emet-Selch's story IS about grief and anguish on a world-shaping scale in a similar way that Solas' was apparently always about letting go of regret, but Emet's story was also very pointedly and beautifully about that one theme for the entirety of his story from every tiny detail, from beginning to end - meanwhile, it seemed to me that they tried to introduce 'regret' as the main thrust of Solas' story only in the short story with the Regret demon onward.

From Inquisition just by itself, the closest I personally could get to a story theme for Solas was his inability to trust others hurting him and the world, but his trusting others in DA4 wasn't really addressed to my satisfaction. He is never required to trust anyone before the ending, he never opens up or makes himself vulnerable at all. People find out information about him, he never really dynamically opens himself. So the personal story I thought he had was never addressed at all, while a new one about regret was introduced that never made a ton of sense to me. And I don't think this is just because of my expectations - my reaction to FFXIV proves that I am able to meet good writing where it goes in surprising directions, as long as it's interesting and thoughtful and clear.

And I think this might be part of what people felt was off about the ending - Solas is sort of uninvolved in the revelations that are about him, and doesn't do much to be part of his own ending. Part of what I loved about Solas in Inquisition is that he is not controlled by you in any way, and so he feels like his own person with a very strong sense of character.

Anyway, Emet-Selch, in a very comparable and arguably more extreme plot position, is very involved in the revelations about himself, he always feels like a very strong character who cannot be affected by the player, and the whole situation is handled with deft emotion and care and delicacy. The story is comparatively very uninterested in litigating Emet-Selch or putting him on trial - the story allows you to simply feel the way that you feel in an organic way, and Emet's story spends that energy instead actually exploring his thematic material about grief and legacy, and the larger story theme of existentialism instead, in a way that is very refreshing and interesting. I've seen a lot of western stories tie themselves in knots over "redemption" and frankly it's almost never been interesting at all. Who cares about any of that. lol

(Now, I guess this is a matter of preference, because some people really like being able to shape a character's story, but idk I rewatched the ending of FFXIV and even though there wasn't a choice with Emet, because it isn't a branching story, his story felt more satisfying to me, maybe because there isn't a patronizing choice to be made for him. He is who he is, and he fulfills a very beautiful narrative role and purpose that no other character could in the story.)

I don't know how this could have been improved to me and still allowed players to choose Solas' ending for him, but I can actually think of a few different methods, none of which involve Rook condescendingly and patronizingly lecturing Solas as if Solas had never thought about a single aspect of this horrible situation he's in before that very moment that Rook lectures him lmfao.

All this to say... idk I'm writing this and I am not going back to edit it so it's stream-of-consciousness. But yeah

I just wanted the story to be complicated on a few more levels than I could have predicted. I genuinely don't care what happened, but I thought of a few twists like the Veil coming down and yeah, I was expecting A Single Twist or reveal to happen. In a Dragon Age game.

I wanted Solas to seem cool and capable and noble and smart, and actually feel like he was as old and experienced as he is.

I wanted a clear theme I could sink my teeth into

Like notice I didn't even say anything about Solavellan. Like I never in 100 years thought they were getting a happy ending where they were both alive in bodies, and I like that we got that, but I would honestly trade it for a more complicated story. To me, if a story is sad you can always write fanfic, but if a story isn't COMPLICATED, that's a much more urgent issue.

These 3 things DA4 didn't give me in a way that satisfied me but FFXIV did. anyway idk the way my hyperfixations work, I completely switch to a new subject so talking about Dragon Age is actually hard for me right now.

[thebarneschronicles]

Closer To Home IV

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.7k

Synopsis: The storm changed everything. A week spent trapped together, moving around each other like it was second nature. Mornings spent wrapped in his warmth, nights spent unraveling under his hands. And now, the words you’ve been swallowing for months are fighting to break free and you don’t know how much longer you can keep them in.

You love him. And he knows it. But love has never been easy for Bucky. And if you say it—if you let yourself finally speak the truth—will it pull him closer, or will it send him running?

Trigger Warnings: Emotional breakdowns; Angst, banter, and all the feels. Surprisingly no smut this time around... but their chance will come!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Author’s Note: The words are out... now we can focus on their other shenanigans. Loving to see your thoughts about this story and my ask box is always open if you wanna know more. P.S.: There'll probably be more updates this week, but I'm not setting it in stone. B xx

--

“Just kiss me. Keep my mouth shut, will you? Do it until I forget my name.”

The kissing had worked. The slow, lingering press of his lips, the desperate way his hands had explored your skin like he was learning you by touch alone—every moment had distracted you from the pressing truth of your feelings. And when he finally took you, when he split you open at your very core only to put you back together again with every roll of his hips, every whispered praise against your lips, it had done its job.

You hadn’t said it.

Those three little words that kept haunting you, lingering on the tip of your tongue every waking moment since Bucky Barnes had stepped into your life.

I love you.

They could cement everything you had built together or crumble it into dust. And yet, they pressed behind your teeth, growing heavier each day, aching to be voiced, desperate to reach his ears.

You loved him.

God knew when it had happened. Was it when you first read his files, when he was still just a name and a tragic history? Or when he first looked at you—really looked at you—after you were assigned to work alongside him and Sam? Maybe it was the day he effortlessly picked up the stack of reports you had been struggling to carry, flashing you that small hesitant smile he wouldn’t normally share with anyone.

Or was it that first night he offered to walk you home?

No. Who were you kidding? It had happened long before then.

It had crept in through stolen glances over mission briefings, through late-night talks over cups of coffee you always made for him without asking, in the hopes of stealing just a moment of his time. It had settled in the quiet, in the routine of his grumbled, "Morning, doll," when he found you in the communal kitchen, in the way his tired eyes softened when you gave him that worried look as he walked in, battered and bruised from a fight.

And now, it was torture.

Because you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The snowstorm had come and gone, the city slowly crawling back to life after nearly a week buried in ice. You and Bucky had spent those days together, and you had been blindsided by just how easy it had been—how natural it was to cohabitate. As if this was something you did all the time, as if domesticity had always been woven into the fabric of your relationship.

In the midst of unspoken feelings and a push and pull you actively ignored, you learned things. That he liked to watch you cook, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, incapable of hiding he was mesmerized. That he didn’t mind washing the dishes afterward, sleeves rolled up as he worked in comfortable silence, so long as you kept him company. That he’d rub your ankles while you lounged on the couch after hours spent bustling around the house, his strong hands kneading into your skin with practiced ease, relishing in the way your breath hitched when he squeezed just right.

He was the perfect boyfriend.

Except he wasn’t your boyfriend.

Because you couldn’t call him that. Could you?

You groaned, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, your head dropping onto your desk. Hours had passed, and you still couldn’t concentrate on anything. Your mind was consumed by the what-ifs, spiraling around the impossible tangle of your relationship with a 1940s super soldier who carried more trauma than you could count on both hands.

Fantastic. Just great.

The faint scuff of boots outside your door jolted you back to reality. You lifted your head just as Sam Wilson leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an all-too-knowing smirk tugging at his lips. He held a file in one hand, but the amusement in his eyes told you he had other priorities.

"Well, did I just catch you napping on the job?"

You snorted, leaning back in your chair. "I wish. And good morning to you too, Sam. How can I help you?"

"Mission stuff," he said, tossing the file onto your desk. "Figured I’d go over it with you before Barnes shows up to derail our day with his useless questions. Also, wanted to check in—how was your week harboring a former assassin cyborg in your apartment?"

You pressed your lips together as memories of those days surged through your mind—his touch, his warmth, the way his eyes held you like you were something he never wanted to lose, the hunger in them when you straddled him. You hesitated, caught up in the memories, which was enough to set Sam off.

"Did you talk about it yet?" he pressed.

"About what, exactly?" you asked, feigning innocence.

"Oh, I don’t know—your big ol’ feelings? The fact that you two have been dancing around the subject for months? Did you ask him to be your boyfriend yet?"

With the playful lilt in his voice and the mischief dancing in his eyes, it was hard to believe this man was a war veteran—let alone Captain America.

You rolled your eyes, tapping your nails against the desk. "Don’t you have aliens to fight, Cap? Kittens to rescue? Children to kiss?"

"I’m Captain America, not a politician," Sam shot back, dragging out a chair and dropping into it with a pointed look. "So, that’s a no?"

You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temples and urging the flush on your cheeks to go away. "We didn’t really… talk much. Not really."

Sam let out a long whistle, shaking his head. "Damn. Didn’t think Barnes had it in him."

"Sam—" you groaned.

"Oh, come on. You spent a whole week holed up with Terminator, what do you expect me to do? Just sit back and not pry?"

"You are way too invested in my love life for someone who has yet to offer a single useful piece of advice."

Sam grinned, leaning forward. "Alright, spill. What happened during the storm?"

You hesitated, glancing down the hallway to make sure Bucky was nowhere in sight. When the coast was clear, you exhaled, shoulders sagging. "We stayed at mine for most of it, but one night, we went to his place, and… I kind of lost it."

Sam’s smirk faded. "Lost it how?"

You swallowed hard, fingers twisting together. "I broke down, Sam. Full-on sobbing, ugly crying—everything. He wanted to know why, and I just—" Your voice caught, and you forced yourself to push through it. "I told him. That I know about Hydra. The torture. And... I saw the way he lives, like he’s punishing himself. Like he doesn’t think he deserves anything good. It wrecked me."

Sam’s expression tightened, but his voice stayed level. "And how did he handle it?"

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. "I didn’t give him the chance. I was about to say ‘I love you,’ and I panicked. So instead…" You sighed, dropping your gaze. "We slept together. More than once. And now everything’s a mess because I’m—" The words caught in your throat, heavy and terrifying. "Because I’m in love with him. And he knows. But I haven’t said it to him yet."

Sam blinked, then let out a low whistle. "Damn. Maybe I should start brooding—chicks love it."

You shot him a glare, but your heart wasn’t in it. He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. So you’re in love with him. What’s the problem?"

"Everything," you whispered, the weight of it pressing against your ribs. "I love him, Sam. And I haven’t told him because… I don’t even know if I should."

Sam’s teasing faded, his voice softer now. "Why not?"

You swallowed hard, staring out the window as if the answer was somewhere out there. "Because I don’t know if he’ll stay. He’s lost so much already. People, time, parts of himself. What if I tell him, and it’s too much? What if it pushes him away? Or worse—what if he doesn’t feel the same?"

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "You really are in your own head about this."

"That’s helpful," you shot back, voice thick with sarcasm.

He leaned forward, forearms braced against the desk, voice steady and certain, that way he usually got when he was about to drop some wisdom. "Look. This is Bucky we’re talking about. Yeah, he’s been through hell. More than anyone should have to survive. But you know what else? He’s still here. He’s choosing to be here, with you. And if you love him, and he already knows—because trust me, he knows—then saying the words isn’t going to send him running."

Your chest ached, emotions clawing their way up your throat. "How do you know that? Because this… this is eating me alive, Sam. I just want him to stay. I want to love him. And I’m terrified he won’t let me. There have been so many times I almost said it, but I had to choke it back because…" Your voice cracked, a tear slipping free before you could stop it. "Because I know this will either be everything or it’ll be the thing that breaks us. And I don’t know if I can face it if it’s the latter."

Sam’s expression shifted, his voice unwavering yet gentle. "Maybe you should let him decide that."

“And what if he decides it’s not worth it?” The words barely made it past the lump in your throat. You dropped your gaze, unwilling to let Sam see the way your lips trembled, the way your hands clenched into fists against your lap.

“He’s had enough people deciding everything for him to last a lifetime,” Sam said, his tone edged with something firm. “Don’t be another one on that list just because you think you know what he'll do. Maybe, if you actually ask him about his feelings, he’ll surprise you.”

“You sound awfully sure of something you know nothing about,” you muttered, but the usual fire in your retorts was absent. It was just exhaustion now, doubt curling into your bones.

“Who said I know nothing?”

That got your attention. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Sam... What do you know?”

“Nothing,” he replied too quickly, the picture of innocence as he shrugged, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

“Samuel, I will call your sister.”

Sam’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, but you caught it. He clicked his tongue, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, about that—maybe don’t. You know Buck had a thing for her back when we were in Louisiana, right?”

Your jaw fell open. “He what?”

Before Sam could respond, heavy footfalls echoed down the hallway. You barely had a moment to process the revelation before Bucky strode into your office, his expression mildly suspicious, his vibranium arm clutching a pastel pink bag. The contrast of the bag’s soft color against his all-black ensemble was so stark it nearly gave you whiplash.

“There you are,” Sam boomed, standing with a grin as he clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “What’s in the bag, Barnes? Something sweet for your sweetheart?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed look before his eyes landed on you, and his features softened instantly. “Breakfast. For her, not for you,” he clarified, lifting the bag slightly. Then his brows drew together, scanning your face with quiet concern. “Why are you crying? What did he do?”

“I’m not crying,” you rushed to say, though the evidence of your damp cheeks begged to differ. “It’s allergies,” You quickly wiped them with the back of your hands, forcing a smile. “What did you get?”

“I got you a bagel from that place you like,” Bucky said, stepping closer, his voice laced with something almost hesitant. "They didn’t have coffee, so I got you, uh… a strawberry matcha? The girl at the counter said you'd like it." He shifted slightly, as if bracing for your reaction.

You froze for a second, staring at him. The idea of Bucky—gruff, no-nonsense Bucky—standing at a café counter and listening to drink recommendations was almost too much. But then the weight of it settled in your chest: he’d gone out of his way. Remembered your favorite bagel. Chosen something new just because he wanted to bring you something—God, you were in too deep.

“That’s really sweet, Buck.” You pushed yourself up from your chair, unable to stop yourself from leaning in, rising on your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your lips, his stubble rough against your fingers. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“I wanted to,” he murmured, echoing something you had said to him so many times before it almost felt like second nature now. For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, his blue eyes tracing your face like he was trying to decide on something. Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he shifted slightly, tilting his head, and brushed a kiss against your lips.

It was soft—so soft it almost didn’t feel real. But it was enough to send your mind reeling, your breath hitching in your throat as a jolt of electricity raced through you. When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable, and you were too stunned to speak. Your fingers gripped the paper bag, anchoring yourself to something, anything, to help you process what had just happened.

And then Sam’s voice shattered the moment.

“Ah, look at the two of you. My favorite couple,” he said with a dramatic sigh.

Your entire body stiffened. “Sam,” you hissed, heat flooding your cheeks.

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though the smirk tugging at his lips said otherwise. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Right, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t so much as flinch, but his jaw tightened slightly, a tell tale sign of his annoyance that only you seemed to notice.

“Sam, we haven’t even—” You started, grasping at some semblance of control over the rapidly unraveling situation, but Sam cut you off with an exaggerated groan.

"For the love of God, Barnes, put her out of her misery already," Sam groaned, nudging him with an elbow. "Tell her she’s your girlfriend. Tell her she’s got you wrapped around her finger. Do us all a favor."

You wanted to die. Right there. Spontaneously combust and vanish from existence.

“Anyway, that’s my cue to leave,” Sam said, grabbing the file he’d initially dropped on your desk.

“But we haven’t even discussed—” You started, grasping at the one thing that could spare you from the awkwardness sinking into your chest.

“We can discuss it later. Right now, I’ll leave you lovebirds alone to talk.” Sam said with an infuriatingly knowing look before turning toward the door. He paused, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Oh, and by the way… I told her about Sarah.”

Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, exhaling in a long, put-upon sigh. His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, annoyance now evident. “Sam…”

“Consider it payback for flirting with my sister. And what’s a little jealousy? It adds spice to the relationship,” Sam teased, stepping just out of Bucky’s immediate reach.

Bucky turned fully toward him, which only made Sam laugh, hands up in mock surrender. “She threatened to call her, man! I had no choice.”

Bucky turned back to you, groaning softly as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, he lives to torment me,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. “So… Sarah?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

His head shot up, his blue eyes widening, genuine worry flickering across his face. “Nothing happened,” he said quickly. “With Sarah, I mean. There’s—there’s nothing to tell.”

You bit back a grin, warmth curling in your chest at his obvious distress. Reaching out, you took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Relax, Buck. I’m not upset. Honestly, I’m just shocked you had any interest in anyone besides that waitress before I threw myself on you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly as your words landed. “You didn’t force me into anything,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost tender. His thumb brushed slow circles over the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment.

“Good,” you teased, pulling the pink drink bag closer to you with a smirk. “Now let’s try this strawberry matcha you so lovingly procured for me.”

You did it. You got over the awkwardness by skillfully dodging the subject. You nearly sighed in relief—right up until Bucky let out a noise, half scoff, half laugh, before his amusement faded into something else as he stepped closer.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he mumbled, moving behind you with a calculated slowness, his presence looming but never overbearing. His arm slid around your middle, pulling you back against him, and your breath hitched as his chest pressed against your back. “And it won’t work.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice unsteady .

Bucky held you in place, his lips brushing your ear as he leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “Why were you crying?” he murmured, low and insistent, his lips trailing down to press the faintest kiss to the curve of your neck.

Your knees felt like they might give out, your eyes fluttering shut involuntarily. You sent a silent thank-you to the universe for the secluded corner your office was tucked into, sparing you the humiliation of anyone catching you like this—being thoroughly undone by your super soldier.

“Sam told me I suck at my job,” you lied, barely managing to string the words together.

Bucky chuckled, the vibration of it reverberating against your back. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said, finally twisting you around to face him. His arms circled your waist, holding you securely, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to.

“And your interrogation tactics are crap,” you shot back, trying to mask your flustered state with sarcasm. Your hands instinctively slid up to rest on his shoulders, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“We’ll see about that,” he warned, his voice teasing but his gaze unwavering as it flicked over your face.

You took a moment to really look at him, letting your eyes trace over every detail—the softness in his gaze, the faint smirk tugging at his lips, the roughness of his stubbled jaw that you knew would scrape deliciously against your skin. Your heart raced as you took him in, suddenly overwhelmed by how effortlessly gorgeous he was. “God, you’re handsome,” you blurted, your voice quiet but sure. “It’s unfair.”

His smirk deepened, though his expression remained serious. “Compliments will get you nowhere,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I will make you tell me.”

You considered his words, tilting your head as you let your nails trail lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Maybe,” you said, your lips curving into a sly smile. “Maybe we can do it over dinner?”

Bucky’s brows raised slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face before he recovered, the smirk returning in full force. “Are you asking me out, or is this another attempt to dodge the question?”

“Maybe both,” you quipped, tugging him just a little closer, your noses nearly brushing.

His gaze softened, his arms tightening around you. “Dinner, huh?”

“Dinner,” you confirmed, your heart thundering as the word hung between you.

The look in his eyes told you he was already on board, but his voice stayed teasing as he finally replied. “Fine. Your place. I’ll bring the food. But don’t think this means you’re off the hook.”

You laughed, leaning your forehead against his, but your insides twisted with the promise of the conversation that awaited you. 

–

Instead of leaving work together, Bucky had, surprisingly, let you fend for yourself. You walked the few blocks back to your apartment with a jittery sensation that only grew more restless as you thought about how the night would unfold.

There was no avoiding it. Tonight, you'd have to talk about it, define your relationship once and for all, and you had no idea how it would play out. Or if you were prepared for it.

By the time you reached your door, you were wound so tight with nerves you were unable to sit still. You headed straight for the kitchen, hoping to lose yourself in the steady rhythm of baking. Soon, the rich scent of cinnamon and apples filled the small space, wrapping around you like a hug. The pie had barely cooled and you had just gotten finished spritzing your perfume when Bucky’s knock came at the door. You smoothed your hair one last time, and opened it with a breathless smile.

There he was. Casual, but devastating in his dark Henley and leather jacket, black jeans hugging his frame in all the right places. He had a bottle of whiskey tucked under one arm and a stack of takeout bags in the other—Thai food, from the place you’d offhandedly mentioned wanting to try. How did he remember it? You had no idea.

“You look nice,” he said, his voice soft, warm, and entirely too casual for the buzz of energy humming between you. His blue eyes swept over your frame, lingering just a second too long. You had thrown on a simple outfit after your shower—soft jeans and an oversized sweater that slid teasingly off one shoulder—but the way he looked at you made you feel like you were naked and exposed.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your cheeks heating as you lifted onto your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it for just a moment, accepting the way your hands cupped his cheeks to keep him steady, before pulling back with a sigh.

He couldn’t resist giving you another once over, before he got distract. “What’s that smell?” Bucky asked as he stepped inside.

“Apple pie,” you said, closing the door behind him. “I figured I’d take care of dessert since you were handling dinner.”

His brows lifted. “Apple pie? That’s awfully domestic…”

You shrugged, feeling the blood heating up your cheeks. “Thought it might remind you of home—or, you know, simpler times.”

Bucky hummed, setting the food and whiskey down before reaching out and tugging on the hem of your sweater. “Looks good on you.”

“Domesticity or the sweater?” You joked, closing the door behind you and leaning on it as you watched him. It never failed to catch you off guard—how effortlessly he settled into your space. Dropping the bags on the counter, peeling off his gloves and jacket, rolling up his sleeves. He moved like a man who belonged, who knew he was home, as much as he refused to call it home. The sight of it stole your breath.

His lips quirked. “Both.”

Dinner was easy, the two of you falling into a comfortable rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. He teased you about the mountain of spring rolls you’d pulled onto your plate (“Is that all for you, or am I allowed to have one?”), and you ribbed him right back for always stealing bites off your plate instead of sticking to his own. The laughter came easily, and for a while, the tension simmering under the surface felt like a distant echo.

That was, until Bucky leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from playful to intent.

“So,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Ready for the Spanish Inquisition?”

You groaned, your head dropping into your hands. “Oh, come on. Can’t you let me off the hook?”

“Not a chance,” he said, his voice laced with humor but his eyes sharp. “I already let you off. Twice.”

The covert mention of the night you broke down didn’t go unnoticed. Lifting your head, you rested your chin in your hand, meeting his steady blue gaze with a pout. The stare-off felt like a challenge—like you were daring him to back off while he silently willed you to break. The only question was who would give in first. And you had no doubt—it would be you.

You’d do anything Bucky Barnes asked you to. Sighing, you pushed back from the table and stood. “Fine. If you’re going to interrogate me, we’re at least going to make it fun.”

"Fun?" His tone was doubtful, but the slight twitch of his lips gave him away. "In my experience, interrogations usually involve dark rooms and torture."

"Not this one. As tempting as it’d be to watch you try all that Winter Soldier stuff on me—" You cut yourself off before saying too much. This was already giving away enough. "We’re playing Truth or Drink." You nodded toward the whiskey he’d brought. "Grab your liquor, Sergeant, and meet me in the living room."

You plopped down on the soft rug in front of your couch, crossing your legs, an arm leaning over the soft cushions as you settled in. The rug’s texture was a comfort beneath you, grounding you for what you suspected was about to be a very revealing game. Bucky followed, setting the whiskey and two glasses down on the coffee table before sitting across from you, all the way down the other side of the couch.

“You’re so far away,” you complained, leaning forward slightly.

“It’s on purpose,” he said with a smirk. “Can’t let you distract me. I’ve got a mission here.”

His teasing tone made your stomach flip, but you masked it with an exaggerated sigh, rolling your eyes as you reached for the whiskey bottle. “Fine, Barnes. Let’s get this over with.” You poured a generous amount into each glass and handed him one. “You wanna go first, or should I?”

“Ladies first,” he said smoothly.  Ever the gentleman—even when he was expertly deploying psychological and emotional blackmail.

Resigning yourself to your inevitable demise, you pretended to think, tapping a finger against your chin. “Alright. Tell me a story about you and Steve.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a question.”

“Fine. Would you please tell me a story about you and Steve?”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he took a slow sip of whiskey. “What kind of story?”

“I don’t know... Something interesting. Something no one else knows. Something fun.”

For a moment, Bucky’s gaze drifted, lost somewhere in memories you’d never be able to touch. Then, a small, genuine smile pulled at his lips, and your chest ached at the sight of it. “Alright… Before the serum, before the whole ‘Star-Spangled Man with a Plan’ schtick, when he was just a scrawny kid, Steve used to put newspapers in his shoes to make himself look taller.”

You grinned. “That’s adorable.”

“Yeah, well, not so adorable when it rained and he forgot to take them out.” Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “One time, we got caught in a downpour on the way to a dance. Steve walks in, shoes squelching, and suddenly the whole place smells like wet dog and cheap ink.” He chuckled, eyes shining. “God, the way people looked at him. I had to convince the bouncer we weren’t trying to stink up the joint on purpose.”

You laughed, watching the way his shoulders eased, the usual tension in his frame loosening as he let himself revel in a memory that didn’t hurt to hold onto.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you blurted, “Do you think Steve would’ve approved?”

Bucky blinked, confused. “Approved of what?”

“Us,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Me. Being with you.” You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the couch cushion. “I mean, we only met a few times before… y’know. And from everything I’ve heard, he was pretty protective of you.”

For a second, you thought he might deflect, but instead, Bucky’s answer was firm. Certain. “Yeah. Steve would’ve approved.”

Your heart did a little flip.

“He would’ve liked that you take care of me,” Bucky continued, his voice softer now, the burn of his unvoiced gratitude not going unnoticed.

Something inside you melted. “See, this is why you need to sit closer.” You scooted forward, shifting toward him. “I need to kiss you and I can’t.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nice try, doll, but you’re not getting out of your turn that easily.”

You groaned. “Fine. What’s your question?”

“When was the last time you dated someone?” His eyes glinted with something unreadable, but his tone was casual. “Before... this.” He gestured again, this time between the two of you.

You scoffed. “That’s what you wanna know? Out of all the things?”

“Just answer the question, sweetheart.”

You groaned, pulling at the fluffy rug beneath you. “I don’t know, four, five years ago? I lost count. Last real relationship I had was before I got into this whole ‘girl in the chair’ thing. And it didn’t go well.”

Bucky frowned. “Why?”

“Communication issues,” you said vaguely, then sighed. “And the fact that he had a habit of sleeping with anything that breathed within a three-mile radius—except me. Which included both his best friends. And my roommate at the time.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up before he could school his expression back into something more neutral. “What do you mean ‘except you’?”

You shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “Exactly what it sounds like. He thought I wasn’t... good enough. Or at least not good enough for him.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, something dangerous flashing in his eyes, but before he could open his mouth, you cut in, “You’re overextending your turn, Sergeant. I’m the one asking questions now.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, visibly annoyed that he couldn’t dig deeper into that revelation, but he nodded. “Fine. Go ahead.”

You hugged your knees to your chest, eyeing him. “Did you really have a thing with Sarah?”

Bucky groaned, tipping his head back against the couch, exhaling like a man who’d just been handed a life sentence. “I knew you wouldn’t just let this go. I swear to God, I’m gonna kill Sam.”

You grinned, biting back a laugh. “That’s not a no.”

Bucky rolled his head to the side to glare at you, but there was no real heat behind it. It made you want to kiss him. But then again, everything made you want to kiss him. “There was no thing,” he huffed, shifting so he was facing you more fully. “We flirted. That’s it. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” you said, though the way you hugged your knees closer and half-smothered your smile into your arm made him smirk.

“Sure. You’re jealous, though.”

You wrinkled your nose. “So what if I was?”

Bucky hummed, his smirk widening as he leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something infuriatingly smooth. “It’s cute.”

“Ugh. Shut up.” You stretched your leg out, nudging his thigh with your foot to change the subject. “Your turn.”

Before you could pull away, Bucky’s hand wrapped around your ankle, firm but warm. In one effortless motion, he pulled your leg over his lap, drawing you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed absently against your shin as he settled back, casual as ever. But the way his fingers found the muscle of your calf—slow, deliberate, kneading just right—was anything but casual. A shiver ran up your spine. If he noticed, he didn’t say a word.

He stayed quiet long enough for your nerves to start creeping in. Then his grip tightened, just slightly. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. “Did you ever think we’d be a one-time thing?”

Your breath hitched. “Us?”

His fingers traced slow, idle patterns against your calf—deceptively nonchalant. But the way his touch set every nerve in your body on fire? Not even close.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “This… thing we’re doing. Did you think it’d last? Or did you go in thinking it was just for one night?”

You hesitated. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, this hadn’t even been on your radar.

“I…” You exhaled, shifting slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. How warm his hands were against your skin. “I never thought of it as a one-time thing.”

His gaze flickered—sharp, assessing, unreadable. “Why?”

You huffed, trying for annoyed, but it came out breathier than you wanted. “Why what?”

His smile was slow, knowing. “Why’d you think it’d be more?”

Your throat tightened. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Reading me.”

“Why?”

“Because some things need to stay a secret.” You swallowed. “Some things… you don’t need to know. It’s too much.”

His grin widened, dark amusement curling at the edges. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

You curled your fingers into the rug beneath you. “Fine.” The word felt heavier than it should. “Just don’t be mad if you don’t like it.” You pressed on before he could interrupt. “This, you… it was never something I could walk away from.”

His fingers stilled—just for a second—before resuming those slow, maddening circles. “And that’s a bad thing?”

You scoffed, mostly to deflect. “For me? Yeah.”

His thumb pressed deeper into your skin. “Why?”

You sighed, dropping your head back against the couch before meeting his gaze again. "Because I got attached. One kiss, and I was already in too deep. And now? Now, I don’t know how to want you halfway. If you had only ever wanted me for a night, I would’ve taken it. Even if it broke me.” Your voice quieted. “And now we’re here, and it’s been months, and if this goes wrong—” You swallowed hard. “If you suddenly realize you don’t want this, or me, or that it's all too much— I don’t think I’d come out the other side in one piece.”

Bucky didn’t speak right away. Just watched you, unreadable as ever. Then, his thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along the curve of your knee, sending another shiver down your spine. “I know”, he said after a moment. Then, softer—raw, stripped of bravado:

“That’s what scares me.”

His words burned, low and true, cutting deeper than you expected. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else entirely.

It was honesty.

And in that moment, you felt it—the shift. He was cracking open, piece by piece, letting you see the soft, bleeding parts of him that no one else had ever touched.

He let you see him. All of him. Let you peer in for as long as you wanted, as if he had made peace with it. That there was no wall you couldn’t bring down, so he just accepted it.

And maybe that was the real weight of it. Not the sex, not his past, not your willingness, but this—this terrifying, aching certainty that he could ruin you. That you’d let him. That if he asked, you would lay yourself bare at his feet and never ask for anything in return. He knew that if he asked, you would give him everything. Every last piece of yourself, until he was whole and you were the one bleeding.

Silence stretched between you, thick and humming. His eyes stayed locked onto yours, searching, waiting. And you realized—this was the test. Not the chase, not the tension, not even the words you hadn’t yet spoken. The test was whether you could hold his gaze, whether you could sit in the weight of this moment and not look away.

Your breath came shallow, chest tight, but you didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

Not when his fingers curled just a little tighter on your thigh, like he was feeling the way you trembled. Not when his gaze flickered down, tracing the shape of your lips, the quickening pulse at your throat, the way your body betrayed you in ways your words refused to.

His voice was softer this time, but no less intense. “You know… I don’t do halfway either.”

Damn him.

The air between you turned electric. Your pulse hammered against your ribs, a warning and an invitation all at once.

“Bucky…” Your voice barely cleared a whisper, but he heard it. His fingers slid a little higher, grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh.

“What?” His tone was laced with challenge, teasing, but his eyes—his eyes were dark. Intent.

You let out a shaky breath. “Don’t… don’t play with me, okay?”

His smirk faltered, something shifting in his expression. “Is that what you think? That I don’t feel the same way? That this is some kind of game?”

“I don’t know.” You swallowed. “You’re hard to read.”

“I’m easier than you think.”

You shook your head. “I can’t read you right now.”

Bucky hummed, tilting his head slightly as you shifted, letting your arm rest against the couch behind him, seeking another point of contact. Your fingers slipped into the soft strands at the nape of his neck—an experiment, really. His lashes fluttered shut, just for a second, and your stomach flipped. Gravity, that’s what he was. A force pulling you in, impossible to resist. God, you wanted to climb into his lap and devour him whole.

“You can read me,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “You’re just scared you’ll see something you can’t ignore.”

Your heart pounded. “You always say that… Like you’re so sure I’ll wake up one day and decide you're a monster.” Your voice was quieter now. “That I'll finally see you the way you see yourself. It's not going to happen, Bucky.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He finally looked at you, his voice quieter now, but no less sure. “I mean… you’ll finally let yourself believe I feel the same way about you as you do about me.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, and suddenly, you weren’t sure if you could breathe right. His words settled deep, threading into places you weren’t ready to touch—places that made you want too much, feel too much. It was too honest, too real, and if you let yourself linger there, you might drown in it.

So, you did the only thing you could. You swerved.

You sucked in a breath, forcing a smirk. “You really gotta stop saying things like that.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Like what?”

“Like… things that make my heart feel like it’s about to explode.” You made a vague, fluttery motion near your chest. “It’s very inconsiderate. You should warn a girl before you go throwing around words like that.”

Bucky huffed out something that almost sounded like a laugh, but he didn’t take the bait. His gaze stayed steady, unyielding, like he was waiting for you to actually sit with what he’d just said.

Nope. Not happening.

Instead, you let a wicked grin curled at your lips, a lifeline in dangerous waters. “Okay, I have a good one.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, wary but intrigued. “Go on.”

You bit your lip, leaning in like you had a secret too tempting to resist. “That first night we had sex… was that your first time since the ’40s?”

For half a second, he just blinked at you, like he couldn’t believe the words had actually left your mouth. Then, with a groan, he tipped his head back against the couch. “Jesus Christ.”

He laughed, but you caught the way the tops of his ears tinged red, his cheeks following suit. “That bad, huh?”

You gasped, swatting at his chest. “I never said that.”

He smirked, reaching for his drink. “Can you get me another one? I might not recover from this.”

You laughed, fingers curling tighter in his hair before dragging down the back of his neck, feeling the way he shivered under your touch. “If I tell you the truth about it, your ego will get so big we’ll both suffocate in this room.” You tilted his chin up with a knuckle, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss. “Come on, tell me.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, but you saw through him. He was stalling, rolling the words around in his head, figuring out how much to give away. Your heart picked up pace, watching the way his jaw worked, the way his fingers flexed.

Finally, he exhaled. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice quieter. “It was.”

You swallowed, lips parting, but before you could respond, he continued.

“I didn’t even remember how good it felt. Not until—” Bucky sighed, leaning back into your touch as if it steadied him.

“Until?” You urged him on, your nails dragging lightly against his scalp.

“Until I had you naked under me, wrapped around my fingers.” His eyes darkened, and his voice dipped lower, sending a shiver down your spine. “You were so wet and so… warm. When I—”

“I remember,” you cut him off, voice barely above a whisper, pressing your mouth to his shoulder to ground yourself.

And you did. You remembered the way he had frozen, realization crashing over him like a wave, the way his breath had hitched when he finally understood what it would feel like to be inside you. The memory sent a delicious shudder through you, and when you glanced down, you found his hand still on your leg, fingers tracing absentminded circles over your skin.

“So do I,” he admitted, his laugh coming out breathy, almost disbelieving. “Thought about it more times than I’d like to admit.”

You bit your lip, sliding your palm over his stomach, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. “You don’t have to just think. You can do it again,” you murmured. “Anytime. Anything you want, you can do it to me. You know that, right?”

His breath hitched, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, holding you captive. In that moment, you understood—he wasn’t letting you slip away. Every dodge, every joke, every attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, he unraveled it effortlessly, guiding you right back to where he wanted you. "Why do you offer me so much?" His voice was low, edged with something unsteady. "Your body. Your trust. Why do you give yourself to me so freely?" The illusion of a lighthearted game shattered, the bourbon forgotten on the table, its amber warmth abandoned in favor of something far stronger—the charged air between you. It pulsed with the weight of everything you refused to admit, with the inevitability of what came next.

It felt like being caught in a storm’s eye, a vacuum where time stretched and condensed, where the world outside ceased to exist. There was only this moment, this man, and the unrelenting gravity of his presence. You could either surrender and give him the truth he was so keen to obtain, or wait for him to relent, to spare you, to step back and let you escape once more.

But you knew—God, you knew—he wouldn’t. His gaze was unwavering, his body coiled with the kind of patience that promised he could outlast you. He would outlast you. He had outlasted every single person in his life, why would you be any different? He wasn’t just waiting; he was chasing, methodical and unshakable.

And you? You were already lost. Because deep down, past all the resistance, you knew there was only one ending to this. You would give in. You would tell him what he wanted to hear.

Because how could you not?

Your chest tightened under the weight of his stare, each word peeling you open. "I want you to take it. To have me." The confession felt too vast, too exposed, but you forced yourself to continue. "You always hold back. Always deny yourself of everything good. I don’t want that for us. If you—if you don’t want this, it won’t be because I never gave you the choice."

His expression didn’t waver. “Is that the only reason?”

“I—” Your inhale was shaky, your eyes searching his.

“Do you only want this because you think I need something to hold on to?”

“No.” The word ripped from your throat, immediate, your head shaking, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “No, Bucky. That’s not… I don’t want to be some rehabilitation for you. I want to be with you. All of you.” 

Your fingers twisted into his shirt, clinging to the fabric like a lifeline, like letting go would unravel you completely. “You don’t understand… I chose you, even when you never asked to be chosen.” A breathless, humorless laugh escaped you, sharp and fragile all at once. “But I couldn’t help it. With you, it’s like I finally—” You exhaled shakily, searching for the words, for air, for him. “Like it’s finally right. It fits. We fit. It’s like I was always meant for this. Meant for you.”

The confession scraped against your ribs, raw and aching, and you blinked hard, forcing back the sting behind your eyes. “I’ve never felt like this. For anyone. Never trusted anyone enough to—to let myself be claimed, to be theirs” Your voice barely held, a whisper on the edge of breaking. “But with you, it just… happened. You looked at me and it was over. I want you to be the one I belong to.”

Bucky’s lips parted, his breath shallow, but his voice was firm. Certain. “Because you love me.”

The moment he said it, you felt it—the trap snapping shut around you with perfect precision. You had to hand it to him; he was a damn good interrogator. You hadn’t even suspected that this was where he was leading you. Your breath hitched, emotions rising too fast to control, clawing at your throat like something primal, something desperate. His hand was still on your ankle, grounding, waiting. But he let you move, sensing the shift, the way your body coiled like a spring, the way your lips trembled as you fought against the inevitable.

“You’re not being fair,” you choked out, voice cracking as you turned your face away from his unwavering gaze.

“I just want to hear it, doll.”

Your chest ached. You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers curling into the fabric of your own sweater like you could hold yourself together if you just squeezed hard enough. “You know why I can’t.”

“I actually don’t.”

“You’ll leave. It’ll be too much…” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You’ll run. And I don’t want to lose you because of my stupid feelings.”

Silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating. The air felt electric, charged with everything you weren’t saying. When you finally dared to look at him, his expression was unreadable, something soft, something searching. And then, just the slightest tilt of his lips—sad, knowing.

“Doll…” His fingers trailed slowly up your calf, not teasing this time, but tethering. A lifeline. “I’m here.”

“Until when?” The question was a wound, raw and bleeding. The first tear slipped free before you could stop it. The second followed before you even realized it was there. Bucky’s grip faltered, his fingers tightening—then loosening—like the words had landed somewhere deep, somewhere fragile.

Then, he let out a rough, breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Until you’re done with me.” His voice was quiet, resigned. Like he already knew the ending to this story before it ever happened. “Until you don’t love me anymore. Until you realize what a mess I am and find someone better.”

Your breath stuttered, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt. “There’s no one better. No one else.”

You didn’t push him away when he reached for you, cradling the back of your neck with steady, careful hands. His touch was warm, unshakable. The kiss that followed was a collision—of fear, of longing, of too many unspoken things. It was salty with tears, but it tasted sweeter than anything you’d ever known. Bucky cupped your face, thumbs chasing away the stubborn wetness on your cheeks, lips moving slow, deliberate, like he had something to prove to you. And you let him. You let him tilt your head back, let him drag a hand down the length of your throat, let yourself drown in the sensation of him.

He tasted like bourbon and longing and home, and you drank him in like he was the only thing keeping you alive. 

You couldn’t get enough.

Not when he pulled you onto his lap, not when he tangled a hand in your hair and tipped his head back against the couch, letting you take what you wanted—what you both wanted. Not when your kisses turned frantic, desperate, until your lips were bruised and swollen from the way you couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop.

“You ready to tell me now?” His voice was a rasp against your lips, breathless, hungry. His fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck, his free hand dragging under your sweater, fingers mapping the heat of your skin. “I wanna hear it, sweetheart. Do you know how badly—” he pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, “—how badly I’ve wanted to hear it? Since that night at my apartment? You were crying for me, and I—”

He was unraveling. And so were you.

You barely had time to react before he moved, pressing you down against the rug, his hands burning paths down your thighs as he spread them open, pressing himself against you, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he hovered above you.

“Tell me you love me,” he demanded. “You want me to take what I want, don’t you? You want me to claim you? This is it, sweetheart. This is what I want.”

Your breath caught. This version of him—raw, unfiltered, pleading—it stunned you into silence. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, his name barely more than a whimper on your lips as his mouth found your skin again, leaving bruises, leaving proof.

Your hands were trembling, your pulse a thunderous rhythm beneath your skin. Fear curled in your belly, a living thing, coiling tight around your ribs, squeezing your lungs. You had never been so afraid of words before, of the weight they carried, of the way they could change everything in an instant.

“C’mon, sweetheart, say it,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. His hands gripped your waist, grounding himself in the reality of you, as if touch alone wasn’t enough. “I already know, doll. I just—I need to hear it.”

His voice was softer this time, but no less commanding, no less desperate. His eyes searched yours, stormy and endless, as if he were trying to commit you—this moment—to memory, afraid you might slip through his fingers like sand.

His breath hitched, fingers tightening ever so slightly, his forehead pressing against yours. “Give me something real,” he rasped, his voice thick, aching. “Let me hold onto it.”

“James—”

“Say it.” His voice cracked, a raw, broken thing, like he was shattering before your eyes. “Please, doll. I’m begging you.”

Your lungs burned, your heart a frantic drumbeat against your ribs, an erratic melody of terror and longing. Your throat closed around the words, refusing to let them go, but you knew—God, you knew—you couldn’t hold them in any longer. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I love you,” you finally breathed, the confession slipping from your lips like an exhale, fragile and trembling. 

The effect on him was instant, visceral, breathtaking.

A sharp inhale. A flicker of disbelief, of something breaking and rebuilding all at once in his expression. His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, his forehead falling to rest against yours as if the weight of your words had stolen his balance. His breath was uneven, shuddering against your lips, and for a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, just held you there in the space between heartbeats.

His lips parted, but no words came out—not at first. His breath hitched, his fingers curling slightly against your skin like he was afraid to let go. Then, finally, in a voice so raw it nearly shattered you, he whispered, "Say it again."

“I love you.”

[michaelswilliam]

lets talk about how byler will happen in ST5

mike will initiate it.

why? well, because will has given up on any chances that he might be with mike in season 4. i do believe that if byler is going to be endgame, it will be because of mike pursuing will.

will is not going to try to get with mike romantically, not when he thinks mike still loves eleven and vice versa. 12 year old will was really to kill himself to save the town that hated his guts, he is never gonna put himself before others, especially not someone who is now his sister and has saved his life.

if byler is happening, it will be because mike decides to make the first move.

i think the painting discussion will happen in episode 1, i think it will lead to mileven breaking up and both el and mike will connect the dots to will's feelings. next two episodes, mike's attention gonna stay on will as he tries to figure out his feelings for him.

maybe will comes out in between 1-3 episodes, this will affirm his sexuality to mike. i think in between those moments, when holly disappears and both of them are stuck in the circumstances with each other, there will be a heat of the moment, where mike tries to kiss will.

and maybe they get interrupted? or will tries to pull back because he just cannot comprehend that mike is actually returning his feelings, the feelings that will has made peace with himself to keep and do nothing about. oh i think it would be so angsty, i think there will be a lot of pining and yearning up until the last (two) episode. ngl i do think it will be dramatic, either will getting vecna-d or mike, and they confess their feelings to each other then. crazy together, right?

or maybe before the final battle? where both of them don't know if they will survive it? how mike will tell will that he chooses him. how their love isn't some coincidence, or god forbid, fate.

no, their love is the fruit of their will, their choice. mike will fight for this love, he is fighting for it, and both of them will not gonna die, because mike will bring his best friend, the love of his life, to the other end of the war. and they will spend the rest of their lives choosing each other, loving each other. oh and it's gonna be so sweet, and will gonna stand on his tippy toes and kisses mike. or maybe he will grab mike by the shoulders to pull him down, pull him closer and kisses him. and it's gonna be so, so beautiful. mike will hold will by the waist, lift him up until his feet barely touch the ground. it will be soft, but it also be hungry, and... desperate. because they don't want their first kiss to be their last, but if it does, they're gonna savor every moment, every touch. swallowing each other's breath.

and maybe either lucas or dustin will pull a harry potter and scream "OI, IS THIS REALLY THE TIME, WE HAVE A THREE-HEADED MONSTER COMING OUR WAY!!!"

[autumnsplash]

It feels like a crossroads that was provided to every AA player, your options are three paths:

Path 1: Phoenix is an alcoholic. He is a person, he is a character, but he is struggling while being responsible for a young child and that is a part of his character you must grapple with should you take the "grape juice" as a move of censorship.

Path 2: Phoenix WAS an alcoholic, but now drinks grape juice instead of wine as a coping method. This loosely resembles more thinks from Takumis life, a past addiction, and a genuine fondness for an innocent drink. It's a sign of Phoenix HAVING had those problems, but working to fix them. It casts shadow onto his character, but not in visible ways the audience directly has to interact with.

Path 3: It's just grape juice. This interpretation seems plausible! It's a game that has many gags like it, and the thought of it being taken seriously didn't occur to them/wasn't important.

I feel like The Grape Juice (tm) poses a really unique story problem however. Because of the way it is implemented, in the medium it's in, how it's delivered, the implications are UNCLEAR, forcing the player to pick one of the above interpretations. Having an interpretive part of you media is good writing, and perfectly normal. However, I bump into an issue with this because it's asking the Player to put their own personal implications onto a main character that drastically changes parts of who they are in such a way that will never see resolution.

We do not have confirmation as to which of these interpretations is closest to cannon. Just that it's there, and then brushed aside and never clarified. Readings of Phoenix being an alcoholic while being the sole guardian of a small child seems equally as probable as him not being guilty of anything other than a sight gag, and to have a main character having that potential only to never address it again and hoist him uncritically back into "the hero" position that later games have him in feels confusing and off-putting.

I love this game so so much, but it's one of the many parts of AA4 that I feel was really under delivered and unresolved. Just remember that, because all three of these are possible readings, a lot of people will have very different feelings about Phoenix as a character based upon different actions that may or may not have happened, which is annoying for such a huge character, but please always be nice!

I recently played the trilogy and haven't made it to the forth game yet (I don't know if I should because no Maya and I feel bad for him for losing his badge), could you please tell me what happens with Phoenix and alcoholism? (only if you feel like it)

definitely at least give aa4 a chance! its not for everyone but imo its got a ton of merit

gonna try and make this shortish because im not feeling super hot today and also because ive already said a lot of this. but essentially in AA4 there are bottles of what very heavily looks like wine but in both the english and japanese are referred to as bottles of grape juice

In AA4, stuff is pretty rough for phoenix. he's not in a great place, and he works odd hours at a russian bar/restaurant where he plays piano and poker. So he's regularly in a location where frequent exposure to alcohol is par for the course. Later on, in the game's second case, there's this interaction that occurs in the hospital when you investigate this bottle in his room.

Now, whether or not the game has any evidence for phoenix being an alcohol depends entirely on whether or not you interpret grape juice as being euphemistic for actual wine, or just a sight gag. I'm not sure how much the inclusion of alcohol boosts a game's rating.

i will say that none of the ace attorney games were M-rated until dual destinies. So it's entirely possible that they just called it 'grape juice' to avoid any sort of concern over that. however, i do remember reading that shu takumi's favorite drink is grape juice, which is why he wrote that in there, although I can't find the source for that now that i'm looking for it so take it with a grain of salt. I do think it is entirely plausible within the tone of ace attorney's humor that 'grape juice bottles that look exactly like wine and are just juice' is a gag they'd go for.

but the truth is, i kind of don't consider this debate relevant at all? you don't have to take the extreme of either interpretation. it is entirely possible that phoenix is a character with a fondness for grape juice who also struggles with alcohol. Maybe phoenix drinks wine when he's at the club and juice when he's at home.

It's a matter of public information that shu takumi drank pretty heavily while working on these games, including at the office if he worked nights or weekends, and it's also been well established that takumi based phoenix a lot on himself. so i think interpreting phoenix as a character with an addiction problem has a lot of merit. On the other hand, I do understand that that's not how some people view him, and that's totally fine. My big problem comes in when people try to act like it is impossible, ludicrous, or somehow harmful to the character's integrity to portray him as an addict.

I think when people try and 'disprove' the headcanon it's always a pretty shitty thing to do, given shu takumi's history. why can you enjoy something written by someone w/ alcohol issues but you draw the line at any of that making its way into the story, even euphemistically? yknow?

[bellamoooon]

Riff never really thought he would last this long with you, but here you were, he had been with you since the year before Tony had gone upstate, which summed up to two years— which for riff was a lifetime considering his “relationships” never lasted more than a day.

“Come on girly girl, I promise they’ll behave this time…” there he was, puppy eyes and a pout standing in the door of your apartment, trying to convince you to let the jets have dinner at your place.

“Riff, you said that the last time, diesel threw a plate at action—“ you spoke reminding him about the catastrophic dinner that had happened weeks ago.

Because yes, you loved riff, and the rest of the boys, to be fair you had been like a mother to most of them, which was comic, seeing as they were all of your age, or a year younger, but despite that, the care you had given to your boys— as you call them — was more nurturing and motherly than what their actual mother ever provided.

But— often when you made dinner for all of them, it turned into a goddamn mess.

Chewing with open mouths, spilling juice, broken plates, sauce accidentally spilled on your pretty pink table cloth, and stolen spoons— don’t ask, you do not know what they take your spoons for.

“I just don’t want to have to clean up after, you boys are like a stampede of elephants, you tear my apartment to shreds in minutes” riff laughed, of course he did, he pulled you closer wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Come on angel, I’ll make the boys clean up, you just cook up one of those delicious warm meals of yours and we do the rest.”

It was tempting, getting to see the boys— and them endlessly complementing your food, and you weren’t an egomaniac, but man it was nice to hear— and spending time with riff, which was often a complicated task with all the trouble they find themselves in.

“Fine, but this apartment better shine after” he hummed as he left a kiss on your head, good thing he had convinced you, the jets were all getting set up for the dinner riff had promised them, he knew you’d give in eventually.

***

As you turn the stove off, right on cue there’s a knock at the door, you sigh, it’s just dinner, they’ll help clean up, no one’s gonna kill anyone, you try telling yourself, but who were you kidding, whenever more than three jets were in a small space— or big to be fair— an earthquake was bound to happen.

“Heya doll, got the boys, need any help setting up?” Riff said with his usual charming smirk as you opened the door, you made way as him and maybe five or six jets walked in behind all freshened up and smiling as they greeted you.

“Yeah, could ya set the plates and silverware, I’ll be there to serve in a sec” he nodded as he started to hand out plates to the boys as the placed them carefully on the table.

As you close the door a foot is shoved in the way letting out a yelp of pain, “ow!”

immediately you swing the door open to find baby John with his brows knit together in pain.

“Jesus, baby John! Why the hell would you do that?” He shakes his head as you place a hand on his back as you both walk in.

“The guys started to run— and…and I kinda lost ‘em so im just slightly late, sorry ma” you giggled as he spoke, always so well spoken and polite. He was a good kid from a broken home, and you were the kind of mother he always wanted his to be, so to say the least, you were fond of him.

“Alright, go sit down, I bet the boys already set the table for dinner” and they had done that exactly, and were even seated already, looking all pretty and innocent as if they weren’t in fights everyday.

As you had predicted, they all gushed over the food and how “no five star could do it like you did”— says riff, it’s just a simple meal, but he was used to eating whatever he could find cheap enough for himself, or starve, which was almost never, since you’d always have a little something for him.

“Okay, now clean up, I want no complaining or whining, Diesel— you’re on dishes tonight” obviously, he let out a soft “aw man” as he started picking the plates and taking them to the sink, “and the rest of you wiping up the table and the kitchen counter” they all groaned, but complied.

Riff found it incredibly amusing and mesmerizing how, ever since you two were together, they all obeyed to most of your orders and looked after you whenever you were out late.

“Y’know pretty, you’d make a great mom someday” he said as he wrapped his arms around your waist, making you smile as his warmth stuck onto you.

“Already am, dickwad, you made me responsible for all your jets, but I don’t see ya paying child support” you say as you turn your head to look up at him, lets out a loud chuckle as he presses a kiss on your shoulder.

“I’ll pay you once these monkeys are out here girly girl, they don’t need to know how good I fuck you” he whispered in your ear, your face lit up with a bright blush as you stuck your elbow in his ribs.

“Riff! You gotta stop doing that, I mean it.”

“Unless you’d want ‘em to hear your pathetic whining, pretty, remind ‘em you’re mine and no one else’s” he left a quick kiss on your cheek as he pulled away, going towards the boys to walk them out of the apartment, turning to wink at you.

You just know it’ll be best if you sleep in and not leave the house tomorrow.

[veephoenix]

zutto — chapter sixteen | wc: 2.8k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary:  Lia and Noah return to L.A. and Jolly surprises Noah with big news.

Reading time: 10mins.

Tags and trigger warnings:  mostly fluff, mentions of Lia going back to therapy, 2 spankings.

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

The sky was clear when they landed in Los Angeles. Before leaving the airport, they stopped at a Starbucks in the arrivals area for coffee and a quick bite to make up for the cheap food on the plane. Afterward, they took a cab to Lia’s apartment. 

For the time being, they had decided to stay at Noah’s place since he had his studio there and he was meant to start working asap. Lia was already used to living within those walls so it felt like the right thing for now. 

Noah dropped her off at her apartment to unpack and start a load of laundry, agreeing to pick her up later. In the meantime, he would do the same at home. 

When he walked through the door, Jolly greeted him from the kitchen, pausing what he was doing to give him a brotherly hug and a pat on the back. 

Noah had barely set his luggage down when Emery appeared in the hallway, waving at him. She was wearing baggy sweatpants and one of Jolly’s hoodies, looking very much at home. 

“Hi, Noah.”

“Hi, Em.” He gave her a quick hug. 

“Good flight?” she asked, stepping back and noticing the slight dark circles under his eyes. 

“As good as it gets. I think I’m really jet-lagged, though.”

“I’m making coffee,” Jolly announced, busying himself with the machine. “Want some?”

Noah had just had one about thirty minutes ago, but he replied, “Sure. Thanks.”

He removed his backpack and sneakers, sighing as his feet finally found relief. 

“Where’s Lia?” Emery asked, glancing over her shoulder at Noah as she walked into the kitchen to help Jolly. She retrieved three mugs from one of the cabinets. 

“Dropped her at her place,” he explained. They hadn’t been apart for more than fifteen minutes, and yet he was already missing the warmth and peace she brought him just by being around. “I’m picking her up later. She’ll be happy to see you.”

“Em’s been staying here,” Jolly said, stopping the coffee machine and picking up the kettle. 

Noah raised his eyebrows and looked at Emery, who had now made herself comfortable on the couch, waiting for Jolly to bring the coffee. She gave Noah a gentle smile. 

“Nice. How long are you planning to stay?”

“As long as Jolly doesn’t get tired of me,” she replied.  

Jolly pointed at her while passing a coffee mug to Noah across the kitchen isle. “Which is never happening.” 

Emery laughed, her cheeks turning pink. Their comfort with each other was so obvious that Noah felt suddenly stupidly jealous. He was tempted to check the time on his phone. He’d told Lia he’d pick her up whenever she texted him, which he hoped would be soon—just enough time for her to sort her things and take a shower. Had it only been fifteen minutes? Because it felt like she’d been away from his reach much longer.  

Emery’s laughter blended with a sarcastic snort from the hallway. When Noah looked that way, he saw Jesse strolling in.

“I need to fall in love and get out of this house,” Jesse declared, running a hand through his hair. He nodded at Noah. “Welcome back, man.”

“Hey,” Noah said with a nod. 

“Where’s Miss Gremlin?” 

“At her place. She’ll be here later.”

“Great. Well, I’m heading to the gym, so I’ll catch up with you guys later. Oh, and if you are doing laundry, grab my stuff from the basket, yeah?” 

Noah raised his eyebrows, following him with his gaze. Jesse bent down to grab his sneakers from the shoe rack. “I just got back, and you’re already assigning me chores?”

“Consider it a welcome-home gift,” Jesse grinned over his shoulder, tying his laces. “Hope you enjoyed your holiday.”

“I should’ve made it longer,” Noah replied, but there was no malice in his eyes. He picked up his luggage again as Jesse waved goodbye and left. Noah muttered “unbelievable” as he started towards his bedroom. 

“I promise I’m not giving you guys any extra work,” Emery added from the living room, raising a hand. “I do my own laundry.”

“Beware of Jesse,” Jolly warned, dropping onto the couch beside her with the two mugs of coffee. “He’ll rope you in if you’re not careful.”

An hour and a half later—showered, dressed in clean clothes, with the washing machine running and his room semi-organized—Noah returned to the living room. 

He inadvertently interrupted a tender moment in the kitchen, where Emery and Jolly were exchanging whispers between kisses and affectionate touches. Neither of them seemed fazed when Noah walked in; Emery simply gave Jolly a long kiss on the lips, rose on tiptoes, then turned and disappeared into his bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Noah raised his eyebrows at Jolly as he crossed to the fridge, intent on finding something to eat.

“Dude, I’m so in love,” Jolly blurted out, leaning on the kitchen counter, his eyes frozen on the dark hallway where his girlfriend had just vanished.  

Noah snorted. “I can see that,” he said, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a yogurt.  

“I’m going to marry her.” 

Noah froze, the yogurt halfway out of the fridge. 

He turned slowly. “What?”

Jolly turned to look at him and shrugged. “I’m ready to marry her.”

Noah blinked once. Twice. “But,” he furrowed his brow, closing the fridge and setting the yogurt on the counter. “Wait. Are you serious? You’ve been together for what, a few months? Half a year?”

Jolly crossed his arms, still leaning on the counter. “We’ve known each other for six years. It’s not about the time we’ve been officially dating.”

“Yeah, I get that, but—” Noah blinked again, momentarily lost. He grabbed a spoon from a drawer to buy himself a moment. “I mean… Okay. I do get it, but…” His head was spinning. “I just got back from the other side of the ocean. I expected dirty socks everywhere and an empty fridge—not a bombshell about you wanting to get married. You never said much about it. Doesn’t it feel sudden?”

“Not to me. Not anymore,” Jolly’s voice softened. “She’s the one, Noah.”

“Yeah, Lia’s the one for me, too, and yet—”

“And yet, what are you waiting for?”

“What?”

Jolly shook his head but steered the conversation back to himself. “These past few weeks have been perfect. We work so well together, man. She doesn’t mind my bad habits—I don’t mind hers. We can argue and talk things through. She makes me laugh like nobody else. And waking up and seeing her there beside me is something I can’t even explain. And the sex… Fuck, the sex is good, man.”

Noah looked at him closely, spoon hovering over the open yogurt. “So, you’re totally serious. You’re really thinking about this.”

Jolly spread the back of his hands on the marble, standing to his full height. “Why would I joke about it? I’m telling you because you’re my best friend, and I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I need your thoughts.”

Noah tilted his head slightly, taking a bite of his yogurt as he considered it. “Okay, so… have you talked to her about it? Like, does she even want to get married?” 

“We’ve talked. She does. She even wants kids someday. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Noah shook his head, smiling despite himself. Could he picture Jolly as a husband? A father? No, but only because they’d been so caught up in the band, in working full time, that none of them had stopped for a second to consider wanting something more. Marriage. A family. It made sense, and honestly, Noah was sure Jolly would be great at both.

“Okay,” Noah said, his smile widening. He was suddenly infected by the same thrill coursing through Jolly. “Then it’s a yes from me. Go for it. When are you planning to propose?”

Jolly’s smile turned sheepish. “I don’t know. Haven’t gotten that far yet. We need to find a place first, a nice condo or a house. But I was thinking we could go check out rings next week, to get an idea about prices and stuff, and while we’re at it, maybe you could take a look too.”

Noah raised a slow, suspicious eyebrow at him. 

Where is he going with this?

“Why would I want to take a look at engagement rings?” 

“For whenever you grow a pair and pop the question to Lia.”

Noah stared at him.     

Jolly pointed a finger at him and gave him a sideways look. “Don’t even dare tell me you’re not going to marry her because man, you’ve been breathing her as if she was your oxygen since you were kids. It’s just because you two were stubborn as fuck to admit you loved each other that you’re not married by now.”

“I—” Noah was exhausted, jet-lagged, hungry, and still reeling from Jolly’s sudden news about wanting to get married. And now, thanks to him, he was imagining Lia in a white dress and a flower crown on her head. 

What the fuck. 

“We haven’t talked about this, Lia and I.”

“Maybe it’s time you do. This is the perfect excuse.”

Noah stared at him for a long moment, torn between exasperation and amusement. As thoughts filled his mind, he realized he didn’t even know if Lia wanted to get married. “I came back expecting dirty clothes everywhere and no food in the fridge,” he muttered, “not life advice and a push toward marriage.”

Jolly laughed. “Well, now you’ve got both. Welcome home, man.”

When evening came, Lia and Emery curled up in the corner of the couch after dinner, talking animatedly, each holding a cup of tea, while the boys finished cleaning up the kitchen. 

Somehow, Lia had mustered the energy to prepare one of the dishes Hana had taught her in Japan, and despite his exhaustion, Noah had offered to do the washing up afterward. Before picking her up, Lia had walked to the nearest supermarket to grab the missing ingredients. The moment she arrived at the boys’ house, she started cooking as if she hadn’t just spent the past twenty-four hours crossing the Pacific Ocean and trying to sleep in a cramped, uncomfortable airplane seat. Where she got the energy from, Noah couldn’t tell. 

After the kitchen was cleaned up, the five of them settled on the couch and put on a new Adrien Brody movie. Jesse made popcorn and ended up eating most of it himself, ignoring Jolly and Noah’s comments about all his efforts at the gym going to waste. 

Half an hour into the movie, Noah had already yawned three times. He was stretched out in the corner of the couch, legs extended on the sectional, with Lia nestled against him, his arm draped over her shoulders. Every now and then, she’d ask Jesse to pass the bowl of popcorn.

“I’m dozing off,” Noah murmured to Lia, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shall we go to bed?”

Lia pouted, her eyes wide open. No trace of sleep in her expression, unlike Noah’s.  

“How are you not sleepy?” He asked, frowning as he sat up a bit on the sofa, removing his arm from her shoulders. 

“Hmm…” Lia bit her lip and looked up at him, still nestled at his side with her legs curled under her body. “I may or may not have taken a nap at my place.”

Noah’s eyes widened despite the look of sweet innocence in her face. 

“Without me?” he exclaimed. 

“Dude, shut up,” Jolly told him off without looking away from the screen, where Adrien Brody’s character stood in the pouring rain, his face shadowed under his hat.  

Lia parted her lips to say something in her defense, but she didn’t get the chance. Noah stood up, and towering over her, he scooped her up in his arms, lifting her bridal-style off the couch. 

“Hey!” she protested. “Where are you taking me?”

“Bedroom. To sleep. Good night, guys.”

“Help?” Lia called over Noah’s shoulder, but despite her theatrics, she was smiling, nearly laughing, and she had to admit it felt nice to be carried to the bedroom.

“Sweet dreams, lovebirds!” Jesse said. Next to him, Jolly and Emery laughed, waved their hands and said goodnight.

Once in the bedroom, Noah kicked the door shut behind him. Then, without warning, he threw Lia onto the bed. She landed with a soft thud, her hair fanning out over the gray comforter. 

“That was so romantic,” she deadpanned, stretching before rolling onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. She watched Noah with a raised eyebrow as he pulled off his hoodie and tossed it onto the armchair where Lia liked to curl up and read. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, still giving her that mock-offended look she knew was just an act. “Almost as romantic as my girlfriend taking a nap without me.” 

He walked over to close the curtains, then switched on the lamp on his side of the bed. 

“And dramatic,” she added.  

He stopped and gave her a long look. Two seconds later, his open palm landed on her butt with a sharp slap.

Lia gasped, eyes going wide. 

“Did you just spank me?” 

“Should I do it again for clarification?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He grinned, and another smack followed, firm but playful. Even through her cotton leggings, a tingling sensation spread through her. She pressed her legs together, unable to look away from him, her cheeks warming. 

He studied her reaction, enjoying this as much as she seemed to. He arched a brow at the realization. “You likethat, don’t you?”

Lia tilted her head to one side, lifting her feet off the bed and lazily crossing her ankles. “Maybe.”

He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head as he reached for one of her wrists, pulling her up. “Come on. Let’s brush our teeth. Then we’re sleeping, because I’m actually dead.”

“Hum,” Lia pouted, but got off the bed and followed him barefoot to the ensuite bathroom. 

The moment they got under the covers, sleep was the last thing on their minds. 

For the next half hour, they talked—about the next day, about Lia’s return to therapy, about how she planned to attend a yoga class beforehand. She had work to catch up on, so she’d spend most of the day at home, while Noah would head to the studio with the guys. 

As they lay tangled up, Lia’s bare foot lazily brushing against his calf, she mentioned she was thinking about taking on more illustration jobs while the band focused on creating new music. It seemed like a good way to stay busy. She could focus on designs for new Bad Omens merch later. 

“That’s a good idea,” Noah murmured, voice thick with exhaustion but still engaged. “You could also think about exhibiting your work.”

“In a gallery?”

“Yeah. Your art is sick. I’ll never get tired of saying it. You should put it out there more. Not just through the band’s merch. I told you before.”

The idea of her illustrations being displayed for people to admire—or worse, to judge—didn’t really sit right with her. 

“I like being behind the work,” she said. “Just making things and putting them out there without having to… explain them. I don’t want to do artist talk or anything.”

Noah turned his head on the pillow to look at her. “Then don’t. You wouldn’t have to. Just exhibit the work and let it speak for itself. People will see what they want to see.”

“Yeah, and what if they see something that isn’t there? I’d want them to see what I see.”

“Art isn’t always about making people see your vision,” Noah said, thoughtful. “It’s about them feeling something. Doesn’t matter what. They don’t have to understand it. And you don’t have to explain it.”

Lia exhaled softly, letting the thought settle in the quiet between them. Maybe.

She rested her head against his shoulder after a while, pensive. Silence stretched between them as she mulled it over. “I don’t know. Maybe someday. I just like things the way they are right now. Making art without the pressure. Just… creating for myself first, you know?”

She paused, waiting for his response.

When she didn’t get one, she lifted her head slightly and looked up.

Noah’s breathing had deepened, his lips slightly parted, the steady rhythm of light snores filling the room.

“Of course you’re asleep,” she muttered. She lifted her head a little, watching him in the dark— the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes fanned against his cheek, the soft exhale of his breath.

Leaning in, she brushed her lips against his in a whisper of a kiss. “I love you,” she murmured before tucking herself back against him, letting sleep finally take her too.

— prev. chapter | chapter seventeen

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[911lsbts]

TheWrap: What would this potential Tarlos series have been about?

Rashad Raisani: I had been desperately trying to get some steam going for a Tarlos thing with the Texas Rangers, and it just couldn’t quite get the corporate liftoff. In my mind, if Carlos got stationed in a new city in Texas as a Texas Ranger, and TK and Jonah went to El Paso, or went to some other city, and just tell a new story that way.

Why didn’t it happen?

It was because of the same issues that plagued “Lone Star,” meaning that we had a different network partner than a studio partner. And even though we’d all started under the same roof, by the end of the series, we were a child of divorce, and that was just a recurrent obstacle.

If you put it to a public vote, I’m pretty sure a Tarlos spin off would do really well.

Never say never. I pushed and pushed, and I’m not done pushing. I still believe in it very much.

And the actors would be down for that, potentially?

While they’re available. These guys are pretty successful, so I’m sure there’s a lot of people running to get them on their shows and movies. I think creatively, they were passionate about it. But the longer it goes, the harder it would be to to get them while they’re still available . I absolutely would love to be writing this. I love those actors. They’re like my little brothers. I would love to keep it going.

With Owen going to New York, was there ever a plan for New York to be the setting for the new spin-off?

When I was pitching it to Rob, I just said, “Look the beautiful thing about that is, one, it’s completely true to who he is. Two, it’s the biggest job there is in firefighting in America. And three, if there’s ever a spinoff in New York, they have to go through you, my friend.” He’s like, “Let’s do it.” He was loving the idea of New York. Certainly, if something goes through New York, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have Captain Strand up there

Could we see “Lone Star” characters on any of the other “9-1-1” series after this?

Part of the reason why I wanted them all to be standing at the end of the series was if, God willing, there’s some way to get one of them to LA for the 118 or the new city, we could still have Captain Judd, or we could have Mateo or Nancy could visit or whoever. I really would love that. I just don’t feel done talking. having these people talk, I love hearing all of their voices.

[sweetiemiller]

MARRIED AT FIRST SIGHT. kind of.

Joel Miller!AU x Reader.

hi again! so im doing it! ive read over it a million times and if there’s any mistakes please do forgive me. but here’s the full chapter of the start of my spiteful fic lmao.

kidding. im actually really excited to try something different and being embraced by a lot of you has been so great. so thank you everyone who sent a nice word or even just liked the post!

this will probably NSFW at some point. im still deciding when and how it’ll happen in the story but it’s going to be a lot of fun. the POV’s will jump around from chapter to chapter.

thanks to @highinmiamiii sending me the fic i was looking for! thank you! like i said before this fic is heavily inspired by https://www.tumblr.com/tokkiwrites/771944052123959296/game-show-hostjoel-miller-x-contestant-f

and the enjoyment of au!writing. it’s so freeing and let’s us explore characters in different ways. everyone please go read this story, it’s so good and they deserve every single bit of support.

ill stop yappin now and just post it!!

warnings— swearing. referring to killing Tommy Miller (will happen a lot), little bit of fluff for now. future warnings to come!

enjoy—

Chapter 1.

Joel’s POV—

Tommy Miller is a dead man. Joel thinks as he promises to whoever and whatever is above and below that he will personally kill him with his bare hands.

Those same bare hands that are clasped together so tight behind his back as he stands at the top of the aisle. His eyes were boring into Tommy’s who is currently standing up from his seat in the front row with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Yeah. He’s going to kill him.

The lights and the cameras are starting to make the skin on his neck prickle. The people behind the camera’s making him feel tense as his eyes flicker around the room.

He can feel jaw ticking and clenching as his eyes keep looking around the room and catching a few of the eyes of seeing the unknown bride to be’s family are staring at him too. Looking… well, friendly enough. For now anyway.

He can see their eyes scanning him.

Up and down, up and down.

From his slightly greying hair that is just sprinkling through his thick coarse hair. Right down to the black patent dress shoes on his feet that a woman named Jane from production had brought him along with this black three piece suit.

He thinks he looks good. But—

He doesn’t really care and if he was asked to give an honest answer right at this second he’d say exactly that. However, for the first time in a long time he willing to admit that he doesn’t look that rough around the edges.

Which is good, because in about 30 seconds his new wife is about to walk down the aisle.

Not legally of course. But for the sake of the show, he’s contracted to act like it is.

26 seconds.

Why Tommy thought that signing him onto goddamn Married At First Sight he’ll never understand. But the promise of a new Harley-Davidson Sportster Iron 883 and 60% of whatever income from the promotion the construction company will get from being on the show is more than enough to go along with it.

For now anyway.

14 seconds.

He just hopes whoever you are, you’re not one of those absolutely insane people who go on reality television just to cause drama. Because he will walk, cameras and contracts be damned.

He’ll buy his own Harley.

If he’s lucky he’ll get matched with someone who wants to promote their business as well and maybe they can come to some sort of agreement about this whole thing.

9 seconds.

Because who actually goes on a television show to look for love? Who genuinely believes that anyone could even fall in love under these conditions. Cameras. TV therapists. A group full of people who are desperate for their 10 minutes of fame.

It’s just not realistic.

5 seconds.

Joel snaps out his thoughts as he spots Tommy giving him a look. A look that Joel knows means, ‘Dude’, his eyes flicker back and forward before Joel realises what he’s saying. You’re coming down the aisle—

1 second.

Joel hears the doors cracking open and the music starting as soon as his eyes meet the huge white double doors at the end of the room. His hands clenching again as he keeps his focus on the door that’s opening and revealing who he is going to be stuck with for as long as he can handle in this absolutely ridiculous situation his brother has landed him in.

He see’s you walking through the doors. And he genuinely feels his breath get caught in his throat as he see’s your face for the first time.

Your eyes almost immediately meet his as you walk into the wedding hall with who he presumes is your mother. An older woman who’s eyes don’t even attempt to look at him, focused on you.

You look nervous. Terrified even.

Which, to his annoyance, makes him feel something in his chest as he watches you slowly making your way down to him.

He has to admit to himself. You’re genuinely beautiful.

And with that thought, all of a sudden he feels himself starting to panic. He realises wasn’t really expecting to find you attractive. He was fully preparing himself to be putting on his best face and foot forward during this process. His mind focused on that moment he has his first ride of his new Harley-Davidson the entire time.

But now, he’s going to have to focus on that damn bike to stop himself from doing anything goddamn stupid.

The closer you get to the bottom of the aisle, the harder he’s having to hold back a glare that is itching to aim straight for Tommy. But he doesn’t. Because he knows his pain in the ass little brother is going to have an even bigger shit-eating grin on his face now that he’s seen you.

It’s not until you’re kissing your assumed mother on the cheek and whispering something to her that he finally see’s you up close for the first time. His eyes feeling like they’re bouncing around his head as he takes you in.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph— he’s fucked.

The hair. The eyes. The nose. The goddamn lips. The white dress.

It’s not at all what he was picturing. He was fully imagining you and expecting you to go all out and look like princess cake topper. The show is paying for everything after all.

But no, you’re dressed in a long flowing silk dress. With little cap sleeves and the front of your dress making your tits look round and soft—

He has to stop.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything. But you’re already beating him to it with the sweetest voice he’s ever heard.

“I like your suit,” you say, the words falling from your lips like they were dragged out of you. Which admittedly— is very cute.

He lets a short puff of air escape his nose as he doesn’t quite laugh but, almost an amused look crosses his face as he looks down at you.

“I like your dress,” he says back, quietly but loud enough for you to hear. Or that least he hopes you do. Because he does like your dress, he likes it a lot actually, which surprises him.

He’s not a man to even care about dresses. Or anything stupid like that. A woman is a woman, he doesn’t care what they’re dressed in. But this dress on you? He’s struggling. Badly.

He watches you blush a little as you look down at your dress, running a hand over the front of it. The silk moving under your finger tips, almost hypnotising him for a moment before your soft laugh breaks him out his trance.

“Thanks. They gave my mom free reign in the dress shop,” you say with a soft, nearly genuine smile as you jut your thumb over your shoulder towards the woman who was walking you down the aisle now sitting in the front row behind you.

Ah, so he was right.

Joel smiles a little as he nods his head at your mom, being respectful for as long as he can handle this experiment.

Oh God he’s going to have to actually interact with your family.

He looks back at you, watching as your other hand is clutching your bouquet of sunflowers so tightly he’s actually a bit worried the stems might snap in half right here.

“She has good taste,” he says as his eyes travel back up to your face. He feels something twist in his chest again as he sees how nervous you look, and before he can open his mouth to give you just a little reassurance.

Knowing that the cameras and lights are probably making you just as nervous as him, someone clears their throat. Making you jump a little as his head turns almost too quickly to the sound tensing up a little until he see’s it’s just the very real officiant for this very real wedding.

God, what is he doing?

He hears her asking the both of you if you’re ready to begin and he just nods. He looks down at you and taking the chance to grab your free hand just right there. Temping him already.

He smiles a little bit as he sees the warmth spread on your cheeks and your almost wide-eyed facial expressions looking up at him.

Beautiful. He can’t help but let the thought sit at the front of his brain for a moment.

“You ready?,” he whispers to you, his own eyes going a little wide too from how fast his heart rate is going as he tightens his grip slightly as he watches you nod and breath out a soft, yeah.

He nods back as he turns back to the wedding officiant, taking a deep breath as he tries to focus on what the woman is starting to say, her very real speech.

Oh sweet Jesus, he needs to read the vows that Tommy wrote him.

This is going to be a nightmare.

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Praises

Five times Emmrich praised Agi, and one time she praised him. One section is NSFW but the rest is SFW.

“Clever girl.” Emmrich murmured as Agnes solved a statue puzzle that unlocked the gate to a massive chest in Rivain.

DID HE?!?!

She glanced over her shoulder to see the necromancer giving her a charming smile. Cheeks burning, she giggled nervously. “Who me?”

Agi.

Really?????

You said that?!?!?!

He chuckled. “Yes, you! Our own dear Rook is an expert in solving puzzles. Clever, clever girl.”

Agnes opened her mouth to speak (no idea what to say to that), but thankfully Taash interrupted.

“Three statues here. Three up there. Match. Easy.” They grunted, sorting through the loot. “Rook is smart, but a kid could’ve solved that.”

OH COME ON, TAASH!

Can the very handsome man go back to praising me please?

Eyes darting from Taash to Emmrich and back again, the mage exhaled sharply, hands on her wide hips. “Taash, I agree with most of what you said. However, a kid could solve that? I don’t think so, mate.”

Then she felt Emmrich’s gloved hand on her waist, and she thought her heart was going to beat out of her chest.

“Taash, while I greatly respect and admire your expertise in treasure hunting, I do believe that in this case praise is indeed warranted. The gold speaks for itself, hm?” He just squeezed my waist. He just did that. I’m going to die now. Goodbye world. Figure it out yourselves. “Good job, Rook.” He leaned against her ear, and Agnes could swear he was smirking when he whispered, “Clever, clever girl.”

This can’t be happening, right?

This…is this…

He’s flirting with me.

RIGHT?!

Nodding, she took the bag of gold Taash shoved at her. “Thank you so much, Emmrich. Now, let’s continue…”

***

“Ah!”

Agnes turned towards the source of the cry she heard as undead pirates attacked.

Emmrich.

He was on his back, a hand on his rapidly rising and falling chest.

Get to him.

Now.

In two fade dashes, she was at his side and tossed him a potion between spells.

Do it for him.

Kill these fuckers for Emmrich.

Will he be impressed?

Will he say…

With a snarl, she disintegrated the last undead pirate. And a flourish with my staff…don’t drop it, Agi…nailed it! “You okay, Emmrich?” she asked, expression softening as her attention returned to him. Offering a hand, Agnes helped him to his feet.

“Ugh, I’m fine. I’m fine. It only knocked the wind out of me.” He answered with an eyeroll and an annoyed wave of his gloved hand. He gently rebuffed her when she began to fuss only a little over him. “Truly, my dear---I’m fine. There’s no need to worry.”

She shook her head. “Of course I worry, Emmrich. I care about you.” OH NO. “You’re my friend.” Whew. Nice save.

Something she could not quite make out flashed in his eyes, and then he smiled politely. “As you are mine, Rook.” He began to straighten his waistcoat when he murmured, “And thank you ever so much for taking care of those undead. Good girl.”

A mangled “you’re welcome” came out of her as a squeak, face blushing bright red.

EVERY. DAMN. TIME.

***

“You did so well today, dearest.” Emmrich said as he guided Agnes towards the bed in his room. While she, Lucanis, and Emmrich defeated the Formless One (funnily enough, in the form of a dragon), she had taken several critical hits.

And the dragon may have crashed into me a few times.

Bandages covered her hands and midsection. Her right ankle was severely sprained. Cuts and bruises galore.

He took care of me. Still is taking care of me.

Because goddamn, I am sore as fuck.

She laughed softly then grimaced. Ah yes, the bruised ribs are saying hello. “I don’t know, love. I think you and Lucanis carried my ass through that fight.” Sitting up against several pillows, she watched as Emmrich elevated her wrapped ankle, enchanting it with a spell to help keep the swelling down. Then Manfred entered the room carrying a tray with a pitcher of what she assumed to be water and COOKIES!!!

He turned to Manfred and smiled. “Perfect, Manfred! Put the tray there. Thank you.” The necromancer waited for him to leave before directing his attention back to Agnes. “Is there anything else you require, my love? If you want something more substantial, I can make—”

Reaching for his bejeweled hand, she shook her head, sighing. “I love you so much but shut up and get in bed with me.”

“Oh, dearest! Of course! Of course!” He removed his boots and sat next to her. Taking one of her hands in his, he brought it to his lips. “Rest, darling.”

Leaning her head against his, she smiled softly. “Thank you.”

Emmrich nuzzled her cheek with his frankly underrated gorgeous nose. “Whatever for?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Ouch, my ribs. “For taking care of me. You don’t have to, Emm.”

Chuckling, his lips found hers a sweet but firm kiss. “I want to, dearest. You’re the center of my universe. My precious bouquet. My sweetheart. How could I not care for you, spoil you, tend to you, especially when you’re injured?” He gave her one more kiss and then with the wave of a hand, the plate of cookies levitated, landing on her lap. She picked up a cookie (chocolate chip my favorite) and held it to her lips, watching him watch her. “What are you waiting for, my love? Do you need—”

“What I need,” she grinned. “Is for you to kiss me.” Agnes then placed one part of the cookie in her mouth, held between her teeth, waggling her eyebrows.

“As you desire, my darling.”

I bite.

He bites.

Smooch!

***

“You really are such a good girl,” Emmrich murmured into Agnes’s ear, one hand lazily squeezing a large breast. After taking our sweet time bathing, she found herself between his long legs, her back to his front.

She laughed softly and turned her head to see him better because he’s handsome and beautiful and all mine. “Because I let you fondle me in the bath?”

In the bath.

Outside the bath.

I love it when he touches me…makes me feel wanted and loved…

He pressed a kiss on her nose. “That, and you respond so beautifully. I simply cannot get enough of you.”

“I can tell.” She smirked, his hardness twitching against her ass. “Even out and about, you’re always so, so close,” her generous backside ground against him, the movements of his hands stuttering. “And I love it, Emmrich.” She shifted, removing his hands from her, and turned to cup his handsome, beautiful face. “I can’t get enough of you either.” As she kissed him, she tugged his bottom lip. “I want to keep you nice and warm, my love. Is that alright?”

His eyes widened as Agnes gripped the base of his leaking cock. “O-oh, darling. I can never refuse you…”

Sliding onto his member, they moaned in unison with her throwing her head back in ecstasy. “You feel so fucking good. You always do.” She carded one hand through his wet, graying hair and brushed his cheek with the other. “You always make me feel good. I hope it’s the same for you, Emm.”

I never thought anyone would love me, let alone you.

But you do, and I’m forever grateful.

Emmrich’s mouth found her neck, peppering kisses on her pale skin. “My dear, you are exquisite. A wonderfully passionate and generous lover who never fails to astound me with each coupling.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t’ cry. “To speak plainly,” He ran his hands up and down her back, gently massaging and rubbing her softness. “I’ve never been as blissfully happy as I am with you.” His lips captured hers in a sloppy, slow kiss, whispering, “My best girl, beautiful girl, give unto me your warmth, shelter me from the storm, and in return, my heart and soul, I shall give you—oh!”

Emm, I love you so much…

Agnes took his face in her hands and hungrily kissed him.

BUT SHUT UP AND KISS ME!

Please.

Your best girl demands it.

***

“Well struck, dearest!”

EMMRICH!

Agnes’s cheeks burned as her meteor landed with Neve’s ice shards and a very sexy spell from my handsome man, and he praised her.

As he does.

A lot.

And he knows what it does to me!!!!

The larger darkspawn collapsed, died, and disappeared, leaving behind some gold and a trinket of some sort. She walked to the loot and bent over.

He’s standing next to me.

I’d know those boots anywhere.

I’d know that hand on my ass anywhere?!?!?!

She bit back a giggle. “May I help you, Professor?”

And now he’s pinching my ass.

“Oh, do forgive me, dear.” He is not sorry. “It’s only that you looked so lovely just now, and I cannot resist expressing my appreciation for your considerable skills and talent.” The necromancer purred, the hand on her behind moving to her soft waist as she straightened. “You truly are a wonder to behold, darling.”

A teasing smile tugged on her lips. “I could say the same about you, love.”

Giving her waist a gentle squeeze, he kissed her sweetly before whispering, “That would please me great—”

“Ahem.”

The couple turned to see Neve standing several feet away, arms crossed over her chest, smirking. “Don’t make me separate you two.”

Agnes squeaked, “Sorry Neve” and hurried towards her, leaving Emmrich barely stifling a laugh behind her.

Every. Damn. Time.

***

“You look so handsome tonight, love.” Agnes whispered to Emmrich, her hand on his arm, as they attended my very first opera. It was Emmrich’s idea. He loves it, and he wants to share it with me, so I figured why not give it a try!

And then he went and had a third dress made for me.

Just to go to the opera apparently.

But…he does look incredibly yummy…and smells so good. Fuck.

His cheeks flushed slightly. “Why thank you, darling! For opening night of the season at the Royal Nevarra Opera, one must be dressed for the momentous occasion that it is.” He leaned to press a quick peck to her cheek. “Though, even in my best ensemble and most valuable grave gold, I pale in comparison next to you, my dear.”

EMM!!!!

She giggled, watching as he handed their tickets to the usher. “Flatterer.”

After the tickets were checked, Emmrich nodded politely to the usher and lead them towards the grand staircase in the lobby of the opera house. “I seem to remember accusing you of charming flattery once upon a time, dear.”

“You mean my very bad attempts at flirting?” Agnes teased as she and Emmrich ascended the stairs.

He let out a joyous guffaw. “Dearest! Your attempts were never bad.” At the top of the grand staircase, he’s showing our tickets to another fucking usher. Mate, can we just get to our bloody seats?!

Oh wait.

We don’t have seats.

Emmrich has a private box, because of course he does.

“That being said,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her short, dark red curls. “Subtly was never your forte, my heart.”

He’s not wrong.

When they fucking finally reached his box, he gestured for her to sit first and offered her a bejeweled hand. Those hands…better be on me later. Please? She smiled as her hand slipped into his and sat on the very fancy wooden chair. “But you love me anyways.”

Within a moment, he was beside her and handed her a program, his fingers brushing against hers. “That I do, my darling.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, sighing happily. “That I do. Ah!” Emmrich exclaimed as the lights darkened. “It’s starting! I do hope you enjoy it, Agi dearest. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”

Agnes hoped she would like the opera.

Then it started.

And it’s in bloody High Nevarran…so I have no idea what’s happening.

That’s alright though. I can keep an eye on Emm and watch all his adorable reactions.

My adorable, handsome, brilliant love.

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Epilogue

AN: You can blame Mexico and Onyx Storm for my delay on this one. But for those who are curious, here is our sweet little epilogue for Joel and Freckles. Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, shared, and encouraged me while writing this story. I love you, and so does Joel and Freckles. XO

Series Masterlist | My Masterlist

Five Years Later

“You wanna come,” he practically taunts, “Don’t you, sweet girl?” 

Every muscle in your body is weak, causing the leather cuffs of the St. Andrews Cross to rub at your wrists and ankles. He’s been teasing you for hours, stopping every time you’re about to shatter. 

This night has been a long while in the making. After five years with your firm you were finally given the lead on a big case; a case that your boss handed to you and said this was your chance to earn your partnership. You spent upwards of eighty to ninety hours a week preparing and Joel could not have been more perfect during that time. He’d often show up with food or coffee for you and your team of junior lawyers, interns, and paralegals. He never complained when you’d bring work home; however, every time you said something negative about yourself, Joel would mark it on the fridge. Over the three and a half weeks of prep work thirty ticks ended up on the small piece of paper that was hung with a Berkeley magnet. You didn’t have time to ask Joel what they meant, and truthfully, you didn’t really care; you trusted that whatever he planned to do with those ticks was for your own good. 

During the trial, another twelve ticks were added. When the verdict was announced and you had won your case, Joel was there in the courtroom, smiling warmly at you when you glanced back at him. When you got home that evening, after a celebratory round or two of cocktails, Joel made you kneel in front of him as he explained that each tick, all forty two of them, symbolized a denied orgasm, a punishment meant to remind you not to talk bad about things that Joel owns. Especially brilliant lawyers who win their first big case and secure themselves as partner.  

As he strapped you to the padded X shaped piece of furniture tonight, he said, ‘if you’re the sweet girl I know you to be, then you won’t whine when I stop. Instead, you’ll say “Thank you, Mister Miller” and I’ll count that as two. Forty two orgasms being denied is not going to be easy, so do yourself a favour and don’t whine; you don’t want to know what happens if you do.’

The only response to his teasing that you can muster now is a whimper and a nod. He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Use your words, honey.”

Your voice is almost silent. “Yes, Mister Miller.”

He walks behind you, trailing the small vibrator along your skin. “Such a good girl for me tonight. Saying yes to everything. Remind me, how many orgasms have I denied you so far?”

Your pussy throbs with the deep timber of his voice, this is truly torture and your safeword is on the tip of your tongue. “Twenty one,” you mumble.

“Poor, sweet girl,” He says from behind you, leaning in closely to whisper in your ear. “Did you learn your lesson?”

“Yes, Mister Miller.” You swallow the dry lump in your throat.

“Should I let you pick how you want to come?”

He completes his circle around you and the crossing, stepping in close to you. He uses the little vibrator to gently tease your nipples. You can barely form a thought and just let a small ‘yes’ mixed with moans leave your lips as your sweat covered back arches off the padded back of the cross. The heat of Joel’s body this close makes you feel like you’re on fire. 

“Want to come on my fingers?” He asks, then easily slips three of them inside of you. Your gaze shoots to his as a strangled cry fills the room. 

“Yesyes - fuuuuck, please.” You feel your pussy tightening around his digits.

“What about my cock? You love being stuffed full of my thick cock while I strum your clit. Don’t you? My perfect little slut.” He teases you further by pumping his fingers forward once, revelling in the feel of you clenching tighter around him. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond as he continues.

“No, I know,” his fingers slip out from your pussy and you gasp, unable to protest in your weakened state. Not that you would protest; you know better than to do that, and he told you not to whine tonight. You are a good girl, you know that what your dom says is best. Plus, you need to come so badly that you think you might actually die if you don’t, and Joel is just sadistic enough to keep you like this for days. 

He gets onto his knees, his warm breath hitting your cunt as he speaks. “What if I put my lips around this swollen little clit? Huh? Suck her into my mouth and drink up every ounce of your cum?”

He uses his thumbs to pull the lips of your pussy further apart. He’s so close that your breath catches in your throat at the promise of relief. He blows cool air along your soaked pussy; you clench your molars together and focus on your breathing. You don’t come until he tells you. 

“Would you like that, my sweet girl?”

The restraints cut at your wrists when you try to push your hips to his mouth. “Yes. Yes. Please, Mister Miller.”

He stands abruptly, hand wrapping around the hair at the nape of your neck before he tugs to bring your gaze up to his. The pull of your hair relaxes the muscles of your neck and upper back and you melt into the padded cross.

His eyes darken as he asks, “You really would say yes to anything, wouldn’t you?” 

“Y-yes. I just need to come. Please.” He releases your hair, stepping back and crossing his arms. The veins on his forearms pop, the sleeves of his rolled black dress shirt tightening under his biceps. Since officially retiring, he’s had a strict exercise regime. He was sexy when you met him almost ten years ago, but like a fine wine, he gets better with each passing year.

The gravel in his voice returns, “But you’d say yes even if I told you we were done for the night and it was time to get dressed. Right?” 

Your eyes clench close, head falling back as the panic of not getting to come tonight races through your mind. You take a calming breath before whispering, “Yes, Mister Miller.” 

“Eyes on me, sweet girl.” You peel your eyes open and tilt your chin down to look at him. His hands are now buried in his pockets, and there’s a shift in how he’s looking at you, a slight softness to his dark eyes. 

“And what if I asked you to marry me?” His voice is shy and raspy.

He slowly pulls a ring out of his pocket and holds it up for you. A thin, gold band with a single, albeit very large, solitaire diamond on it sends sparkles all around the room. Tears line your lash line, mirroring his. He clears his throat softly.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, sweet girl. Listen carefully for me,” he pockets the ring and steps closely, wiping the happy tear that rolls down your cheek. The rough whorls on his thumb send goosebumps cascading down your body. “First, I’m going to make you come. Then, I’m going to untie you, get you all cleaned up, and get some sugar into you.”

You nod, leaning into his touch as cups your face. His eyes dart towards the bed as he says, “After that, we are getting to that bed so I can kiss you until neither of us can breathe.”

“And then,” he smiles sweetly, a tear rolling from the corner of his deep brown and honey flecked eye to his greying beard. “And then I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

[whump-ohmy]

Whump Intro!

Hello there! My name is Harley (she/her), your new local whump writer, exclusively on tumblr, soon coming to ao3 :D I've liked whump since I could remember and way before I even had a name to put to it, and I have been lurking here for a while now. But the time for crawling out of the shadows and writing my own things has come!

I'm doing the Bad Things Happen Bingo and so far, I have one prompt fill up, and three more written ones sitting in my folder and waiting to be edited. Tags for it: #my writing #bad things happen bingo

I am still really new to actually interacting in this community and writing things, so I don't really know exactly how things work but hopefully this will turn out well :) --- Some tropes I love:

- Lady whump (I really, really just want some women in my fiction) - Hurt AND comfort - Fantasy / medieval whump - Nonhuman characters - Defiant whumpees - Touch-starved - Torture; whipping, beating, stress positions, etc. Tropes that are meh / I don't really like:

- BBU (occasionally I do circle back to it, but it's not really my thing) - Hurt no comfort - Medical whump - Lab whump - Carewhumper Squicks:

- Extreme gore - Eye / teeth injuries ---

Other things I'm working on:

I also have 30k of a completed series sitting in my folder though it needs a LOT of editing before I post it. Here's a quick overview of it for those interested:

A thief and assassin unable to leave her occupation and bound to the whims of a cruel and powerful earl, is captured after she is given false information. To her surprise, she is freed though the consequences for failing her mission soon prove to be almost worse than death. In the end, the person who saves her is one who she had expected would be amongst those cheering the most for her death.

If anyone would like to beta for this or knows where I could find a beta, I'd really appreciate it! I'm terrible at editing and a second perspective would be really nice.

[thegeeksideofsr]

Positive

Summary: Eliot finds a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom after getting home late from a job.

A/n: I know this gif is from season one and he's holding a thumb drive, but it fits the story kinda. El may be a little out of character, but I tried. Enjoy!

***********************************************

It's been two weeks since I took the test. The positive symbol staring back at me.

It's in a drawer of the bathroom now. Buried under hair brushes, hair products, and a box of unopened condoms.

The days seem to go by in a blur. Going through the motions of survival while trying to come to terms with the fact that I'm pregnant.

Man, that's weird. My dad might have a heart attack. He nearly had one when he found out about Eliot and I. He was so angry at first, but he's been getting better about it.

I called Alice once the timer went off. She came over and held me while I cried.

She, Kate, and Deklan have practically put me on maternity leave six months early. They all are so supportive and wonderful, but the ones I want to be here and supporting me aren't.

I've had time to come to terms with it. It's still strange to know I'm carrying a baby, but I want them, even if I'm not completely ready. They are going to be amazing.

This morning I looked up some midwives in the area, found one, and gave them a call for an appointment.

I know the general time it happened, but I still want to be sure.

Once the appointment was made, I tucked into the couch to watch a movie. Under the warm blanket, and with the emotions from the last three days taking over, I drift of to the white noise of the movie.

A hand caressing my face, and a kiss to my forehead wakes me up.

Moving slightly, and opening my eyes a little, a form next to the couch comes into blurry view.

"Hey there, sweetheart," Eliot whispers.

"Please tell me you're really here, and I'm not dreaming again."

"I'm here. And I ain't planning to go anywhere any time soon."

I pull myself up, and finally look at him clearly.

He looks tired, and his hair is a little shorter, but he's still my Eliot.

I untangle my self from my blanket and launch into his arms, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist, my face pressed to his shoulder.

He catches me with ease. He tucks his face into my neck, his own arms wrap around my ribs and waist as we hold onto each other.

"I love you," he whispers, his scruff harsh against my skin.

"I love you, too."

With those few words the dam breaks.

I begin to sob, uncontrollably as he holds me.

"I missed you so much, darlin'. I got you."

I cry harder at his words, hoping that he won't change his mind when he finds out about the baby.

A deep breath to calm down, triggers a reaction I wasn't expecting.

I pull away from him, bringing a hand to cover my mouth and nose.

"What?"He asks, concern written across his face. "What is it?"

"You smell," I sob out.

He chuckles as my comment as he wipes tears from my cheek.

"I know. I need a shower, and some sleep."

I nob and take a few more deep breaths to calm down.

He leans back to his feet, and stand up. He holds a hand out to me, I take it, and he gently pulls me to my feet, then leads me to the bedroom.

I sit on the bed, legs tucked up under me, watching him as he strips, tossing his clothes in the hamper.

Nothing seems different. No new injuries or scars. Just a huge bruise, going from his shoulder, down his back to his ribs.

"What happened?" I ask. "To cause the bruises. Those aren't from a fight."

"Parker and I went up to the summit of this mountain, looking for a guy who got lost up there. We ended up falling into the same hole he did. We got lucky though."

"He didn't make it, did he?"

"No. It was deliberate. We got the guy that did it, though."

"That's good."

Clad in just his underwear he walks to bathroom, leaving me on the bed. The water comes on a moment later.

He comes back to the door way, eyebrow quirked and smirk.

"Wanna join me?" He ask.

"Absolutely."

I jump up and strip as I head to the bathroom, leaving a trail behind, gaining a wicked chuckle from Eliot.

We climb in the shower, the hot water soothing. We both wash up, washing the others hair, and each other, before rinsing off, and enjoying being together again.

I watch as he stands under the stream, washing the stress away, wondering how I'm going to tell him about the baby. Then his gaze turns to me.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks, moving a strand of wet hair from my face.

"Huh?"

"You have that look on your face. Like there's somthin' botherin' you."

"I'm fine, El. It can wait."

"So there is somethin' on your mind."

"Yes. But it can wait until you are rested and settled back in."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He doesn't look convinced. I try changing the subject by kissing him, which works wonders. Kisses always distracts him.

He leans into the kiss, arms wrapping around me and pulling my body flush with his.

We both get lost in each other. Hands travel as we reacquaint ourselves with each other, slowly building up to a long awaited reunion.

It's bliss. Until, his hand came to my breasts and squeezed slightly. No more then he had ever done before, but this time it hurt so much that it pulls a gasp and whimper from me.

I pull away from him completely, stepping back and wrapping my arms around my chest.

I close my eyes, not wanting to look at him.

"Baby. What was that? Did I hurt you?"

His voice is so soft, barely audible over the water.

"No. Just surprised me."

"That was more then surprise. I know how you sound surprised when I touch you, and when your hurt, and that sounded like hurt."

He closes the gap between us, his hands coming up to hold my head. He gently turns my head to look at him.

His brows are knit together, and eye round with worry.

"What happened?" He asks again.

"Nothing."

I pull my head from his hands, and leave the shower, grabbing my towel from the rack, wrapping it around me, and leaving the bathroom, latching the door behind me.

Pov Switch

Eliot sighs as the door clicks closed.

He turns and shuts the water off, then climbs out of the shower, and grabs a towel from the closet. He dries off, then wraps the towel around his waist, then rings his hair out over the tub, then starts brushing his hair out.

He racks his brain for any reason that she might be acting this way.

She was fine when they left for San Lorenzo, and the quick visit when they got state side. She knew that if something happened she could call, but she didn't.

And she never minded when he touched her, normaly she encouraged it. But this time, she flinched like it hurt. Yes her breasts get tender during PMS, but not this bad.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing he knows about.

He lets out a low growl, as he slams his brush down on the counter.

He has to take care of his hair, or it with become a fluffy rats nest.

He digs through the drawers, searching for his things, finding them after taking half of the drawers contents out. He sets what he needs on the counter, then starts replacing what he took out.

As he shoves them back in, he uncovers a piece of plastic, caught up with hair ties and combs. He picks it up to inspect it. White, with a pink cap, and on one side, a small screen with the word positive on the display.

The world stops, and his heart drops.

That would explain it. The tenderness, the odd smell sensitivity, and the question dodging.

She's pregnant. With his baby.

He stands on shaky legs, his hand shakes as well. His gaze holding fast to the test in his hand.

A baby. She is pregnant with his baby. And he is torn.

She would be a good mother, calm and sweet, but stern and fierce when needed.

But him? He was damaged and dangerous. His job was to hit people and lie. But at least Moroe was gone. One shadow of his past gone.

He sets the test of the counter to wash his hands from the trash, then grabs it again and opens the door.

He finds the woman who holds his heart, and now mother of his child, sitting on the bed, clad in one of his shirts as the brushes her own hair out.

"When did you find out?" He asks.

"What?" She looks up at him, looking like a dear caught in headlights.

He holds the test up to show her. Her eye move from his face to his hand, blood draining from he face.

"How did you find that?"

"Was lookin' for my hair stuff, found this while puttin' stuff back. Baby, when did you find out?"

Her eyes well up and flutter, her chin quivers.

Eliot crosses the room to sit next to her on the bed.

"Talk to me, please," he begs.

"Two weeks ago," she says, and the dam breaks.

His heart drops. Two weeks, and she didn't call.

"Why didn't you call me? You should have called me."

"You were on a job. I didn't want to distract or stress you out even more."

He sighs and pulls her into his chest, holding her head as she sobs.

"It's okay," he whispers. " It's gonna be okay. I promise. Just breathe."

"I'm sorry, Eliot," she sobs out. "I was gonna tell you, but I wanted to wait for the right moment."

"It's okay," he whispers. "Come on."

He gently pulls her with him to lay down on the bed, her head resting over his heart, their arms wrap around each other, her breathing slowly calms.

"Do you even want kids, Eliot?" She murmurs.

He squeezes her, the rolls her onto her side or lean over her, hand caressing her face.

" I never thought about it. Not before you." He starts. "I have never had the kind of life that would allow kids. I've done things that I'm not proud of, and-" he hesitates.

"What?"

"Our last job, the one that took us out of the country."

She nods.

"You got so distant. I thought you were going to end things between us. You all kept me in the dark."

"I'm sorry, darlin'. We just wanted to keep you safe. I think that is the only thing about you that your dad and I can agree on."

She huffs a laugh.

"After we broke Nate out of prison," he starts. "A woman came, and she black mailed us to take down a crime lord. Said we had to or she would kill us, and you. I had to protect you from her, and him."

"Him?"

He breaks eye contact.

"I used to work for him. I did terrible things for him. I got out eventually, was lost for while. Then got hired for a job, and met Nate," he looks back to her. " And you."

She smiles.

"I don't deserve to be a father," he starts. "To have anything so pure and innocent. But I'm selfish. I do want them. Do you?"

Her body relaxes as she nods, a new wave of tears begin to fall from her eyes.

"You really want this?" She asks.

"Yes."

POV Switch

Relieve floods me.

He want the baby. He's not leaving

He looks happy, a smile making his eye crinkle, and dimples appear, tears slide down his cheeks.

I bring my hand to his face, taking my turn to wipe the tears away.

"We're having a baby," he whispers.

"We're having a baby."

***********************************************

[tiggymalvern]

The Burn Notice pilot spackle nobody asked for

There are various moments in the BN pilot that in retrospect seem to be OOC. Like Michael begging Lucy for work by acting like a dog, a ridiculously playful side of him that we never see again.

And obviously those moments happened because Matt Nix hadn't figured out quite who the characters were yet, but as fans we're left to come up with Watsonian answers for them. In the case of Michael and Lucy, the BN podcasters explain it away as a Lucy-specific in-joke - they met years ago not long after Michael joined the army, still a teenager, and that act is a hangover from when they were silly kids together, which is a headcanon I cheerfully accept.

At least that odd scene with Michael is harmless. In the case of Fiona and Sam, there are scenes in the pilot that come across as character assassination. So here I go, wading in...

With Fiona, there's the infamous, "Shall we shoot them?" that appears in every opening credit. Fiona's a violent criminal who hates cops, yes - but she's also smart. Way too smart to think shooting three FBI agents in the street is a good move. Suggesting it makes her seem like a brain-dead, trigger-happy lunatic. So why does she say it?

Fiona doesn't really know Michael Westen at this point. The man she knew was Michael McBride, the IRA sympathiser. Michael himself says in season two (with his Irish accent back in place) that Fiona and Michael McBride 'caused a lot of mayhem'. We don't know what the CIA wanted Michael to find out in Ireland, but whatever it was, Michael would have been very interested in Fiona talking about her work. Would have encouraged her to give him all the details about it. Wanted to help out with her work in any way he could. Fi knows Michael as someone who's really into her violent side, who thinks it's amazing and fun and hot when she's showing him weapons stores and blowing things up.

So when she's trying to wriggle her way back into Michael's life and into his bed, she plays up that side of herself. She beats up Sugar's hitman outside the loft and expects that seeing her do that will make Michael horny. And she suggests shooting multiple FBI agents, not because she plans to actually do it, but because she thinks hearing her say it will make Michael hot for her, remind him of everything he always liked about her.

And then there's Sam. When Sam meets up with Michael, he's openly leering at a random woman who's just walking past in the street minding her own business, and he's making vile comments. Sam's a flirt, not a creep! There's a difference. But here the audience is introduced to Sam and he immediately comes across as the nastiest kind of sleazebag. What is going on?

Sam's meeting up with Michael, who's just been burned. Michael's been unceremoniously kicked out on his arse and he's angry, frustrated, depressed. It's exactly the same thing that happened to Sam two years earlier.

Sam can't sit there and tell Michael that being fired from the job he loved and was incredibly good at is the worst thing that ever happened to him. That he's bored out of his mind and drinking too much and eating too much and having lots of casual sex because there's nothing else for him to do. That he takes on an occasional job for Lucy when he needs cash, but he doesn't even do that much because Lucy doesn't know if she can trust him any more, and the jobs she offers him are so far below his skill level it's positively depressing.

Sam needs to tell Michael that life after your career's ripped away from you is fine! That he can have fun! That the world is his oyster! And Michael knows Sam as a flirt, someone who enjoys sex and booze between missions, so Sam lays it on extra thick, tells him how great it all is, how you can pick up hot women in bikinis everywhere you go.

Both Fiona and Sam are putting on a performance for Michael in the pilot - they're dialing one aspect of themselves up to eleven, in the hope of eliciting a particular response in Michael. And that's why they both come across as not quite themselves.

[zahri-melitor]

Hi! Do you have any recommendations for Black Canary stories? Been wanting to learn more about her and I'm not sure where to start/what's assured to be worthwhile.

Hah! I do have Black Canary recommendations, but they also come with a lot of asterisks. Loving Dinah is one of those situations where you spend a lot of time going 'UNFORTUNATELY'.

Where do you want to start?

If you want a story highly focused on Dinah herself?

If you want something you can pick up and fall in love with her without needing context (Dinah has SO much context), get yourself to Black Canary and Zatanna: Bloodspell. It’s probably the only title with ‘Black Canary’ in the name that I can recommend unequivocally without any asterisks.

Personally I have a massive soft spot for Black Canary 1993 (this is vol 2), which vibeswise has Ollie being terrible, Ray’s hopeless crush on Dinah, the first ever Dinah-Babs-Dick-Helena team up and some really fun art design. Unfortunately, it is incredibly written in the early 1990s and so needs warnings for, among other things “this contains a white slavery storyline”.

I do recommend Black Canary: The Best of the Best. Tom King’s doing pretty well at explaining context for everything happening in this story.

If you’re interested in Dinah with Ollie?

Start Grell’s run on Green Arrow at The Longbow Hunters and go from there into Green Arrow 1987. This is probably the most classic period of their relationship that everyone later will reflect back onto. I will however flag that Dinah gets assaulted, badly, during this run, and the fallout focuses far more on the effect that has on Ollie than Dinah herself.

Read Quiver (Green Arrow #1-12 2001) if you want to understand Dinah’s reaction to Ollie’s resurrection.

Go from the Wedding Planner and Wedding Specials 2007 and then read Green Arrow/Black Canary 2007 for at least Winick’s run (#1-14). A lot of people don’t like this run because of what it does to Connor, but if you are down for Dinah and Ollie shenanigans and silliness and banter, I find it highly entertaining.

If you want Dinah and Barbara together?

Start with Dixon’s run on Birds of Prey (the first oneshot is officially entitled “Birds of Prey: Black Canary/Oracle #1”, or just go for Birds of Prey #1 1999) if you want more James Bond missions where Dinah is Bond and Babs is her controller

Start with Simone’s run on Birds of Prey 1999 (it starts at #56) if you prefer Dinah leading a spec ops team for Barbara with a lot of complicated women having complicated friendships.

Dinah with Roy and Lian?

Arsenal 1998. It’s only four issues and it’s just delightful characterisation of the three of them together.

If you want a current run (and don’t want to risk Tom King until the run finishes)?

If you want to read current stories, I would suggest the Birds of Prey 2023 run with Kelly Thompson is probably a slightly better starting point for Dinah than the Green Arrow 2023 run with Joshua Williamson, but you’ll get the gist of Dinah’s two biggest relationships (with Ollie and with Babs) from checking out both.

If you want Dinah’s backstory?

The DC YA graphic novel, Black Canary: Ignite, is reasonably solid in terms of giving context to Dinah Sr, Larry Lance and Dinah Jr relationships with each other. It’s not canonical and it very much picks up the vibes of Black Canary 2014, but it’s probably the best early years version of Dinah that’s been written so far. And again, it’s conveniently stand alone.

Otherwise, some general advice:

Dinah in Green Arrow books tends to be very much playing second fiddle to Ollie

I wish I could recommend more of the Black Canary runs, but 1991 is slight and mostly Dinah being pissed at Ollie, 2007 was used as an excuse to write Dinah’s supporting characters out of the narrative in favour of Ollie’s, and 2014 has striking art but is a version of Dinah that not only has very little to do with other appearances, but gets retconned at the end of the run.

Dinah’s got solid runs in various Justice League books and the JSA revival in 1999, if you want her in bigger team books

[brightshaw-shipper]

Does the Bright family exist in your headcanon, and if so, how are they all doing?

Please please please let TJ have a good day I beg.

Yes, they do exist! Here are my headcanons:

TJ Bright:

Got a dose of SCP-500 and is now back to full health

Went to Deer College, majored in anomalous medicine

Went to Alexylva University, got a doctorate in anomalous medicine (he is now Dr. Bright)

Works in the medical wing of the Foundation now

Very cozy all the time (wears long sleeves, long pants, gloves, and a hoodie)

Likes painting Warhammer 40k minis

Is good with a gun

Is aroace

Attended the blorbos' wedding

Doing pretty well

Mikell Bright:

Is O5-6

Has a charming Southern accent

Cannot sit still and suits are a sensory overload for him (but when he does wear a suit, it's a white one, with a white cowboy hat)

Doesn't really get sarcasm

Can control plants (because I'm not letting a member of the Bright family get off with being non-anomalous)

Because of the above, he can often be seen with flowers in his hair

Attended the blorbos' wedding (Thompson and Black were sitting a few seats away, disguised as random guests)

Really needs glasses but doesn't know it

Is gay

Doing okay

Sarah Bright (SCP-321):

Loved her stuffed bear

Would occasionally stack blocks as high as she could, then knock them over and giggle

Favorite handler was Dr. Sarah Rilkes, who treated her more like a person than the other handlers (she couldn't fully grasp the concept of this, but she knew Dr. Rilkes was nicer than the others)

Did not like toy balls; they're hard to grab

Drew all the time: on paper and the walls of her chamber

Hated bath time with a passion

Just fell asleep one night and didn't wake up (her heart gave out)

Had a formal funeral: even Mikell cleared enough time in his packed schedule to be there

Doing well (in the afterlife)

Claire Lumineux:

Reads books and watches TV for the plot, not the suspense (she already knows what's going to happen, let's just see how)

Lives in Three Portlands, spending most of her time at the Wanderer's Library

Gives dating advice to her fellow Hand members: "nope, he's trouble", "I mean, sure, if you want to get shipped off to the Jailors in a crate", stuff like that

Crosses the street on her phone; she already knows if a car's coming or not

Attended the blorbos' wedding under supervision

Paints her nails iridescent green

Is a lesbian

Doing great

Adam Bright:

Never hit his kids, but got pretty close

Alt-right; would have supported Trump

Went out to the local bar a lot, didn't come home until after the kids were in bed

Didn't treat Evelyn as an equal (this was the Sixties and Seventies, but STILL)

Usually seen wearing a baseball cap

Wanted to have a son who did sports; when Mikell went off to college, that role passed to Jack, who got his arm broken by that bully Mitch Peters, leading to the next bullet point

Used the window of opportunity created by Jack's broken arm and Mikell's being at college to bring TJ to the Foundation and have him contained

Did not attend the blorbos' wedding, due to being dead (assassinated bc he wanted to get Sarah out of containment) (Mikell was the passing vote on the assassination plot)

Was straight and proud of it

Didn't let anyone find out what his anomalous property was

Slept around a lot

Doing badly (also in the afterlife)

Evelyn Bright:

Great cook, could probably cook the most difficult dishes without a problem

Does needlepoint, usually those embroidery circles

Knits with such speed people think she's using thaumaturgy (she's not)

Is a Type Blue

Wouldn't be caught dead wearing a skirt; we live in a time where women can wear pants and she is going to wear pants

Once knitted an entire cloak for a fellow Hand member because everybody forgot their birthday

Lives in Three Portlands

Attended the blorbos' wedding under supervision

Is bisexual; has a girlfriend but they haven't gotten serious yet

Sends all her children cards on their birthdays

Doing pretty well

Thanks for the ask! Hope this answers your question! -Thaumiel