#we still remember all of this; whether they returned or not [drabbles]

[wingdingery]

ohhhh i always have requests! quite fond of lil drabble ideas: bruce teaching dick to dance and (years later when they’re together) they recreating some of their first dances, slade being the one to gift dick his first leather jacket that he still regularly wears, An Event Occurs and in the aftermath dick realizes how irreplaceable he is to bruce and just how much bruce both loves him and needs him, bruce and dick’s undercover aliases that keep getting more and more romantic over the years

In Dick’s experience, returning to his apartment after a week away and finding a mysterious box on the coffee table that was definitely not there when he left is, usually, not actually a big deal.

He’s still careful—the little Batman that lives in the back of his head would never give him a moment of peace if he wasn’t—but he’s just very aware of the fact that, nine times out of ten, the not-so-little Batman is the one breaking in and leaving little treats for him to find later, because Bruce is deathly allergic to seeing people’s reactions to his gifts in real-time.

Dick runs through the standard checks, but nothing sounds or smells off, and nothing pings as suspicious on infrared or the particulate detector. He steps closer to inspect the box. It’s rectangular, all white, and generally unremarkable except for the fact that he didn’t put it there.

Carefully, he lifts the lid. He’s expecting some kind of gear—it wouldn’t be the first time a new suit or toys showed up unannounced.

What he finds is a leather moto jacket.

He gently lifts it out of the box and stares at it, bemused. It’s very nice—genuine Italian leather by the feel of it, black with silver hardware and diagonal pockets in the shape of a V, and just his size. There’s no note of any kind, but when he sniffs the leather, he also gets a whiff of maple and gun oil—and that feels like a signature in and of itself.

Dick pulls out his phone, dials in the number from memory, and sinks into the couch as it rings. 

“Happy birthday,” Slade says when he picks up, voice low and rumbling.

Dick suppresses a smile. “You’re late.”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You really wanna know the answer to that?”

Dick bites the inside of his cheek and fiddles with the zipper of the jacket. They’ve been getting along all right ever since they’d been forced to team up on the cruise ship from hell, but still, a little plausible deniability goes a long way, between them. “How long ‘til I find out on my own?”

“Now that depends,” Slade says, drawing out the words. “You still talking to Rose?”

Dick blinks. “You were visiting Rose?”

“Something like that.”

“She shut the door in your face,” Dick guesses.

Slade grunts. “We can meet not at her apartment.”

“And she’s moving?”

“And she’s moving.” Slade doesn’t sound particularly annoyed about it, but then again, finding people who don’t want to be found is basically his job. Dick makes a mental note to see if Rose wants a hand making her dad’s life harder.

“So why the jacket?” Dick says, running his hand over the leather. It really is nice. He wonders where Slade got it, and whether it was paid for in money or blood. He probably doesn’t want to know.

“You complained I made you ruin yours,” Slade says. “Reckon we’re square now.”

Dick raises his eyebrows, even though Slade can’t see it. “I don’t remember doing that, but if I did, it had to have been, what… seven years ago? At least?”

“I’ve got a long memory.” It sounds vaguely like a threat, in Slade’s voice, but the jacket itself seems far from one, so Dick lets it pass.

“If you’re trying to make up for that,” Dick says, “then you’re really late.”

“You’d’ve thrown it straight in the trash if I ever tried before.”

“I could still do that.”

“You won’t.”

“Well, now I have to.”

Slade scoffs. “Go ahead. Would be a waste of perfectly good leather, though.”

The desire for knowledge wins out. “Where’d you get it?”

“Made it.”

Dick pauses, uncertain he’d heard correctly. When Slade doesn’t elaborate, though, Dick echoes, uncertainly, “Made it?”

“Wintergreen helped some.”

Dick opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Made it?

“Who exactly did you think made my first few costumes?” Slade says, sounding amused. “Not all of us have your daddy’s resources.”

It’s one thing for Slade to have bought him something; Dick can explain that away as just a whim—an act of opportunity, as it were. But Slade spending the time and energy to make it himself?

That’s premeditation.

“This isn’t a birthday gift.”

“I said happy birthday, didn’t I?”

“This isn’t just a birthday gift,” Dick presses.

Slade doesn’t respond, and Dick lets the silence stretch far past the point of discomfort. Still, neither of them hangs up. Slade may be a stubborn asshole, but Dick has been trained in the art of silence-offs by the most frustratingly stoic of them all.

Dick smooths out the collar of the jacket and straightens out the arms while he waits. Now that he’s looking closer, he can tell the seams aren’t the tidy stitches of a lifelong craftsman, but it’s impressive work, all the same. Work that must have taken a hell of a lot of effort. 

Finally, Slade breaks the rhythm of quiet breathing. “Whatever it is,” he says, “it’s yours now. Throw it in the trash if you want. Or don’t. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

It has everything to do with Slade, but the fact that Slade is insisting so hard that it doesn’t is both a little funny and extremely sad. Dick can recognize a fear of rejection when he hears it. 

Dick puts a hand on top of the jacket. “It doesn’t really make sense to give me this,” he says, “if you’re never going to see me wear it.”

Slade is silent for a moment, but not as long as before. “I’ve got time,” he says, slowly, like he’s leaving space for Dick to cut him off between one word and the next. “Two weeks from now.”

“Two weeks,” Dick agrees. “I assume you don’t need the address.”

“Think I’ve got it.” Slade’s voice is dry, but lacking its usual knife-sharp edge. “See you soon, kid.”

He hangs up before Dick can respond. 

Dick smiles anyway. “See you soon.”

----

Footnote: RIP Dick's expensive jacket (this is $300 in 80s money)

[twisted-tales-of-all]

My Universe Returns to Me

Summary: Missing your boyfriend, you surprise him by watching the final concert of his group's tour, followed by a wonderful night together for the first time in months. Pairing: Stray Kids' Bangchan x afab!Reader Genre: Smutty One-shot with loads of fluff AUs/Tropes: idol!AU, established relationship, temporary-ldr, first meeting after a while Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: description-heavy, slight tinge of jealousy, occasional teasing, body worship (f. receiving), praise, unprotected sex, slight begging, orgasm (m. and f. receiving), breast fondling/nipple play, creampie, slight overstim during aftercare, it's pretty fluffy sex because Chris is a so deeply in love A/N: a drabble request turned into a full piece oops, I still italicized the prompts like the drabbles. Special thanks to the spirit who came to help me write this (they want to stay anon), and I hope everyone enjoys! As always, feel free to point out any missed warnings, and please reblog with feedback/reactions<3

It'd been far too long since you'd last met your boyfriend since they're currently on tour, so you decide to surprise him at the last concert. Sitting in the company-designated seats towards the back of the crowd, you take a picture of the stage and send it to him while they're doing soundcheck. When they head backstage again, you get a slew of messages in response, some just keyboard smashes and others excitedly asking whether he'd be able to see you later. Finally, he pouts about having to put his phone away and wishes for you to enjoy the show.

You choose not to answer most of his messages, simply telling him to have fun and that you can't wait to see him. The concert goes as smoothly as any last stop does, with plenty of tears and sappy moments sprinkled amongst the singing, dancing, and rehearsed skits. You take plenty of pictures of the screens that project the members to their fans, especially when your boyfriend is plastered on screen for all to see. After the concert ends, the VIP event begins. You watch all the lucky VIPs line up for their high fives and quick chats with the members, but you know better than to join that line - even if the company tickets come with the option to. The boys would all be too excited to see you, and you're not trying to get jumped by hundreds of fans for befriending the group. You walk out of the venue and make your way to the hotel, silently thanking Felix for telling you where they were staying so you could get a room in the same hotel.

Lounging in your room for an hour or so, your mind wanders to the VIP event. A pang in your chest alerts you of your slight jealousy of the fans who see your boyfriend before you, but you shove the thought away by remembering Chris' words from the last time you felt undeserving of him.

"No matter how well I treat the fans, I'm always thinking of you, y'know. You never leave my mind, and even all the stars are by your side. You're perfect in my eyes, and I'm always going to be by your side."

Taking yourself out of your head, you hear your phone ring. Answering without even checking the name, you don't get a word out before the chaos erupts from the other end.

"Where are youuuu? I want to see you and hug you and kiss you and hold you already." Chris whines, making you smile but roll your eyes.

The disgusted screams in the background prompt you to ask him whether they've returned to the hotel yet, but Felix's screams answer before Chris can, "Tell 'im to wait until he's alone to do this! We don't wanna hear him gush!"

Despite his pouts, you tell your boyfriend to call you back when he reaches the hotel, knowing he'll call the moment the van pulls up to the building. When you get the call, you give him the room number and tell him that he can come straight up if he wants or wait until he washes up. Within minutes, you hear someone knock on your door. He has a bag with his change of clothes and insists that it's easier to wash up in your room instead of waiting his turn for the showers in their four rooms. You roll your eyes, but he hugs you so tightly the moment the door closes that you can't help but smile. When the boys say he's whipped for you, these moments prove that for you.

After the initial hellos, filled with long hugs and dozens of kisses of varying intensities, he asks how you enjoyed the concert. His eyes fill with worry and anticipation, but they soften again as you tell him about all of the new pictures you have to tease everyone with. At the end of your ramble, you mention the event and pout about how he's STAY's boyfriend. He tilts his head as his face twists into a sad apologetic gaze, so you finish with a half-joke.

"Call me selfish, but I don't ever want anyone else to touch you."

He cups your cheeks as he teases you for being possessive, "Awh, my love feels like they aren't getting enough attention? Is that why you came all this way? You missed me that much?"

Even though he's eating it up, you point out that he's even more possessive, "You'd miss me just as bad if you didn't beg me for pictures every single day!"

"Shh, don't worry, I'll take very good care of you. You came all this way, after all."He deflects, turning on his deeper, more sultry voice as he leans in to kiss you again, trying to distract you from the topic of his own neediness.

The kiss holds more longing than those from earlier, as it's somehow softer but more sexually charged than before. Deepening the kiss, Chris puts a hand on the small of your back, guiding you to lean back and lie flat on the bed. As he holds himself above you, he relishes the moment - you're finally here with him after months of being apart for the tour, your lips soft and your hands safely resting on the back of his neck. You were right, after all; he'd lose his mind if he wasn't getting your daily selfies and updates. It showed in his movements now, as he melted into you, verifying to himself that it's not too good to be true - that the love of his life was in his grasp again.

He pulls away slightly, brushing a stray hair from your beautiful face as he gazes at you with love-filled eyes, getting himself lost in the sparkles in your eyes, shining as brightly as the stars in the night sky.

"Chris, stop staring at me. I'm getting shy."

"But you're so beautiful, I want to admire you some more." The distant smile on his face tells you more than his words do; how happy he must be and how unreal it must feel.

"It's not a dream. I can't lie here for you to stare at forever."

Taking that as his cue, he starts kissing your body, worshipping your very existence. Careful not to move your clothes much yet, he takes his time to kiss every knuckle on your hands and each mole on your exposed skin. You squirm, giving him another sign to move forward, and he obliges by slowly sliding his hands under your shirt. He hooks his thumbs under the hem as he glides his hands up your torso, leaving goosebumps from how softly he touches you. As he reaches your chest, his fingers graze over the lacy fabric of your bra, and you notice his jaw tighten as he resists the urge to pull your shirt off faster. Already committed to his worshipping today, he resists where he otherwise wouldn't.

Fully removing your shirt, his fingers gloss over your shoulders and make their way to your beautifully decorated breasts. Tracing the edges of the fabric, he muses about how beautiful you look in between kisses to your collarbones and upper chest. Careful not to focus on your breasts too much, he lowers himself, leaving a trail of soft kisses from the bottom of the bra down to the hem of your pants. He isn't as slow removing your pants, undoing them and pulling them down quickly to see you in your adorably delectable matching set. A deep growl forms in the back of his throat, prompting praise after praise of how wonderful you look and how glad he is knowing that you're all his.

Your face and core heat up even more at the praises thrown at your exposed body despite him praising you endlessly throughout the relationship. No matter what he says nor however many times he says similar things, they always feel so deeply genuine that you can't help the knot in your stomach or the blush forming on your face. As he lowers his face between your thighs, the knot in your stomach tightens. Alternating his kisses between your thighs, you continuously feel his warm breath, especially when he hovers over your covered entrance to admire the soaked-through fabric.

Getting desperate for him to touch the places he's actively avoiding, you whine, "Chris, please. I need you. Stop teasing."

Although he insists that he wasn't teasing, your begs kick him enough to stop fighting his urges. Quickly removing his clothes, you notice his cock throbbing already. Not one to waste time teasing himself, he quickly works to pull your panties down, groaning as a string of your wetness follows the movement. Too tempted by seeing you exposed to him like this, he doesn't bother to remove your bra. As he settles between your legs, you quickly remove it yourself, letting your breasts free of the cage you chose to show them off to your boyfriend in.

Before lining himself up, he drags two of his fingers between your lower lips, gathering up your pre-cum. Rubbing it on the tip of his dick, he counts that as enough lube as he's too eager to feel your walls engulf him to do more preparation. As he lines himself, he looks to you for approval, sliding in slowly after your nod.

The noise leaving his lips as he bottoms out sounds heavenly and feral mixed perfectly together. And you can't even blame him; he feels so good inside you, filling you up perfectly with his thickness pressing against your walls and fighting against your tightness. He pulls back slowly until he's only half inside before thrusting in again sharply. You love it when he does this, feeling like he's trying to connect the two of you together so eagerly, wanting to feel you always.

He picks up the pace, rocking his hips to continue hitting your best spots. You try to cover your mouth to muffle the inhuman noises he's pushing out of you, but when he lifts your legs over his shoulders, you can't contain yourself anymore. The sly one-sided smile painting his face tells you that he's enjoying himself, earning those kinds of sounds from you.

Between thrusts, he teases, "You, you missed me, a lot, huh?"

Moving one hand from your hips to your breast, he cups it to display your nipple to him. Keeping pace, he leans forward and takes your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking gently. As you tighten from the sensation, he groans against you, sending vibrating chills from your perky nipple to the rest of your body. All of the combined sensations work you up, and you feel your orgasm building as he continues thrusting deep inside you.

"Don't stop... Please, I'm close." You warn him.

He focuses on his thrusts, keeping a steady rhythm as he feels you clenching tighter around him again. A deep, guttural moan against your breast brings you over the edge, your orgasm rippling through your whole body as you shake and moan uncontrollably. Riding it out, Chris lifts his head to watch your face contort from the pleasure, praising you for not hiding yourself this time.

"There you go, my love. Feel it out. Let everything out. Good job."

When you come down from your high, you notice his thrusts getting sloppy. With both hands back on your hips, his grip tightens as he nears his own climax. As his grunts become more animalistic, he finishes inside you with one final deep thrust. The warm liquid fills you as his fingertips dig into your skin, only to release seconds later as his high comes to an end.

You watch his face writhe as he slowly pulls out of you. He quickly grabs one of the washcloths from the bathroom, wetting it slightly with warm water, and rubs your opening lightly with it. Wincing from the stimulation, you grab at the sheets. You know he's just trying to clean you off, but you're so sensitive from your orgasm that you can't help your reaction.

"Shh, I know. I'm sorry. I just want to help love." He places the cloth over your throbbing core and adds, "I'll draw you a bath, too. I'll hold you in there so you can rest properly."

Quietly, your voice hoarse from your screams, you call to him as he walks to the bathroom again, "Thank you, Chris. You're the best."

"Only because it's you. I love you, Y/N."

[theragethatisdesire]

CONGRATS ON THE 1K DKFJSKDJF

can i get levi with the stay with me tonight prompt o.o (#8 i think :3)

HEY KAT HEY!!!! thank you so much jdkfaljdl i remember when you hit 1k and i was just so immensely proud of you and so happy to be moots and i still am!!! so thrilled to see you here<333

yeah you absoLUTELY can you are officially the first person to get me to write a levi drabble/fic and ofc it would be you that pulls it out of me

-

Reluctantly, you sit up, grimacing slightly at the scratch of the Survey Corp-issued sheets against your bare, oversensitive skin, at the ache deep in your bones and beneath your legs from a long day of training and a long night with him.

He's your Captain, you're his subordinate. It's inappropriate beyond measure, could easily ruin his career, but at this rate, you're not sure who needs this arrangement more. You aren't sure when it started, whether that be during sparring practice, pinned underneath him in full view of your comrades, on those long missions outside the walls watching each other be illuminated by a campfire, the one time you snapped back at him to the chagrin of everyone else around.

It started at some point, but you only know where it ended up, with you continuously sneaking out of your barracks and into his private captain's quarters, sliding beneath the sheets and letting him work sounds out of you that would make a prostitute blush.

You jump at the light pressure of a hand on your spine, not pressing, but a feather-light touch.

"What time is it?" Levi grumbles in that tousled, unbuttoned tone he gets only in moments like these. You relish it, love that for now, that voice is only for you, not for anyone else.

"Close to 1:00," you answer, eyes flicking over to the clock on the wall, "long day tomorrow?"

"Moreso for you than me," Levi props up on his elbows, and you make the mistake of turning over your shoulder to look at him, look at the way his muscles ripple under porcelain skin.

Your eyes draw to a particular scar on his ribs, the one you had hesitantly asked about on your first night together, the one you now know makes him shudder if you run your tongue over it. You avert your eyes instantly when a slow throb starts to build between your legs, despite the wreckage that already lies there.

"Why is that?"

"ODM review," Levi's eyes soften ever so slightly, an apology, "I have meetings with the Commander most of the day, so I need you and the squad to head over to the training area and teach the cadets how to check their ODM gear properly. There's been too many close calls during their training. Commander Erwin suspects that they weren't properly taught how to check their gear before heading up."

You groan, rubbing at your tired eyes. "I wish you would have told me that before I came over here. I'm exhausted."

"I'm sorry," Levi's voice is quiet, a little wounded. You can only sigh, knowing that trying to assure him that it was worth it, that you'd go weeks without sleep, without food, if it meant you could lay here with him only a few hours longer is fruitless.

"It's okay," you find yourself leaning over, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. It shocks both of you, you pulling back with wide eyes, a blush rising to the tips of Levi's ears. "Um, okay, well...I'll head out then. Sounds like we both need the rest."

Levi's lips tighten into a thin line, and he nods curtly. This is the pitfall of your arrangement with the Captain; eventually, the sun has to rise, and the moment has to be end. With certain death looming over your shoulder at the start of each day, you don't have the guts to tell him how you really feel, that it's all so much more than a stress-relieving hookup for you, especially when you doubt the Captain feels that way for you in return.

You slide out of his sheets, feeling incredibly exposed, and scrounge around on the floor for your uniform. Just as you're sliding the unbelievably un-sexy standard-issued underwear over your legs, Levi speaks again, rattles you to your core.

"Wait."

"Wait?" You turn to him, nose scrunched in confusion. Levi's eyes flit around the room, searching for anything that isn't your confused, naked form.

"Stay with me tonight." Even his posture as he says it is anxious, uncomfortable in a way you've never seen.

"Stay with you," you repeat slowly, "here?"

"Yes, here," Levi can't help but roll his eyes, "you need to catch up on your sleep. I wake up before everyone else on base, I can make sure you get back to your quarters without being seen. Stay with me."

"Why do you say it like it's an order?" You're stunned initially, your surprise eventually winding down into suspicion.

"You don't have to, I just- I- I want you to. Get some rest, I mean." Levi's face is hard, but his eyes are pleading. That same little flush is rising from his cheeks to his ears, betraying him. You raise an eyebrow at your Captain, trying to shove off the prickly, exciting feeling erupting all over your body.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Levi eyes you, eyebrows lifting in just the smallest admission of astonishment.

"I'll stay with you," you let your underwear fall back down your legs, clamber back into the bed with him, "for tonight."

Levi lets an arm fall around your waist, curls his body around yours, makes you shiver at the intimate nature of your position together. Just as your eyes begin to flutter closed, you feel the lightest little kiss on the nape of your neck.

[kitramune]

Kissing (Rating - T)

Here's a short InuKag drabble I wrote today. I was gonna post it for WIP Wednesday but I ended up considering it finished. Oh, well! This one was inspired by @shinidamachu and her campaign to reclaim the first kiss attempt as a proper InuKag moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kissing did not come naturally into Inuyasha's thoughts. Having grown up without much parental love, and even less romantic prospects, he didn't know if it ever would. He knew about kissing, of course. People did it all the time. Spouses, lovers, parents and their children, people even kissed their pets. But he'd never kissed anyone before – at least that he could remember. He'd definitely never been described as what one might call particularly loving.

But that day, in that moment, when Kagome had yelled in his face and made a big deal about her appearance – which he'd stopped thinking about if he was being honest – and whether he hated her – was she stupid? Why would he protect her and let her see his human form if he hated her?! - it did enter his mind. As swiftly and suddenly as this spitfire girl had come into his life, he found himself drawn to show her how she made him feel.

Her face was just so close. So perfectly shaped into that cute angry huff she got. They were way too close and he could suddenly think of nothing he wanted more than to lean in the extra few inches and learn what her lips would feel like pressed against his.

And why shouldn't he do it? He should totally do it. Just a little. To see if he even liked it. Who knows? It might be gross. Overrated. It'd be easy enough to find out.

He'd already told her she smelled good, so shouldn't he be more open? More honest about what he'd been feeling for her lately? She wouldn't stop going on about Kikyou, and it would at the very least be an effective way to shut her up. Right?

He grabbed her hand as gently as he could, tired of hearing her tirade. Hell, it hurt to hear she still didn't trust him after he'd bared his damn heart to her on his human night! Her eyes conveyed nothing but confusion at his action. Clearly she hadn't expected it. Yeah, well that made two of them, to be honest.

“You have it wrong...”

…

The second time he tried was admittedly way later than he'd meant it to be. Kagome was clearly not ready for kissing yet the first time, and he wanted to respect that. He did. Even if it drove him crazy sometimes! But hearing her reiterate her promise right before the final battle, well... It pulled at a deep-rooted longing in his chest. She wasn't going to leave him, even for her own safety. She wanted to stay with him forever. He wanted to stay with her forever. That's what people called marriage, right? So if he was proposing, he should kiss her too, right?

He wanted to. He wanted to so badly... He took her hand, just like last time. She still looked surprised, but not in the same way. She almost looked... expectant? And her hand was reciprocating his hold, just slightly, if not a little sweaty, showing her anxiety.

“Then, if that's what you want... I swear on my life to protect you.”

…

Kagome's giggle rang in his senses as Inuyasha nibbled at her ear, pressing her up against the outer wall of Kaede's hut. She'd been back with him for three days and he swore it was impossible to keep his hands off her. He'd never figured himself for the kind of man who would be this insatiable just to kiss his woman, but here they were, laughing in hushed voices and stealing touches when they were supposed to be working.

“Y'know,” Kagome grinned, returning his affections by kissing at his neck, “You'd better cut that out, cuz if you don't stop soon, I won't let you stop at all.”

Inuyasha groaned, dipping his head to press their lips together in one last taste before he had to let her go. “Don't remind me I have to travel out of province today... If I back out, that lech will catch on and never let us hear the end of it.”

“You better get going so we can afford our own home quickly, then.”

“Yeah,” he sighed in resignation. “Yeah, you're right.”

His wife waved him goodbye with far too much amusement cheer for his liking, and to his credit he did make it a few steps away from her... But then he cursed and rushed back to sweep her up into another deep kiss, eliciting more laughter from the woman now back in his arms.

“Just saying goodbye properly,” he growled.

She nodded through the kisses before managing to speak. “Come home soon, Inuyasha.”

“Yeah. I'll be back home before you know it.”

[rosesradio]

Hi! I don't know if this fits into a 400-word drabble. But I've had this idea for Halloween.

Percy, Nico and Jason got cursed (or something) before Halloween. They became around 5-7 y/o so they go like:

Percy: Where are we? I'm scared.

Nico: It's okay, we can play and have fun!

Jason: I'll protect you!

Demigods (CJ or CHB) 'babysit' them and the kids of the Big Three go trick-or-treating 🥹

(idk how it ends tho—whether they become closer friends or lead to romance or just them as kids is up to you 😅)

It was all Nico's fault. He was the one who has snuck into the Hecate cabin and stole the spellbook.

Camp Half-Blood, along with the Anthesteria festival they did in late January, did trick-or-treating amongst the cabins. It was for all ages, especially considering how many of the campers missed out on important activities in their childhoods. Even so, it was unspoken practice that only the younger campers participated. Campers older than thirteen, for fear of being made fun of, usually stuck to handing out candy from their cabin.

Nico was one of these campers. Percy and Jason expected him to leave his light off and shut out all of the trick-or-treaters. The son of Hades, revealing the spellbook he'd stolen, was planning quite the opposite.

"It's a limitless spell," Nico explained, showing off one of the yellowed pages. "Only as powerful as its castor, but…I figured I could summon unlimited candy. Then my cabin would win."

Percy narrowed his eyes. "I don't think there's such a thing as winning in this…"

Nico blinked at him, catlike. "Well, at least my cabin would be the least likely to be egged."

Percy, remembering how badly the Athena cabin had been egged after handing out toothbrushes, simply nodded in agreement.

Nico then instructed the three of them to place their hands on the book as he recited the spell. With their collective power, they would probably be able to complete the spell despite their lack of experience. The trio closed their eyes, and with a flash of purple lighting, the spell was complete.

"Oh, gods," Jason murmured, rubbing his head. His hand felt…strangely small. He pulled it away, looking at both hands. "Oh, gods…my hands! What happened to my hands!"

"Your hands?" Percy asked. "Listen to your voice! Listen to…my voice. Why does my voice sound so…" Coming to a stand, Percy stumbled over to Nico's bathroom, standing on tipped-toes to look in the mirror. "Oh, gods! Why am I…?" He teared up automatically, sniffling as he wiped his eyes. "Nico, what did you do?" He demanded.

The son of Hades was silent, looking over the spellbook urgently. "I can't read this…I can't read in English…why can't I read in English?"

Jason took the book from Nico. Despite his own suddenly lackluster reading comprehension, he managed to get through the new information. "It's a child hex," he explained. "Because Nico stole the book, and…" he fought off his own impulse to cry. "It brings your mind back to being a little kid. It's gonna last two to four hours…"

"Two to four hours?" Percy cried. "What are we gonna do?"

"It's okay," Jason reassured the others. "I can still fight off bad guys! I'll product us until the spell goes away!"

"Oh!" Nico perked up. Reverting back to his younger self seemed to wash away most of his child-of-Hades nature. "I know what we can do now! We can go trick-or-treating!"

The campers had a lot of questions about the state of Jason, Percy, and Nico, though they had also seen their fair share of curses. Needless to say, they were a hit at camp; they each returned to their cabin with pillowcases full of candy.

[meowzfordayz]

ALRIGHT T. TENGEN WITH PROMPT 15. the song kind of implies nsfw so we'll go with that please 💖

MILESTONE 5.0

Hiya! 💗 I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING YOUR DRABBLE. Lowkey felt like it was turning into a one shot, but it was actually shorter than I thought. 😆 Def my fave Tengen fanfic that I've written (thus far) !! 🥳

You’re moving different when we making love, baby tell me, tell me, who do you love, do you love now? — Who Do You Love

CW: 18+NSFW, explicit language, Fem!Reader, implied cheating, oral

Tengen knows he should call you out on your bullshit, just as he knows you’ve always been sensitive. You’ve always giggled when he pinches your earlobe, bright sound hitching as he leans closer, low whimper in your throat at the feeling of his tongue sliding smooth and soft from your tragus to the corner of your jaw. Just as you’ve always gasped into his mouth when he pulls you flush to his chest, breasts warm, nipples perking at the friction from his shirt, hands memorizing the tautness of his obliques as he cups your head, the curve of your ass. And you’ve always, always parted your legs for him: large palm shoved between your thighs, most of your weight supported by his build as you lean into him, unsure whether to grind onto his fingers, or to wait patiently as they graze over and over and over again, just barely applying enough pressure, and—intentionally—missing the ache in your clit.

He’s always been good, great, at frustrating you. Sexually. Finally tugging aside your panties—Please Tengen, I swear I fucking, just, p-please—smirking at their dampness, the stickiness of your essence. Always savoring a taste, eyes closing at your bittersweet pleasure, promptly returning for More, grinning into your kiss as you wiggle until his sweatpants fall off of your hips. You’ve always enjoyed “borrowing” his clothes. He knows your body, your moods, as well as he knows his own. In tandem, in sync. Carrying you to the bedroom, your ankles hooked behind him, tits bouncing slightly, precum leaking—tip smearing on your skin—with every step. Locating the nearest piece of furniture, bending you over it, quietly asking you to spread your cheeks, knowing your folds will always glisten, puffy and lewd, when you do. Too impatient, dangerous groan filling the living room as you get on all fours, ass presented prettily, even prettier after he slaps it, dropping to his knees so he can bury his face in your cunt, initially careful about jostling you, eventually too pussydrunk to remember. You always end up with rug burn.

He knows he should call you out on your bullshit, just as he knows you’ve never rejected him. Sure, you’ve said No. He’s said No too. Sometimes, the tandem wobbles. Sometimes, snuggling on the couch while your current obsession plays on the TV, or while reading a book, or while listening to music, or while taking a nap, is better than making love. Falling back in love is always better than fucking. Until now.

Until he learns that rejection doesn’t just sting. It decays. Decays the suppleness of your pussy suffocating his cock. And the satisfaction of your eyes welling as you struggle to deep throat him, spit dripping messy and shiny beneath you.

“C’mon baby, you can do it, hm, you’re so good for me,” he murmurs, one hand keeping your hair out of your face, the other keeping you gagged on his cock, tip twitching at your wet, choked noises.

“I-” you pull away sharply, something unfamiliar sunken dark and stiff in your glare, “I don’t want to.”

And then he knows.

Of course, it’s fine if you’re not in the mood. It’s fine if he’s accidentally pushed you too hard. It’s fine if you need a moment to reset. To reassess. To reassure each other.

But what does he do when you’re looking through him?

What does he do when you’re lukewarm to the touch?

What does he say?

What can he say?

Tengen knows he should call you out on your bullshit, just as he knows you’ll still promise I love you.

Always?

Always.

[chounaifu]

I’m really glad that those asks I sent out are being well-received. There’s still a few more that I need to write up, but, I’m pacing myself. :’)

Thoughts about my own current state beneath the cut, since my therapist always encourages me to open up to the people in my space. Some of it can be potentially triggering, so, please do not open if the discussion of trauma, stalking and abuse is harmful to you:

I’ve been vocal about the horrifying, traumatic stuff that caused me to leave the RPC in 2017, to a few of you before. Without going into deep detail, between the years of 2017-2021, I was trapped in an extremely, extremely abusive relationship with a member of the RPC who is no longer here, thank fuck. Because of my poor coping skills and extremely fragile mental health at the time, he managed to keep me in a social isolation until I finally left him in 2021. And I mean true social isolation; I wasn’t allowed to talk to anybody but him. (I literally had to lie and pretend like I was having internet troubles if I even wanted to open up another chat box on Discord to talk to somebody, because he would literally point out the amount of minutes it took for me to respond to him.) He tracked my location in real time with GPS. He controlled what I ate when we spent time together irl. He forced me to quit one of my jobs before, because he wasn’t pleased with how busy I was. Any free time I had, had to be given to him. I had no identity, no autonomy, no sense of self.

Since I left him in 2021, I’ve been in a long process of learning how to be a human being again, how to exist around multiple people, and how to monitor my energy levels. It’s been hard, and, there’s a lot of times where I have to learn that I am adapting to an entirely new way of life. I used to be able to write a lot of thread replies, ask replies, and drabbles in a short period of time, but, my brain just does not do that anymore. And it makes me sad, but, I know that my RP partners understand my situation.

I cannot emphasis how much going from *one* person to— well, a lot of good friends has been good for me, but also a difficult experience in itself, because I’m still fighting with my own hypersensitivity and paranoia.

Choosing to come back here was one of the scariest decisions I have ever made. And, even though I don’t vocalize it, I actively fight trauma responses every single time I open Tumblr— not because anybody is doing anything to me, but because the experience I went through was so deep.

That’s why I’ve been trying to take a minute to sit down, and send some nice words to everybody. You never know what somebody is going through. *Nobody* knew what I was going through, because I hid it so well— because I was forced to. We’re all human beings, on this rock, and we all chose to sit here and write, whether because it is a coping mechanism, something we’re passionate about, or because it’s simply fun. And I think that’s really, really beautiful.

I don’t think I’m ever going to be the same, energetic Rex that I once was. And I wish I could be. But that is okay.

So, for the people who welcomed me back, and remembered me: thank you for accepting my return, and accepting my apology.

And for the people who didn’t know me, who have become my friend lately: thank you for giving me a chance.

I’ve lost a lot of people, both friends and family, in the past decade or so. Nobody can fill those gaps, but, you guys make me feel a lot less lonely. Believe it or not, I don’t have many friends irl, and I really don’t know what I would be doing with myself right now if I hadn’t chosen to come back to Tumblr.

I wish there was more I could do to help uplift everybody who has been having a difficult time lately, I really, really do. But, at the end of the day, I cannot; what I can do, is point out that there’s at least *one* person out there who wants to see the best happen for you.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I just want to be a good person, despite of the horrible things I was called by my abuser, and I hope I am doing that.

[anerea-lantiria]

3 Things

@naryaflame thanks for tagging me and making me think of three things to share that I'm proud of from 2022...

... which I'm finding surprisingly difficult! I have no regrets, and there are things I'm happy about, yet nothing I'm consciously proud of.

Hmmm, let's see... *goes off and ponders; returns right before bedtime two days later* ...

One thing stands out, and it's a personal rather than fandom thing: learning to let seemingly hurtful or malicious things aimed at me by my mother — who is evidently sliding into dementia — slide themselves. Actually what I'm doing is reinterpreting them as things she's saying to make herself feel better, rather than as things intended to make me feel bad. She's used this for as long as I can remember, she's just far less subtle about it now. I'm not always successful, but when I am she becomes the kinder person she really is, and I think it's her (messed up but aren't we all) way of checking that she's still loved no matter what. (Of course it's a lot more complicated and nuanced than this, but this is just a brief tumblr post after all.)

Another two things that occur to me are connected: the is first allowing myself to let the artists of two of my three adopted Scribbles & Drabbles claims know, the day before reveals, that I was unable to submit their promised fics in time. I had been struggling with unidentified illness for months and was pretty much at the lowest point of my year then. I had allowed myself months to rest, believing I'd recover enough in time, but things worsened. I was going to push myself to force something out, but realised I was allowed to be affected by things affecting me, to be gentle on myself. Which is not an easy thing for me to do. (And for many people, I know! Even — and maybe especially — when we're the ones telling others to put their wellbeing first!)

The third thing is my brain promptly going "fuck that!" and writing ficlets for said adopted Scribbles & Drabbles artworks, with the words for one finally flowing till it was done at 3am, and then starting the other from 5am after a short sleep. (Who needs drugs when one's brain is over-efficient at producing cortisol and adrenalin, and shakes one awake saying "I have words!!! Grab your laptop!"?) Letting others down is anathema to me, and being told (or admitting) that I can't do something only acts as a motivator for me.

(I'm not sure whether the last two are things to be proud of, whether they actually cancel each other other out, or add up to something greater than the sum of their parts!?)

Anyway, that's about the most personal post you're likely to see from me on Tumblr!

I'm interested to know three things you're proud of from 2022 (if you'd like to share) @cuarthol, @melestasflight, @cycas, @polutrope, @lucifers-cuvette, @arizonapoppy, @elennalore, @starspray, @undercat-overdog, @unnamedelement, and anyone else who hasn't already been tagged and who would like to share.

[princessplantasaurus]

Sooooo Bobbery Drabble for nostalgia’s sake? 👀 here’s a prompt if you wanna use it: used to work together a few years ago, lost touch, now both back in town without the other knowing, and ran into each other at the same location

Bob wasn't planning on staying in that particular church very long. He just...didn't live in the city.

Well, technically, he did. But only while in university. On winter and summer breaks he'd return home and attend church in the congregation he grew up in.

But he was still a regular church goer through the school semesters. And with how well he seemed to do with the kids...when he was approached and asked to volunteer with Sunday School and youth ministry...how could he say no?

His favorite were the school aged kids. A boy named Tom, the son of an older member of the church who was affectionately called 'Pa' by most was his favorite, even if he wasn't supposed to have those.

The day he met Megan, however, he was not with the school aged children. He'd been pulled to help with the three year olds, and while cute, they were an entirely different task.

He'd been in the middle of reminding a pair of twins, Katrina and Sabrina, who'd been fighting over a doll, that sharing was caring, and that they could play with the toy together, when one of the other adults stepped in. "You should both be very thankful you have a sister to play dolls with." she spoke sweetly. "After all, your other sister probably isn't very good at playing with them at her little age, is she?"

"All she does is cry and poop." Sabrina agreed.

Katrina sighed. "You're right, Miss Megan. Sorry sis."

"Is okay!" Sabrina grinned. "We can share!"

"Thanks." Bob smiled, standing up to be on eye level with the woman. "Do you know these girls outside of...?"

"Not really." Megan shrugged. "I'm usually helping in the nursery. That's where my own son is, so I'm usually taking care of their baby sister."

"Oh!" Bob was...surprised. She didn't look much older than he did. He was only in his second year of university. He definitely thought he was too young for kids but...maybe God just had a different path for her. He glanced down, noticing the wedding ring on her finger. Figured, she was pretty. Really pretty. "I'm not usually in here either, I'm normally with the grade twos."

"You're fairly new to the congregation, no?" she asked, Bob only now noticing the French accent she spoke with.

He nodded. "I go to university near by. My roommate Larry and I both are from out of town, so we started coming to this church together."

"Larry..." she spoke slowly, and then, as if a lightbulb lit up above her "...the lanky one in the choir?"

"That's the one!" Bob laughed.

"My husband is in choir with him." she smiled. "Apparently the boy's got quite the natural gift."

"He's always singing." Bob noted. "Whether it's worship music, something on the radio, or a song he made up when he can't find his hairbrush."

"It's nice to have a musical household." she smiled, before suddenly snapping "Rosie! We do not throw things at our friends!"

They never did work together after that. But they knew each other - making small talk every other Sunday. Bob continued to volunteer until his graduation, both he and Larry moving once again, this time to the big city pursue their dreams of show business.

It wasn't until five years after that - eight year since their initial meeting - that they'd run into each other again.

Bob had been grabbing a latte on his way home, when a familiar blonde with a school aged son caught his eye in the line up. "Sorry...there's no chance that you're...?"

"My, my." She smirked. "Do my eyes deceive me? Look who made it to the big city after all."

"Haven't left." he nodded. "Larry's still here, too."

"Oh, Francois," she turned towards the child. "Do you remember Larry? From church when you were just a little one?" as the boy nodded shyly, Megan explained "Well this is Bob. He would help with Sunday School and youth ministry with me. He was Larry's best friend back then-"

"I still am!" He grinned. "We work on a show together - I kinda run the whole thing..."

"Quite the accomplishment!" she smiled. "If you're ever open for visitors, I'd love to swing by and see you and Larry."

"Absolutely! You, Francois, your husband..."

An awkward silence fell over the group. Francois looked to his mother sadly, before Megan gently explained "He isn't with us anymore."

"Oh." Bob blinked. "I'm sorry to hear that." trying to brighten the mood, he more cheerfully added "Well, my offer still stands for the two of you-"

"We'd like that very much." she smiled warmly.

Grabbing a napkin, Bob quickly jotted down his phone number. "Whenever you wanna stop by, just give a call! Larry and I would both love to see you!"

A playful smile tugging at her lips given the physicality of what he'd just done, she teased "And what if I wanted to call you for other reasons?"

[skaerial]

Reassurance

AfterRiders AU Drabble!! Characters: Fleetway(AU) & Keira (w/ Runihura, Mysta, Siegfried, Scorch, & Brutus)

“All challengers, ready up!”

The crowd roared in response to the voice that bleared from the speakers. “Hurry up! It’s starting!” Amongst the crowd, a group of four: a pink cat, a blue tiger, a red lion, and a thresher shark took their respective seats. They began searching for their friends who were competing in this race — the cat’s arms flailing about as she pointed in the direction of a yellow hedgehog. “There they are!”

Fleetway exhaled. Months of training had boiled down to this very moment. He narrowed his eyes at the starting line, seeing other racers beginning to take their spots. In the midst of the crowd he could easily spot the blue quills that belonged to their most problematic opponent: Sonic. Turning his head, the yellow hedgehog merely sneered. Fleetway wasn’t afraid of anything; he’ll take down the blue blur himself.

As he glanced at his two other team members, he locked eyes with Runihura, who had just finished putting on his gloves. “Remember the plan,” Runihura mumbled in passing, giving Fleetway a fist bump as the thorny devil moved to take his position behind the starting line. Of course, Fleetway thought. No need to tell me twice.

With that, his attention rested upon a purple hedgehog, sat atop her bike. Her face was scrunched in a frown, as she slipped her helmet on. She was so deep in her own thoughts she didn’t even notice Fleetway approaching her.

“Oi Kei, chill out will you?” he bent down to her eye level, hands resting on her bike.

Flinching, Keira gave him a sheepish smile, “How can I relax when we’re going up against all of the pros? Sonic is there… Blaze is there…” Gripping her bike’s handle, she chewed on her lip anxiously.

“You’re also forgetting that they’re also going against each other,” he replied easily. “They’re not going to be barraging us with attacks all the time. And plus, you have us.”

“Mm… I guess you’re right. Raidon didn’t make the plan for us to follow on baseless assumptions either… everything was so well thought out.”

Fleetway sighed, chuckling. He put a hand on the top of her helmet, making her look at him dead in the eye. “Kei. You’re doing it again; you’re overthinking,” he grinned. “Focus on me for a bit yeah? Hear me out.”

Taking her silence as a sign to continue, he began, “We didn’t accept you into the team just because Mysta said so. It was also a matter of whether you’re capable of taking her place. Honestly, while seeing you struggle with almost every form of extreme gear was hilarious, we didn’t think you had what it took to be a part of the team.” Fleetway’s expression morphed into a more serious one, before sighing, “But after seeing you on this very bike, killing it in your first race, the deal was sealed. Before you even begin doubting your abilities, remember that you’re more capable than you think, so don’t sell yourself short, okay? The team needs you.”

Fleetway then pointed to the stands, over at the group of four that had recently taken their seats earlier. “Look. Mysta is there, Siegfried is there, Scorch is there, and Brutus is there. They’re there for us; for your very first race in the finals of the pro league,” glancing back at a wide-eyed Keira, he continued, “So show them what you got, miss I-still-can’t-use-a-hoverboard.”

Keira pushed Fleetway lightly at his tease, unamused at his unwillingness to let the joke go. The purple hedgehog then hopped off her bike, moving to tackle Fleetway into a hug. “You’re never gonna let that go aren’t you?” She mumbled embarrassedly into his chest, feeling him laugh loudly in response. “Thank you, idiot. I feel much better now.”

Fleetway returned the gesture, before picking her up and placing her back on the bike. “Though I have one last question,” Keira narrowed her eyes at the yellow hedgehog. “Did you really have to piss Sonic off?”

He leaned closer to her face with a cocky smirk, “The blue bitch needs to get his priorities straight from the get go.” Retracting, Fleetway turned tail, casually walking away to the starting line.

“THAT’S SO VAGUE!” Keira retorted, revving her bike to catch up to him. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!”

Fleetway only snickered in response, “You’ll see!”

[unicyclehippo]

You’ve been nailing it with these last drabbles! If you’re looking for prompts, taste?

'this is the tree?'

orym looks grave. appropriate. or not, seeing as laudna never got one.

the tempest rests her hand against gnarled bark. smiling, she says, 'this is the sun tree. the sign of whitestone and a very old friend. and-'

'- where she was hanged,' imogen interrupts.

orym, at her knee, sends her a look of... it's not reproach. it's gentler than that. disapproval, maybe.

the tempest blinks. beneath her antlers—imogen can't tell if they're growing out of her head or whether it's a headress—her calm expression twists. still calm but weightier, lined with grief, memory.

'it was a different whitestone. the same tree, but,' her fingers stroke gently along the ridged bark. 'you wouldn't recognise it if you had seen it then. it was dying, like everything else here.'

imogen, too close and too frayed to close her mind, is surprised—angry—to catch sorrow in her thoughts. for the tree. laudna had been hanged - had actually died back then but her sorrow is for the tree?

the tempest continues. 'i am sorry for not warning you. my ability requires a certain type of tree - size, mostly, but age and power doesn't hurt - and this is... well. in closest proximity. we are in a hurry, aren't we?'

imogen wants to tell her that this has nothing to do with her. she bites her tongue instead, hard, and recasts a spell to calm her mind.

green eyes catch the subtle motion of her hand and they sharpen, wary, before recognition blooms. she looks like she wants to say something. imogen sets her chin stubbornly; the tempest looks away first.

'from what i understand, you need help bringing a friend back.' she looks sidelong. out of the corner of her eye, imogen sees a bundle of yellow. 'i've sent ahead to my friend - a cleric - who can help with this sort of thing.'

'they've done it before?' FCG asks.

'she has.'

'and she'll help? she's - willing?' orym adds. 'we asked - we asked a lot of people and they all said this kind of thing is a miracle and protected. but you've done it before, for me, tempest -'

'she'll help, if she can,' the tempest says, and then smiles. 'hello, orym.'

orym returns the smile like the moon reflecting the sun. he stands taller, as though a weight has been lifted, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. a little colour returns to his face, wan and drawn as it has been.

'tempest.' he bows low—tries to, at least, but she catches him. curls her fingers around his shoulder and holds him tall.

'you're not my guard anymore, orym—you don't need to bow.'

'you didn't let me bow then, either. if i remember right, you said you'd lose me under everyone.'

the tempest's cheeks flame red.

imogen doesn't like it. it's too - it's too normal a thing for someone who is going to help them perform a miracle.

'that wasn't- you - i did when you were a guard,' she says, nearly splutters. 'that was when you were ten. and it was a legitimate concern back then,' she says with a little laugh, holding her hand down around her knee, and it makes orym smile broaden into a grin, a cheeky expression, light-hearted. rare for him, usually so solemn.

a fire burns in imogen's belly. all week she's been feeding it—fear and anger and guilt and guilt and guilt—and it has kept it all at bay, kept her going when she wanted to curl up in the dark and. stop. but not, they're talking—orym, her friend, laudna's friend and this - this miracle woman, his perfect hero leader - and they're talking and laughing like they haven't a care in the world, like the world isn't fucking broken. the fire flares, crackles in her belly, her chest, her hands.

'this reminiscin' is real swell,' imogen says, tone scorched dry. cracking. 'real fun. but i'd like to do something. now, if that's alright with you. or do we have to wait for everyone to hug and introduce themselves first?'

'imogen—'

'don't. don't try and calm me down because i am already calm, orym. laudna is—' imogen swallows. that word - that awful word - tastes like ash and embers, burns all the way down. 'we have to do something.'

'we are. she brought us here, where laudna's going to have the best chance—' he stops when his tempest touches his shoulder again.

'i should have explained,' the tempest says, and imogen can tell from her intent that it is part apology and part anchor point, weighted steadiness. it might even have been calming, as intended, if not for the fact that it was way too fucking little, way too fucking late. 'my friend isn't in whitestone.' she forestalls six exclamations with a raised hand. 'as soon as she sends back to me that she is ready, i will bring her through.' she pats the tree again.

'how long-'

'once i hear from her, she will arrive as quickly as we did. just a few seconds. after that...' the tempest shakes her head. the gesture dislodges a flower nestled in her antlers; it falls from its perch and drifts to the ground, disappears behind one enormous root of the tree. 'i would only be guessing.'

from where he is perched on a massive knot of roots, chetney says, 'guess, then. you're the awesomely insanely powerful one here, aren't you?'

orym tenses at his tone but the tempest doesn't even blink.

'this afternoon or tomorrow, if all goes well.'

'this afternoon?'

'if all goes well,' the tempest emphasizes.

imogen nods jerkily. 'this afternoon,' she says again under her breath, squeezes her eyes tight. 'this afternoon. this afternoon.' nerves chew at the tight leash she keeps lashed around her control; when it frays—again—imogen twists her hands at her side, lets her power grip her emotions in a tight fist and lock them down. 'this afternoon.'

for a moment, everyone stands still and silent. no one wants to speak; no one wants to break the moment, delicate as spun glass. they hold it, hold their breath, and let themselves think - hope - that by the time sets their little family will be complete once more.

imogen feeds her brimming hope into the fire before it can break her spell.

//

they wait. five minutes. ten minutes. imogen has to step away—her eyes keep returning to the tempest, lingering, searching for any sign of doubt, any sign of disappointment that might come from the other end of her sending—but moving away doesn't help at all because the sun tree looms over them and imogen keeps searching the branches like there will be a - a plaque or something, some sign that this is where it happened. she rubs at her eye, jabs her thumb into the painful spot beneath her brow and presses hard in a vain hope that it'll help ease the mounting pressure.

ashton shoulders up beside imogen; he's light on his feet and she doesn't notice until he says,

'hey.'

'hey, ash.' imogen's eyes dart over to them. 'you alright?'

they snort. 'stole my question.' imogen stares at them, wills herself to say yes, say something. ashton nods. 'yeah. me neither.'

'does your head hurt after last night?' he just looks at her and she qualifies, 'does it hurt any worse than normal?'

'nah.'

'good. good.' imogen rubs at her eye. drops her hand to her side and strokes a finger over pate's beak.

'can i ask you something?'

imogen tilts her head. it's not a nod, because she can't muster one, but close enough.

'what did you mean? about the tree?'

pain flares behind her eyes. imogen squeezes her eyes shut, hisses.

'fuck. shit - are you okay?'

she doesn't answer. 'laudna died. ages ago, decades ago. this is where it happened.'

'fuck.'

'like. this tree.'

'fuck.'

imogen laughs, just a little huff of air out her nose. 'yeah. that about sums it up.' she looks at the tree. looks at the tempest—still waiting. 'she was there.'

'the tempest?'

'mhm.'

ashton pauses to think about it. then says, heartfelt, 'fuck.'

//

they have been waiting close to an hour when the tempest stands to her feet and tilts her head, eyes going glassy in that way imogen often sees when she is speaking into someone's mind. then, she smiles.

'she's ready. stand back, please. watch your feet mister pock-o-pea.'

'better move, chet, or imogen'll shove you,' fearne teases, and the gnome grumbles but scrambles away from the trunk, down and over the roots until he's standing with the rest of them.

the tempest lifts her staff, touches the gnarled top of it to the trunk; again, they all watch as the bark shifts, wood grain buckling and bowing, and it creaks and groans and splits, green light spilling from the oval gateway.

in a matter of seconds, a small figure—blonde, gnomish, armoured—steps through the gate, which buckles at the edges before it slams shut behind them with a hideous groan of wood, like trees contorting in a fierce wind, moments from breaking. imogen doesn't remember that happening when they came through; she cuts a look over at the tempest and finds her leaning hard on her staff, face grey with exhaustion.

'keyleth. you look awful.'

the tempest laughs. immediately stoops to collect the hug offered to her. 'yeah, well, you treestride three times in a day and tell me how you feel after.'

'three times?'

'it was necessary.'

'we've talked about over-exerting yourself-'

'pike,' the tempest interrupts, gently. 'i'm alright. but our guests are not.'

at that, the newcomer—pike—finally looks around herself. she takes them all in and their keen, knowing look in her eyes that is somehow understanding instead of judgemental, assessing.

'oh dear. that's a lot of unhappy faces,' she says, voice sweet. 'hi there, i'm pike. i'm the head cleric of sarenrae, the everlight, here in whitestone. what's going on?'

with a look to imogen, and a gentle smile when the words stick in her throat, unmoving, orym says, tone reverent, 'blessed of the everlight, we have - a problem.'

'a lot of problems,' ashton adds.

chetney grunts, shoots a stern look across the party. 'but one immediate problem, right?'

'right. kind of a - a big problem, and it's - ashton, do you have her?' fearne asks softly.

pike frowns, looking between them all as they talk but don't say anything. then her eyes are on imogen and imogen can't breathe because the cleric is as reassuring as she is powerful—it hangs around her like a heat haze, her power, and it's terrifying because imogen has spent the last week in exhaustion, casting and recasting on herself to stay calm and the very moment this - this cleric, this healer turns up, her calm is gone and she feels—everything. everything. her power wraps around imogen like a warm hug and it's awful because peace ought to be cold, a cold hug, a cold hand on her cheek, a cold kiss against her forehead, and her calm shatters.

imogen cries out, lurches back with hand raised as if to ward off an attack. a shield, weak, fizzles around her even, instinctual.

'imogen?' ashton sounds startled but his hand is already on his hammer, resigned to the fact that this cleric, their best hope, is attacking them.

'it's fine,' she gasps, 'i'm fine, i'm fine.'

pike is still staring but imogen ignores her, fights against the invasive press of eyes on her to recast her calm. it holds but barely, and it makes her stomach lurch when she realises what it feels like. a sheet of glass dividing her mind. her eyes flicker to ashton, unwillingly, but she doesn't stop the spell. she drags in a breath, fortifies herself. then meets pike's eyes.

'our friend is gone. she - we need her back. i - we need her back. i'll do anything. money, a - a favour, anything.'

the cleric nods but doesn't linger long on her vehemence. 'when you say gone,'

'she's dead,' FCG tells her. imogen closes her eyes. 'we couldn't - i revived fearne,'

'and i revived orym,' fearne says, taking his hand. 'but i couldn't - we could only bring one person back.'

the cleric nods again. 'that sounds terrible.' the words are trite but there's so much warmth and understanding again that a part of imogen softens, relents.

it was terrible. it is terrible. and it still hurts, still feels like the world is breaking, broken, but this powerful cleric sees their hurt and somehow it helps, a little. it's a relief. after so many no's, the fact that she hasn't said no is—it's a relief.

'well. i can't do anything here,' pike says, and claps her hands sharply. 'the chapel is prepared for this sort of thing—'

'pike, wait - hold on.' the tempest kneels, whispers in her ear.

'oh.'

'what? what is it?' imogen demands.

pike gestures to ashton and his bundle. 'may i look at her?'

'why?'

the cleric raises her hands in surrender, peace. she steps forward; imogen wavers, not wanting to be caught in the balm of her presence again but unable to abandon lauda. again. she locks her knees in place and stays, breathes out shakily as she is enveloped in that gentle heat.

ashton lays laudna down, cradles her shoulders in one arm and unwraps the cloth with their other hand.

pike stares down at her. 'i see it,' she murmurs, looks across at keyleth with a nod. 'can you send to—'

'i already did. they'll meet us at the chapel.'

imogen's fingers twist in her handkerchief. 'what are you talkin' about? are you - did you bring us all the way here to tell us you won't help?'

'no. i want to help - i will help,' pike assures her. 'but you need to know, your friend - she's undead.'

'she's not—'

'i'm sorry but she is.'

'she's not,' imogen snarls. 'she's wonderful and vibrant and alive, she's more alive than anyone else in the world.' when the cleric just stares at her sadly, the fire in imogen's belly reaches a point where heat turns to power and she reaches out, her hand and her mind, and connects her mind with pike's. not digging in, not delving, but opening her own instead. opening it, pouring it out—glass shattering, calm shattering—so that pike can see - see laudna as she walks, talks, breathes, eats and sleeps. see laudna laugh, mischievous, as they spook a traveller out of their gold. see laudna cry, from hurt, from fear. see laudna at her side, earnest and sweet and good. the images come fast, two years worth of laudna, of a cool balm against her senses, of kindness unconditional, of trust and everything else that imogen cannot, will not, put into words but which pike can see and sense regardless.

pike lifts her hand. with a pulse of magic, the connection is severed. ended, gently.

'please,' imogen says, voice cracking, and drops to her knees next to laudna. takes her cold hand between both of her own. 'please help us. please.'

[moorishflower]

Hob Gadling vs. The Devil (Dreamling, rated E)

in coming to the conclusion that I'm physically incapable of writing "a drabble," here, have a Husbands "drabble" where Hob metaphorically sucker-punches the devil

"Tell me again why I'm doing this?" Hob asks, he thinks for the third or fourth time, and Dream, to his great credit, doesn't roll his eyes. He only puts his hands on Hob's shoulders, steers him gently towards the bedroom. Hob can't delay any longer -- he's brushed his teeth, he's showered, he's done all his normal nightly ablutions, and now there's just. The sleeping.

The Dreaming, just beyond it.

"Because you are my husband," Dream says, "my consort. You share the heart of the Dreaming. To not be seen at an event such as this would reflect poorly upon us both."

"I didn't pick a fight with the devil." Hob's voice has gone a bit spare and reedy at the end there, which he thinks is a perfectly reasonable response to one's husband telling you that 'by the way, the important work function I've mentioned that I need you to attend, it's going to be full of demons and also literal Satan.' The throb of his anxiety sits like a humming bowstring between them, anchored from Hob's chest to somewhere deep and distant inside Dream. Yet Hob knows he could reach out and stroke that far-flung place, if he wanted -- for him, the distance hardly matters.

Dream's hand on his shoulder gentles; the bed is so close, yet he stops, and turns Hob towards him.

"You are afraid."

And this is perhaps one of the stupidest things Dream has ever said to him, and Hob includes his final words before his disappearance a century ago, what boiled down to 'be right back love, just going to pop around to the shops' and then a solid nothing after that. "Yes," he says slowly, "I'm afraid. I've only. You've only just gotten out. Of that place. A human did that to you. A stupid old man with a book and too much money. This is Satan we're talking about. How much worse can they do?"

"There are rules." Dream sounds like he's trying to soothe an anxious dog, barking at a thunderstorm. Perhaps to him it's as simple as that, but Hob still remembers a time when he feared for his immortal soul. Remembers too keenly the path he walked to return a spark of power to Dream, held for a century underground. It's been two months. Two months. He thinks he's entitled to worry.

But Dream pulls him towards the bed, and he's no longer budging Hob along, but gently beckoning, and Hob feels that humming tether between them grow looser, grow liquid with wanting. Dream, pouring into him what comfort he's able to provide.

(Like a Vulcan mind meld? Hob had asked, hand resting over the dense knot of scar tissue, still scraped-raw from fang and mouth. Dream, skeptical, had demanded access to all of Hob's dreams of Vulcans and their abilities, but had eventually concluded that the comparison, while crude, was not inaccurate.)

"Come," Dream says, "to sleep. You will come to no harm in my realm."

"It's not me I'm worried about. Can't die, remember? I assume that means in my sleep, too."

Dream tugs him down onto the bed, languidly indulgent; he's taken to wearing Hob's clothes when they spend the night together, regardless of whether it's sleeping or visiting the Dreaming. He's purloined an ancient T. Rex shirt this time around, stretched and worn so thin it falls like water to the middle of Dream's thighs. He's not wearing anything underneath it. This is a significantly better incentive for Hob to come to bed than the idea of going to meet actual Lucifer at a party.

Dream stretches out first, lets Hob climb down beside him before he tangles them together, like snakes, like strands of silk. He sighs when Hob tucks his thigh between his legs.

"Sleep," he says, "or we shall be late."

"No quickie for your anxious husband?"

Dream purses his lips, and Hob is initially hopeful it's for a kiss. In retrospect, the sand should probably have been his first guess.

+++

The Dreaming is a wild bustle, but Hob's not allowed the pleasure of experiencing the party from the ground floor. There are rules, Dream had said, and those rules apparently include Hob getting kitted up in the most elaborate finery he's ever seen and then standing at attention next to Dream while a series of truly nightmare-inducing creatures file through the Palace's gates.

("Your raiments suit you," Dream says. His fingers fold in origami complexity along Hob's throat, where the collar of his outfit cuts an odd angle against his skin. It's something like armor, and something like the robes of a priest, all in spun cloth-of-gold and bloody crimson, accents of saintly white, amber that drips down the length of his neck and from each ear but never completes its fall.

"I ought to be wearing your colors," he says, and Dream hums softly, and kisses him.

"Later," he promises, "you will wear me and nothing else.")

He holds this memory tightly to him as the creatures pass him by, some ignoring him completely (his preference, honestly), some pausing in their journey to stare, to snap their teeth in his direction, to laugh. He wonders what he looks like, here -- some human who bullied his way into loving the Dreamlord, dressed like a peacock next to Dream, who looks so effortless, so divine.

"Be wary, husband," Dream murmurs, and Hob's attention snaps to the door. "The Morningstar approaches."

And indeed, there's a hush that's fallen over the great hall, a billion candles snuffing at once, a silence that eats at the edges of the space until it seems smaller than before. As if there's fewer places to hide. The doors to the palace are already wide open, but they seem to loom ever wider, as the shadow of two massive, leathered wings proceeds the creature that now enters the Dreamlord's domain.

Lucifer, who was the Morningstar, brightest and most beautiful of God's angels, looks nothing like the pictures. There's no horns, for one, no forked tail, no split tongue. They're beautiful. Cherubic in the face, a cascade of golden curls over eyes blue as glaciers, the swan-shapeliness of their neck, and arching over all of it their wings, like dragon's wings, scaled and leathery and so massive that the sight of them threatens to steal Hob's breath. Wings that are meant for destroying, not for flight. Wings that could propel a hurricane.

"Lord Morpheus," the Devil says, and their voice is like birdsong at the bottom of a mineshaft, like a voice under anesthesia saying that doesn't look right, like a hundred different things that are commonplace but also wrong, somehow. It's joy that's been inverted and turned upon its head. It's what yearning sounds like, when there will never be relief.

"Lord Lucifer," Dream says, and bows. Hob follows his lead, keeps the depth of his plunge precisely as low as Dream's, and no further. This is a show of solidarity as much as it is an appeasement. "Welcome to the Dreaming. May you enter in peace and leave in harmony."

"Hm." Lucifer's hum is an atonal murmuration, a wordless we shall see. "You have recovered the other tools of your office." Their eyes flick to Hob. "And crafted new ones."

Hob bristles, and then stills when Dream's hand lights on his forearm. "My husband," Dream says, "Robert Gadling."

"Mm. Will you not greet me yourself, Robert Gadling?" Lucifer's perfect, pink mouth is a cupid's bow of delight. Hob can so easily imagine it bloody. "I find human lovers...too timid for my tastes. But perhaps he suits you, Lord Morpheus."

This time it's Dream's hand that clenches. They're a united front still, but Christ, he's never wanted to punch a creature so much as he now wants to throw fists at the Devil. He's absolutely ruddy terrified, but annoyance is a powerful motivator.

"I'd greet you as humans do," Hob says, and ignores how Dream's hand momentarily refuses to leave his arm. He tries to find that holding thread between them, that vibration, tries to wrap into it all his love and support and his righteous indignation, that Dream is a king, this is his kingdom, that suddenly it doesn't matter that this is the Devil, and Hob is only a man. There's something that's been tripped in his brain, some long-buried and long-unused notion of how chivalry ought to work, and it churns through him like a marching army.

He holds out his hand, his wrists and fingers dripping in gold and amber, pauldron and rerebrace and vambrace in all the brilliant shining of a sunrise. Fifteen minutes ago he felt like a turkey stuffed for Michaelmas, but anger fills his bones with light.

"Won't you shake a poor sinner's hand?" he asks, and Lucifer's mouth twists into a delicate, beautiful snarl.

They take his hand.

It's like holding onto a live serpent. It's like touching a coal fresh from the hearth. It burns like fire, like acid, and Hob can feel Lucifer's nails digging into his wrist like the bite of a rabid dog. His skin bubbles and melts and sloughs away, his bones are glass, and he feels a whistle of air past him -- doesn't hear, feels -- that he knows, with terrified instinct, is that last, great Fall.

He holds on. He squeezes.

"My king likes my timidity just fine," he says. When he smiles, it feels like his cheeks are tearing, like his mouth is long and sharp, like there's a wolf in him. That huge and monstrous wolf that Desire showed him, golden and splendid and stark raving mad. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Lord Lucifer."

The nails in his wrist dig deeper; the bite of an adder, the creeping malaise of poison. And then, all at once, the nails let go.

Hob doesn't.

Lucifer tries to pull back their hand, and Hob holds on, vicious, his smile a baring of teeth. His own hand is on fire; his own hand is agony. "Ah," he says, "forgot this part," and brings Lucifer's tight and resisting hand to his mouth. To his bone-white teeth, to the memory of the maw that took his heart.

When his lips touch the back of their pale, beautiful hand, Lucifer hisses like they've been burned. Perhaps it's to their credit that they don't pull away, that they let Hob release them, that when they take their hand back they do not shake it as if stung.

He can feel Dream's eyes on him, measuring, focused.

"I hope you enjoy your stay," Hob says, and Lucifer blinks at him, a slow, sideways thing like a resting serpent.

"Yes," Lucifer says. "I look forward to...getting to know you better. Robert Gadling. In my own realm, perhaps."

"I'm afraid you'll be waiting a while." He glances sidelong at Dream. Dream, who is, yes, staring at him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide fields of stars in endless black velvet twilight. "You see, I've decided I'm not going to die."

"My husband is full of wonders," Dream murmurs. He blinks, and finally looks back to Lucifer. "Please. Avail yourself of my hospitality, before we commence negotiations. I am eager to restore peace between our realms."

"As am I." There's a bitterness to those words, and even Hob can smell the lie in them. But Lucifer inclines their head towards them, and some snarling, slavering thing in Hob is gratified to note how they give him a slightly wider berth than before.

Hob lets Dream lead him away. He feels the fingers on his arm, is aware that it's there, but most of his attention is now on his hand, which feels like it's been flayed, dipped in acid, salted, burned. It looks fine, no wounds, not even a divot from where Lucifer's nails had dug into his wrist, but he feels it still, something down in the marrow, something in the soul.

They wind their way through the crowds of dreams and demons and nightmares, and the Dreaming shapes itself around them, providing a shadowed nook behind a broad statue of a pegasus, its wings extended, a shelter.

"Ow," Hob says, as Dream yanks his arm upwards, examining his hand with critical detail. "Ow, ow, ow."

"Foolish," Dream murmurs, "they could hurt you, they could -- "

"Not any more than they could hurt you." Dream's eyes snap to his, and Hob meets them easily. The white-hot light in their center is a solar flare, so bright it threatens sight itself, but Hob does not look away. And Dream...

Dream brings Hob's hand to his mouth. Lays a kiss to the center of his palm, and from that pinprick sensation spreads a marvelous, numbing coolness. A soothing balm.

"I'm not going to let my husband be disrespected in his own fucking castle," he says, and Dream's eyes go heavy-lidded, banking the hot ember within, shadowing it as Dream, Christ help him, as Dream pops Hob's ring finger in his mouth and presses his tongue there, cool as a winter's morning.

"Ah," he says. "That was. You liked that?"

Dream draws back from his finger, a wet drag of lips and teeth, and says, "Did I like my husband. Asserting his dominance over the Morningstar. Defending my honor. My husband in righteous fury. How your skin shone like a sun in its prime."

"I don't know if it was that --"

Dream drops to his knees. It's an all-at-once motion, fluidly graceful, and his robes of office puddle around him in flames and starlight. Hob is, abruptly, no longer aware of his hand's discomfort.

"Hush," Dream says, and his hands are clever, his hands are pale and narrow and beautiful as they delve into the complicated mess of Hob's robes. Not complicated, apparently, for the will that manifested them, because Hob feels them part like silk beneath a knife, and then Dream's long and gorgeous fingers are wrapped around his prick.

"Oh my god," Hob says, and Dream looks up at him, draws his cock free from gold and woven sunlight and puddled amber-bronze; his eyes flare like supernovas, his mouth is the sweetest, pinkest thing Hob has ever seen. "Dream, there are, there are demons..."

"Let them see." Dream strokes downward, a long slide from tip to root, rucking down Hob's foreskin over the head growing ruddy and damp. "If a word is said against you, I will rip them asunder. I would be had by you in front of Lucifer themself. And feel no shame."

And that, that does something to Hob's brain, some old and animal part of him that still thrills with excitement when Dream opens his body to him, a savageness that glories in the taking, and the having. Christ, he loves when Dream fucks him, likes the feel of Dream's cock in his mouth, he wouldn't trade it for the world. This, though -- Dream on his knees, Dream sat in Hob's lap, Dream letting Hob touch and kiss and lick all of the soft-bellied parts of him, this is still new.

"All right," Hob says, and he cups the back of Dream's skull, his downy hair threaded through with moonlight, and this, too, is a balm to his aching hand. Dream holds him, manipulates him where he wants Hob to be, and maybe it says something about him, but the casualness of the touch is as much a turn-on as the sight of Dream sticking out his petal-pink tongue and licking, one long stripe from the curl of his own fingers to the head of Hob's prick, where a bead of spend has already gathered.

"Tell me what you would do," Dream says softly, "in my name."

And then he takes Hob's prick into his mouth, so cool it loops again to warmth, the soft undulating pressure of his tongue, and Hob slams his other hand against his mouth so hard it makes his teeth click. He's sure someone must hear him cry out, but there's a huge and grinding movement out of the corner of his eye -- the massive wings of the pegasus flexing. Let them see, Dream had said, but perhaps he'd meant Let them hear.

He speaks muffled into his own fist, desperate not to rock into that beautiful, waiting throat. "I'd raise armies," he says, his brain a spin of stories, old and new, and Dream there, knelt in front of him, his mouth stretched sweetly around the girth of Hob's cock, his lips so pink. "I'd, Christ, I'd sink fleets. I'll punch any god that tries to, to speak ill of you, I'll, Dream, right, right there, please."

Dream twists his wrist, and Hob is so hard, so hard he can feel it like a vibration in him, a buzzing lightness in his abdomen. Dream's hair is so wonderfully soft in his hand, and he marvels that he's allowed to do this, that he is allowed to grip a handful of that feathered ink, tugging just hard enough that Dream's head tips back, his mouth pulling off of Hob's cock with a wet and filthy pop.

"More," he says. His next stroke is eased by the slickness of his own spit, and Hob cries out again into his palm. Helpless, wanting.

"I'd walk through Hell for you." Dream blinks lazily, bends his head back down and licks at the head of Hob's prick like a sweet. "I'd give you my heart, again and again. I'm, I'm going to make you a place to come home to, I'm going to make you dinner and take you out to the movies, I'm going to love you. I love you, fucking, Christ, you impossible creature."

His words end on a strangled moan, as Dream, appeased at last, takes Hob's cock back into his mouth, and down his throat, his slender, cool throat, and swallows.

When he peaks, it's an almost out of body experience; he's keenly aware of his hand in Dream's hair, of the pulse of his prick and the way Dream swallows around him, humming in pleasure at the taste, and he's also aware of the nearby throng of the party, the chattering of voices. He can picture, in his mind's eye, Lucifer standing before the Dreaming Throne, their mouth a moue of discontent, their stung hand flexing and clenching.

Hob rather hopes they hear the noise he makes when he comes. He hopes he gets to look them in the eye later, before they leave. This is mine, he'll think, of Dream, of this palace, these subjects, my husband, my realm, my love, not yours, and you can never have them.

He comes back to himself with a wet and startled moan, Dream licking him, over and over, obsessively cleaning. Hob has to pull him by the hair to get him to leave off, and the noise he makes when he goes is yearning. His mouth is bitten-red, and there's a dozy, lazy look to his eyes that Hob associates with the well and truly fucked.

"Did you...?" he asks, and Dream licks his lips, contemplatively.

"No," he says. "I wish to save myself for you. For later."

"Ah," Hob says. Dream gently tucks him away, back into the impossible folds of his robes, and when he stands it's the same smooth and gliding motion. This time, though, when his mouth covers Hob's, he can taste the salt-bitterness of himself.

"This party needs to end as fast as reasonably possible," he says, and Dream nods vaguely.

"Mm. Then come, my husband. Let us pay our respects to the Morningstar. And speed this along."

He holds out his hand. The thing between them, that stretched and brightly vibrating thing, is athrum with heady music.

Hob takes his hand, and the grand statue folds back its wings, allowing in a wash of searing light as they rejoin the party.

[ahundredtimesover]

Hii ☺️☺️ Are you taking drabble requests for the plm couple? I had an idea if you don’t mind. Jungkook and oc having a pregnancy scare? Maybe even them talking about their future about that topic and just overall fluff moments between them ☺️☺️

Happy one year to this story! 💕 So here's something I got to squeeze in. Thanks for this, anon. 🙂

Title: Please Love Me Drabble (02) - The Talk pt.2

WC: 4,496

Warnings: mentions of past illness, pregnancy talk

Series Masterlist

##

The hospital’s lights are blinding, and the scent of disinfectants and antiseptics stifle Jungkook’s senses. Underneath all that, he knows it smells of fear and loneliness.

It’s what you said it smelled like for you before, during the time when the hospital wasn’t yet home, back when it was just a place where you went to get healed so one day you could play, your mother told you once.

But you got used to it; you had to. Jungkook remembers the night you told him what the experience was like, and how you fell asleep cradled in his arms, the guilt over not being there for you when you were younger crippling him.

He wished he was there to support you, maybe hold your hand when you were scared or watched cartoons with you while they injected things on your body. Maybe he could’ve told you jokes so you’d laugh, or brought you your favorite snacks, or maybe drew flowers for you because he would’ve been too shy to ask his mother to buy them for him.

He hates thinking of you being in pain, sometimes wishing there’s a way for him to erase your memory of what that felt like. But he can’t, so he ensures that you don’t go through that again, or at least, that he’ll be there for you when it’s unavoidable.

“You okay?” Jungkook asks, his hand tightening its grip on yours.

“I’ve been coming here every year, Kook. We were here last year,” you remind him. “I’m used to it; everything is okay. And they will be. Dr. Kwon will tell me the same thing he does every year - that I have nothing to worry about. And that means so do you.”

You kiss his hand, knowing that always helps soothe him. In over two years of marriage, you’ve come to realize how sensitive Jungkook is, that when it comes to people he loves, he likes to share in what they feel, whether it’s joy or something else.

“I guess I’m still getting used to it,” he sighs, kissing your hand in return. “Just the thought of you going to the hospital makes me feel uneasy.”

“I know, but this is a routine check-up. It’s really not much. But I’m glad you’re here, though,” you say, urging him to look you in the eyes, your next line of offense to calm him down. “I always feel better when you are.”

He manages a smile, and it’s the same time when the secretary calls your name, informing you that Dr. Kwon is ready to see you.

You and Jungkook enter the office and are greeted with the smile that’s brought you comfort since you were old enough to recognize faces.

“Ah, ___,” he smiles. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad this only happens once a year.”

“So am I, but this one isn’t,” you motion towards Jungkook on your left. “He wishes I don’t need to see you at all.”

“Well, that would be ideal, right?” Dr. Kwon laughs. “But you know why you’re here. It’s a small price to pay, really.”

Jungkook nods and tries to sit comfortably, listening to the routine questions about how you’re feeling, the frequency of your palpitations, and other instances when you’d felt discomfort. You answer one-by-one, and Jungkook is relieved that nothing seems to be concerning, as Dr. Kwon, after examining you, states that your heart is healthy and like always, there’s nothing to worry about.

Until Jungkook remembers what you’d mentioned recently.

“Didn’t you say you were feeling nauseous the other day?”

You suddenly remember, but you can’t recall when or what might’ve been the cause.

“Is that an unusual feeling?” Dr. Kwon takes notes as he asks. “Any other physical pain during that time?”

“Just stomach cramps, but I guess that’s normal?” You reply.

Your doctor furrows his brows, prompting Jungkook to do the same.

“What does your face mean? Is that a bad sign? Is there something wrong?” Jungkook bombards the older man with questions, his earlier assured face now turning worried and curious.

“Well, given that I look after your overall health, may I know if you’re on birth control?”

“Not anymore,” you answer. “I had my implant removed and, well, Jungkook and I talked about how I didn’t need to get back on it.”

You turn to your husband, seeking affirmation, something he gives. You both knew that your families are expecting children. It’s a topic you also have talked about before, how you want children to love and raise, and how whatever apprehensions there may be about bearing them, you’ll love each other’s fears away. But you also haven’t been actively trying, deciding to let nature take its course. If it happens, it happens.

“And would you know if your period is late?”

You check your tracker and say that you’re off by a few days, but that you’ve always been irregular with your cycle, and you never minded before.

Dr. Kwon hums again before he looks at you cheerfully.

“Are you thinking that I might be…”

“Pregnant? Could be,” he smiles. “Those are symptoms but we won’t know until you take a test. Since you’re already here, you could take the blood pregnancy test and get the results in a few days.”

“Oh, alright,” you say, a little unsure, as you and Jungkook hadn’t planned this, not so soon at least.

It’s one thing to say you’ll accept whatever and whenever it happens, but it’s another when the possibility is right there.

You look at Jungkook who’s nibbling his lips, still-furrowed brows and eyes reflecting so many things at once, and you grip his hand again.

“Let’s go to the lab,” he says, after Dr. Kwon gives his instructions, and you nod and follow his lead.

**

The test is a quick one, with the technicians saying they’ll inform you once the results are ready so you could meet with your doctor.

The ride home is relatively quiet, as Jungkook lets the soft music fill the air, content with just having your hand on top of his as it rests on the side.

You both don’t talk about the pregnancy test for the next few days. Having taken it during a weekday, you had the rest of the week filled with work and deadlines to focus on.

It’s a Saturday when you’re scheduled to return to the hospital for your results, thinking it’s a good time to consult with Dr. Han about your options should you find out that you’re pregnant. Just like Dr. Kwon, she’s been your doctor for years, and she’s very familiar with your case.

You’re seated in front of her with Jungkook next to you, his hand in yours again, when she gives the news.

“It was a false alarm, I’m sorry,” she sighs, looking at you with a sullen face, upset that she had to be the one to give the news. “But this happens and it’s okay. You shouldn’t feel discouraged.”

“I understand,” you say, letting go of Jungkook’s hand as you stand up. “I wasn’t really expecting it but we had to be sure.”

“Yes, of course,” she smiles now, leading you to the door. “Come see me when you’re feeling a little off, okay? I can give you medicine for cramps if it bothers you again. We just have to be proactive and be mindful of everything you’re feeling.”

“I will. Thank you again, Dr. Han.”

Jungkook barely says a word again, and you’re starting to get used to him being like this. He’s usually talkative, having something to say about work, game nights with the guys, something he watched on TV, a funny video he saw on whatever social media page he’s on, or a weird dream he had.

But since the possibility of a pregnancy came up, he hasn’t really been talking much. You know this is a sensitive topic for him, and you’ve always understood. It’s not that it bothers you that he doesn’t seem to be ready for a family yet; you just wish he doesn’t look so down about it every time.

“The girls are inviting us for trivia night at the bar,” you tell him as you enter your apartment, trying to lighten the mood. You know that games and beer with your friends will make him feel better given his competitive nature. “Minhyuk is busy so we can have Tae and Jimin join us for a couple’s match.”

“Sure, that sounds good,” he says, trying to look excited about tonight. “Can I take a nap before we head out? Just want a bit of rest since work’s been kinda tough lately.”

“Oh, we could just stay home if you want? I’m sure Yeji and Nari wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s okay, babe. A night out would be good.”

He kisses your cheek and heads to your room, leaving a cold and unsettling feeling in his wake.

**

Trivia night ended up being more fun than Jungkook expected. Perhaps it was seeing all your friends again - bickering, fighting their competitors, being embarrassingly flirtatious with everyone, and being drunk. But it was also seeing you enjoy yourself so much, laughing so hard you’d fallen off the chair a few times, and how you always gave him a kiss whenever he got the correct answer.

It helped him get his head out of his ass with how he’s been since your first visit to the doctor, and he’s trying to keep that up at this Sunday’s usual soccer game before lunch at your parents’ house.

It’s a fun and noisy affair, and much as Jungkook adores all of your siblings’ kids, sometimes they remind him of what he’s still not ready to give you.

Ji-a is seated on your lap facing you, clearly not finding the little league soccer game the least bit interesting.

“Auntie, one mo chocowate pwease,” she chirps, mouth already open and eyelashes fluttering.

You laugh and squish her cheeks before flying the chocolate airplane into her mouth. She delightfully hums and asks for another one.

She’s adorable. She has Junghyun’s eyes but definitely has Yeri’s smile, and her charms.

“Ji-a, come to your favorite uncle. You haven’t minded me all morning,” Jungkook pouts at the 3-year old.

“But Auntie is my favowite,” she hugs you.

“I’m your favorite, too! Your favorite uncle!” He argues.

“She’s my favowite auntie and uncle,” she beams.

You stick your tongue out at him and he scowls at you in response.

“Come on, I’ll ferris wheel you,” he reaches out his arms with a cunning smile on his face, knowing that always works. And it does.

She jumps at him and Jungkook immediately hooks his hands under her arms, rotating her in the air like the carnival ride she could only watch from afar. You smile at the sight - at Ji-a squealing with joy and Jungkook laughing along, the brightness of his eyes unmistakable at how happy he’s making the little girl.

It feels bittersweet, knowing how amazing Jungkook would be as a dad, but knowing it’s something he’s not yet ready for. And it’s okay, really. You’re only midway through your late-twenties. You have a few more years before that first-pregnancy cut-off before it gets risky. And you’ve been savoring every bit of time you have with your husband amidst his busy schedule.

Jungkook finishes his little ride and secures Ji-a in his arms, but she turns to you with her arms out.

“Auntie!” She calls for you, and you laugh at a frowning Jungkook as you take her this time. “Can you bwade my haiw?”

“I will, sweetie. Come here.”

You have your girls’ time while Jungkook focuses on the game, eyes flitting to you every once in a while, seeing your glowing face as you bond with your niece.

He thinks about this at night, and then the next day as he sits cross-legged on the couch at Junghyun’s office, eyes far away as his brother types his presentation for this afternoon’s meeting.

“Are you going to actually work today or do you plan to just sit on my couch and wait for an epiphany or something?” The older man asks, chuckling at his brother’s forlorn face.

It takes a while before Jungkook says something.

“Does not wanting to have kids yet make me selfish?”

“Uh, no. Who told you that?”

“Everyone.”

“Since when did you care about what everyone says?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“Since I fell in love with my wife.”

“That’s… not a very good thought to have. I doubt ___ would want you not feeling like yourself since being with her,” Junghyun says.

“Not in that way. More like, I’ve started caring about actually being a decent person since we became more. You know, because I want to be good enough for her.”

“This again, huh? I thought we were over with the insecurities, Kook.”

Junghyun stands to sit on the couch, knowing his brother would need his full attention.

The younger man disregards the statement, expressing what’s been bugging him lately instead.

“___ and I had a false alarm. She took a test and when the doctor said she wasn’t pregnant, I breathed a sigh of relief. Right there. Next to her. As she held my hand. And I don’t know if she heard it.”

“She probably did. And if she didn’t, she probably knows you’re relieved. She’s not exactly oblivious to your hesitation when it comes to having children,” Junghyun states.

“I’m not hesitant. It’s not even that I’m not ready. I just don’t want it right now,” Jungkook admits. “And it’s not me being scared of whatever pain she’ll experience but it’s me being selfish, because I want it to be just us. I want our mornings and our evenings and our in-betweens. I want game nights and weekend dates and sleeping in and all our trips.”

Jungkook heaves, as if his desires are so heavy to carry that expressing them leaves him breathless.

“I want her attention on me, and my attention on her… I just want as much time with her because I feel like I missed out on a lot when we were growing up. Like, 2 years of marriage still isn’t enough to make up for all the time wasted.”

“Maybe it isn’t, but you’re the only ones who can say that,” Junghyun responds. “No one is pressuring you, Kook. Not even our parents, although I think they’ll probably hold the biggest celebration when your first child is born,” he jokes, but it’s not something that amuses Jungkook.

“Look, it isn’t selfish,” the older man assures. “It’s perfectly normal to want to have your spouse’s full attention. You’ve seen how parenting is like with us. It’s absolutely satisfying, but it does require a lot of sacrifices, and that includes time with your wife. And if it’s not something you want to give up yet, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Jungkook has always looked up to his brother, seeking his approval, looking for him when things are a mess in his mind, needing his words that affirm that he’s not a terrible person, that he’s understood, that he’s loved no matter what. His conflicted face softens a bit as he looks at Junghyun.

“Kook, you know I say this out of affection but you’ve always craved attention ever since we were kids. I can’t really analyze why that is but it’s not hard to see that you just want to be loved.”

Jungkook chuckles at the cheesiness of it, but it’s not something he denies.

“Your exes wanted your body, your money, or your lifestyle. It was only with ___ that you got to show the parts of you that you didn’t want to show others, and she loves you, like she’s head-over-heels in love with you, despite and because of it,” Junghyun continues. “So much as you want attention because you felt you didn’t have it, she likes giving it to you because it’s all she had when she was growing up. It’s one of the reasons why we always thought it would work out.”

“Makes sense,” Jungkook huffs. “I guess I just don’t want to feel like parenting would take away from my marriage, you know what I mean?”

“I do, and that’s perfectly understandable,” Jungyun comforts. “You and ___ got into this arrangement and only fell in love months into the marriage. You’re technically still in your honeymoon stage. There’s still so much to learn and you’ll need to know how to manage a lot of things once you become parents. It’s how you make sure no one gets hurt - not you or her, and definitely not your kids.”

Jungkook nods and repeats the words in his head, taking them to heart and letting them ease his mind because he doesn’t want this feeling to go on.

“So you’re good? You can go back to your room now so I can focus on my presentation, yeah?” Junghyun pulls his chuckling brother off the couch, patting him on the back then pushing him out the door.

**

You and Jungkook have dinner with your parents that night. You don’t mention the pregnancy test, nor do you act like Jungkook’s recent disposition has been bothering you. It goes smoothly as it always does, given how your parents always insist on taking you and Jungkook out every month just to catch up, even if you see them almost every Sunday.

You head home, a conversation about how your days went filling the car this time. It’s welcomed, and you’re glad he doesn’t seem as dazed or conflicted as the past few days.

As Jungkook removes his coat and lays it on the bed, you approach him and ask, “can you have a bath with me?”

“Of course,” he smiles.

He follows you into the bathroom where you’ve already started filling the tub, your scented candles calming his senses.

You turn around, letting Jungkook unzip your dress and unhook the clasp of your bra. You face him and untangle the tie he’s loosened, then you unbutton his polo, followed by his slacks. You help him remove all his clothes, all done with nothing but the sound of the running water and your soft breathing.

You love your baths. It’s one you take every night to end the long day, and it’s time you like to have for yourself. You like to think here, and many instances you were hit with inspiration as you were enveloped in warmth.

So the the very few times that you ask him to join you, Jungkook knows you want to be intimate with him, not in the kind that would end in sex, but the kind that ends with a different kind of bareness and vulnerability.

Standing in front of each other naked, your eyes bore into his the way his own bore into yours. You give him a smile, something he returns, and then you get inside the tub, burying yourself under the sheath of foam, instantly feeling relaxed.

You let out a satisfied hum as he settles behind you, feeling his hands gently shift you so you’d feel comfortable between his legs. He knows how much you like that position.

“You good, babe?”

You nod in response, briefly giving him a smile before you lean on his chest, his hot breath fanning your cheek. His arms envelop you, his fingers grazing your skin, and you close your eyes to savor the feel of him. Much as the desire for him is constant, there are moments when you want him just this close, as the act of holding each other like this feels more intimate than what you usually do.

You can hear his breathing, hear every suppressed emotion exit his body.

It’s not long after when you turn to him and shift, sitting on his side with your legs laid over his lap so you can look at him and relish in the beauty you once only admired from a distance.

He turns to you and you gently kiss his lips, then his cheek, then his jaw, then the beauty mark on his neck.

“I love you,” you say, staring at his eyes so he knows you mean it, that you feel it, that you stand by it.

“I love you.” He says it like a whisper, not in that he doubts it, but in that he’s worried he’s not doing it right.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Did my brother talk to you?” He chuckles.

“I don’t need him to tell me something’s bothering you for me to know, honey. You’re more expressive than you think,” you smile.

Jungkook takes this, knowing that just like he tells you to talk to him when something’s on your mind, he needs to do the same.

“I’ve just been thinking. And sort of feeling bad about it,” he starts. “I… I was a bit anxious when you took the test, and then I felt relieved when it was negative.”

He looks down in shame, not wanting to see the disappointment in your eyes.

“I could tell, Kook,” you say, with no hint of sadness in your voice. “That sigh of relief wasn’t the most subtle, mind you.”

Your smile is sweet yet teasing, and that helps him quite a bit.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think that I wasn’t looking forward to it,” he explains. “And it’s not about being afraid. I mean, yes, that will always be there but I trust you, and I trust what the doctors are saying that you’ll be okay but… I just… I keep thinking that I just want you for myself. For now.”

You look at him, as if asking him to keep going, and he curses instead. “That sounded so conceited. I thought saying it to my brother would make it less so but no, it’s still very much selfish.”

“What’s selfish about wanting me for yourself, Kook? I’m your wife. I wouldn’t mind if that’s what you think. I’d like that very much, actually,” you giggle.

“You know what I mean,” he sighs. “I know what’s expected of us. And I know you want to have kids, too. And I see it whenever we're with our nieces and nephews, how you look at them with so much love and yearning, like you can’t wait to have your own.”

“Honey, I look at them with so much love because I love them so much. And not because of anything else,” you correct him. “I do want to have kids, we’ve talked about this. But we also said we’d have them once we’re ready, and if you aren’t, then that’s—“

“It’s not that I’m not ready,” he interjects. “I just want to keep having all of this. Taking baths with you, getting drunk with our friends on a weekend, booking a cruise for the next day just because, staying up late to beat you at Mario Kart and then sleeping in until the afternoon.”

You playfully roll your eyes because he just had to bring up Mario Kart and his current lead against you.

“Every time I think about being with you, there’s always something new I want to do or try. And I get so excited and happy and I just get this feeling of, fuck yes I’m living my best life with the woman I love and it’s amazing,” he continues.

“And it’s not that I think that having kids will keep us from doing that but, there’s just so much I missed out on with you because I was a stubborn jerk and that’s on me but… I want to do the father thing the right way, but I want to do this - the husband thing - the right way, too. And that comes first. And I just closed off because it felt selfish, and I don’t want to be selfish.”

You thumb his pouty lips, attempting to drag it up for a smile, and it doesn’t work so you kiss him instead.

“You aren’t, Kook,” you comfort him. “I like all this, too, just doing whatever whenever with you. And I admit, I got a little sad when I realized how relieved you were but thinking about it after, I’m not actually upset about not being pregnant. That just means more time having moments like this with you.”

You take his arm and motion for him to hold you tighter, prompting you to move closer so you’re now flushed against him. You get to marvel at him even more, with his damp hair and the trickles of sweat on his forehead. The water drips on his body so gracefully, making his soft caramel skin glow underneath the lights.

He’s toned, and much as you want to leave pretty kisses on the dip between his breasts, you also just want to stare it as his face - onyx eyes speaking to you without words, his smile healing parts of you that you didn’t think needed any more healing, and his mouth tasting of cherry and mint and all you want is to kiss those lips forever.

You lay your head on his chest and feel his heartbeat.

“I love that you’re thinking about us the way you are,” you comfort him. “I know there’s more to know about each other, there’s more to experience, but you wanting to do this husband thing right so you could do the dad thing right is far from selfish, Kook. Wanting things for yourself doesn’t always mean that. I don’t want you to think that loving me the way you do makes you selfish. Because it doesn’t.”

He kisses your forehead, and he feels the last bits of his worry slowly melt away.

“Does loving me make you a better person?” You ask.

“More than you know, babe.”

“Good, because it’s the same with me,” you face him again. “Loving you has taught me many things, Kook. And me not being pregnant just means we have more time to learn. We’ll deal with whatever happens when it happens.”

“That does sound good,” he kisses you again, and you can feel him smile against your skin. You’ve missed that.

You stay in the tub a bit more, talking about the other things you want to do together, and the ones you want to do for yourselves. There’s that pottery class you want to enroll in, and an art teaching gig that Nari mentioned last weekend. Jungkook says he’s been thinking about joining the recreational soccer club that Jimin told him about, and you both get excited at the other things you could expend your energy on.

Eventually, you rinse and get ready for bed. You lay on your back while Jungkook hugs you from your side, your fingers combing through his hair.

You fall asleep like this, separated by breaths and bound together by a love that’s still learning, that’s still growing, that still needs time.

##

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[crazycookiecrumbles]

Hey um i just wanted to say that i really like your blog.

Would it be okay to ask about a frank castle image while he takes care of gn!reader?

Thank you have a lovely day (it night!) :)

Dependable Man

A/N: Short little drabble, hope it was okay!

Pairings/Characters: Frank Castle x GN!Reader

Warnings: talk about poor mental health/ not eating

Summary: After a night out ‘working,’ Frank comes home to see you need a little TLC

When Frank returned to your shared home, he was careful to make as little noise as possible, something that was barely unmanageable given how clunky his combat boots were. 

He’d come back in the middle of the night, saw all the lights off, and had assumed you were asleep. However, when he was passing through the living room and saw your form facedown on the couch, lazily scrolling through your phone, he cringed to himself as he set his bag down and walked behind the sofa to gaze down at you, “I wake you up, short stack?”

You groaned, “Can’t sleep.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Brain stuff, big sad, no reason,” you muttered. “How was killing?”

He snorted at you, “Fine. You eat?”

“What time is it?”

“Three in the morning.”

You paused for a moment, “I cannot remember when I last ate, then.”

Frank nodded. He muttered that he’d be back in a few minutes to join you. You told him that it was okay, for him to just clean up and get some rest, but he didn’t listen to you. 

He made his cleanup as thorough and quick as possible so as not to get any of his extracurricular activities on you. After cleaning up, he went to make sure you were still awake and walked over to the kitchen. He flicked on the dim lights of the kitchen, grabbed his dirty apron and tied it around his waist before going to work.

With what was in the kitchen, Frank was able to make a a quick fix of a meal that he knew you’d enjoy. Grabbing water, he brought it over to the sofa and set it down on your thrifted coffee table. He grabbed your shoulders, muttering it was time to eat as he helped you to sit up and lean back before setting the tray on your lap.

“Come on, short stack. Ya gotta eat up, then we can relax, all right?” He said as he took the phone from you and set it on the table. “something happen today?”

You shook your head, “No, nothing happened. Just one of those days, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I get it,” He muttered and leaned over to kiss your temple before slinging his arm around you and pulling you close. “What else you do today? I know it wasn’t shower,” he joked as he sniffed your hair.

You scoffed and smacked his chest a tiny smile tugging at your lips, “Hey!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Frank grinned as he nuzzled you, “But it got a little smile on your face, didn’t it?”

You pouted, “I can’t confirm or deny.”

“Uh-huh,” Frank hummed. “You wanna talk about anything?”

You shook your head, “Not really.”

He nodded, “Okay. I’ll still be here, then. Eat up, talk or don’t. I got you,” he said quietly, hand resting on your shoulder and giving it a squeeze before it slid down your arm and held you. You turned, smiling at Frank before leaving a kiss on his jaw and attacking the food he had made for you.

That was Frank Castle. He’d break bones, snap necks, kill ruthless people, but he’d always come home to you. No matter what happened, you were his priority, and he’d always take care of you. Whether that meant shoving food down your throat and handing you water when you weren’t taking care of yourself on a bad day, or rushing you to a hospital when your fever reached 103 degrees, Frank Castle was a dependable man, your man, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[meowzfordayz]

MILESTONE 5.0 (compiled)

Author’s Note: compiled masterlist for MILESTONE 5.0 !! Click here for masterlist only.

Himejima Gyomei x Reader, Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Genya x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tomioka Giyuu x Reader, Uzui Tengen x Reader

Word Count: ~4,000

CW: provided before each drabble

~faqs~

Lyrics — Title; ~Word Count; CW

You’re moving different when we making love, baby tell me, tell me, who do you love, do you love now? — Who Do You Love; 600; 18+NSFW, explicit language, Fem!Reader, implied cheating, oral

Tengen knows he should call you out on your bullshit, just as he knows you’ve always been sensitive. You’ve always giggled when he pinches your earlobe, bright sound hitching as he leans closer, low whimper in your throat at the feeling of his tongue sliding smooth and soft from your tragus to the corner of your jaw. Just as you’ve always gasped into his mouth when he pulls you flush to his chest, breasts warm, nipples perking at the friction from his shirt, hands memorizing the tautness of his obliques as he cups your head, the curve of your ass. And you’ve always, always parted your legs for him: large palm shoved between your thighs, most of your weight supported by his build as you lean into him, unsure whether to grind onto his fingers, or to wait patiently as they graze over and over and over again, just barely applying enough pressure, and—intentionally—missing the ache in your clit.

He’s always been good, great, at frustrating you. Sexually. Finally tugging aside your panties—Please Tengen, I swear I fucking, just, p-please—smirking at their dampness, the stickiness of your essence. Always savoring a taste, eyes closing at your bittersweet pleasure, promptly returning for More, grinning into your kiss as you wiggle until his sweatpants fall off of your hips. You’ve always enjoyed “borrowing” his clothes. He knows your body, your moods, as well as he knows his own. In tandem, in sync. Carrying you to the bedroom, your ankles hooked behind him, tits bouncing slightly, precum leaking—tip smearing on your skin—with every step. Locating the nearest piece of furniture, bending you over it, quietly asking you to spread your cheeks, knowing your folds will always glisten, puffy and lewd, when you do. Too impatient, dangerous groan filling the living room as you get on all fours, ass presented prettily, even prettier after he slaps it, dropping to his knees so he can bury his face in your cunt, initially careful about jostling you, eventually too pussydrunk to remember. You always end up with rug burn.

He knows he should call you out on your bullshit, just as he knows you’ve never rejected him. Sure, you’ve said No. He’s said No too. Sometimes, the tandem wobbles. Sometimes, snuggling on the couch while your current obsession plays on the TV, or while reading a book, or while listening to music, or while taking a nap, is better than making love. Falling back in love is always better than fucking. Until now.

Until he learns that rejection doesn’t just sting. It decays. Decays the suppleness of your pussy suffocating his cock. And the satisfaction of your eyes welling as you struggle to deep throat him, spit dripping messy and shiny beneath you.

“C’mon baby, you can do it, hm, you’re so good for me,” he murmurs, one hand keeping your hair out of your face, the other keeping you gagged on his cock, tip twitching at your wet, choked noises.

“I-” you pull away sharply, something unfamiliar sunken dark and stiff in your glare, “I don’t want to.”

And then he knows.

Of course, it’s fine if you’re not in the mood. It’s fine if he’s accidentally pushed you too hard. It’s fine if you need a moment to reset. To reassess. To reassure each other.

But what does he do when you’re looking through him?

What does he do when you’re lukewarm to the touch?

What does he say?

What can he say?

Tengen knows he should call you out on your bullshit, just as he knows you’ll still promise I love you.

Always?

Always.

~~~

I’m still here in the darkness, back where we started, you make me a heartless monster. — You Don’t Go to Parties; 800; alcohol, explicit language

For the third time, in no less than thirty minutes, you shrug off the feeling that someone’s watching you, back pressed into the grimy wall of your best friend’s friend’s roommate’s apartment. Loud, unfamiliar music grabs at your skin, goosebumps raised despite the sweltering heat of too many bodies surrounding you, darkness blurring your perception of expressions and movements, the nostalgia of sipping rum and coke out of a red solo cup doing little to ease the knot between your shoulder blades. You don’t go to parties anymore, for a multitude of reasons, the dread in your stomach threatening to churn when you check your phone. How the fuck is it barely 9pm? You’d promised your best friend you’d stop by and stay for at least an hour, resigning yourself to people watching and anxiety suppressing after a mere five minutes of chatting with them, ending with your firm encouragement to Go talk to them! I’ll be fine! They’re totally eyeing you!

“I’m too fucking old for this,” you grumble, frustration swallowed by that same feeling, eyes squeezing shut in denial, nose scrunching as you tip your head back to down the rest of your drink, “Shit.”

A glimmer of deep red in your peripheral is your only warning, and then a heavy, aching scent fills your lung, cough forced from your chest as panic surges.

“Why are you here?”

His voice slices through your panic, soft and foreboding, so different from his typical enthusiastic exuberance — so different from when he was someone. When he was Kyojuro.

“Why are you here?” he asks again. Demands.

“Hi,” you manage to wave, awkwardness tingling in your fingers, “I’m leaving soon,” biting your tongue to stop the instinctive I promise from spilling onto his perfectly ironed button down.

“Good.”

“Y’know,” you blurt, confused by his stillness, dazed by his proximity, “I’m allowed to go to parties.”

His mouth twists into something bitter and ugly, tone bland, throat tightening, “I am aware.”

“So don’t be such an asshole,” you huff, irritation momentarily collapsing your pit of melancholy, “You look out of place too,” muttered petulantly, wishing he didn’t look so appealing, shoulders broad with tension and, “Are you angry or sad?”

“Do not act so casually toward me,” he bites, loneliness swelling with the urge to pluck your red solo cup from your grip — to offer you his trembling hand instead, “You ruined me.”

That coaxes a rough laugh from you, fleeting tenderness replaced by an uncanny smile, panic turned to dust in the wake of his righteousness.

“Tell me, then, tell me exactly how I ruined you.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“Aww, are you too good for me now?” you scowl, arms crossing, “I’m sure you found somebody to fix you up after I ruined you. I bet it wasn’t hard either, moving on to another warm body, what with how pretty and perf-”

You would’ve missed his interjection if you weren’t clinging to every breath of his kissing your forehead, so close you could comfort him. You could trace the shadows under his eyes with the plush of your thumbs. Could caress the strain from his limbs. Tautness melting as you coat him with forgiveness. Could, but you won’t.

He nearly chokes on a stifled sob, hating himself for even looking at you, “You were never a warm body to me,” hating himself for ever losing you.

“So what happened to your heart?” you scoff, sick on the high of hurting him, desperate to let him go, “How exactly did I ruin you?”

“You taught me how to love you, and nobody else.”

You snort, his facade unraveling word by word, steel in his sternum as you stare cruelly, “Well isn’t that cliche.”

“I want to hold you. I want to hold you, and watch the sun rise on your face. I want to feel your eyelashes flutter against my cheek when you wake, just as they do when you drift to sleep. I want to see your nose crinkle when you smell my morning breath, to hear you giggle as I kiss you anyway. I…”

How he hasn’t let any tears fall yet, he’s not quite sure. He suspects it has to do with the thinness of your lips, or the steadfast silence with which you listen to him, not a sliver of gentleness evident as he eviscerates himself. For you.

“… I miss you. I miss you, and I apologize, and… I, I have no desire to learn how to love anyone new.”

“And I have no desire to be loved by you,” you lie to him, point blank, recoil more violent than a gun, “I’m leaving.”

—

If Kyojuro slinks from party to party, weekend after weekend, month after month, a year and running, hoping to catch a glimpse of your regret, then you’re none the wiser.

~~~

If you can’t find another reason to stay, then I know I’m gonna always have a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely heart. — Lonely Heart; 600; implied sexual content

“You aren’t staying?” Gyomei asks softly, voice nearly swallowed by the movements of clothing scraping your skin All too familiar.

“Of course not,” you respond lightly, brows furrowing at the faint edge in his tone.

Why not? he wants to demand, “Oh, okay,” tipping blandly from his mouth instead.

“My shower runs hotter than yours,” you declare, that silly excuse a flimsy yet effective boundary as usual And there isn’t enough room for the two of us tacked on silently — a private boundary for your overwhelmed heart.

“So let me come over sometime,” he suggests smoothly.

“My place is a wreck, and I’m too busy to do anything about it.”

“Just clear off your bed. That’d be more than enough for me.”

He doesn’t mean to sound crass, doesn’t mean to imply that only physical affection perches on the taut electricity between your stubbornness and his oblivion, but how else is he supposed to approach you? How else is he supposed to cut through your insulation of excuses and escapes and blatant lack of interest — without shocking himself to half to death?

“Your bed’s already cleared off,” you retort.

He sighs, resigned to listening to you shrug on one of his sweatshirts—he can hear the abundance of fabric—wishing he could tug you in by its drawstrings, wishing he could make love to you. Wishing you would stay. Stubborn.

“At least return my cologne?” he gives in, returning to the comfortable suffocation of banter.

Giggling, you poke at his sternum, decidedly ignoring his stuttered inhale, resisting the urge to fluff his sex mussed hair, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I can smell it on you.”

Your audible retreat drops like a boulder in his fragile pond of devotion and hopelessness, any taste of romance and proximity dispelled, rippling frantic and confused toward your mutual shore of No catching feelings, no hard feelings. Maybe it’s the lower register in his murmur, or the way he’s still sitting upright, unmoving—fixated—as you dress yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to take his bait.

“So I borrowed some, but I didn’t steal the entire bottle!”

“Borrowed?” he muses, “How does one borrow cologne? How does one return what they’ve consumed?”

You huff, pausing as you reach for his bedroom’s doorknob, “If it matters that much to you, then I’ll buy you another bottle. But I swear I didn’t even use a lot!”

“It’s alright,” he acquiesces, “Don’t forget to lock the front door.”

You always remember.

You always remember to shut his bedroom door, to coo Goodbye sweetie to Maru (his cat), and to lock his front door. To leave a dip in his mattress, wrinkles in his sheets, his body too large to roll over and imagine himself embracing the shadow of your departure. Gyomei knows his shower runs perfectly hot, just as he knows he would help you tidy your house. If you ever relinquished your address, that is. If you ever forgot to return his shirts, sweatshirts, cologne, hell you’d jokingly threatened to take Maru home with you once — then, then he knows he’d have you. He’d have your late night laughter, and your early morning drowsiness, the curve of your soul and the brightness of your gaze, every revealed fragment sinking him further, lonelier. Because you don’t. Because you can’t. Because you never find another reason to stay. Because you never forget what belongs to him, and what belongs to you. Because you never bridge the gap denoting closeness and close.

Because you always remember to leave Gyomei with his lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely heart.

~~~

I said meet me downtown at the dive bar, you’re the only one that makes me feel alive. — Kill My Time; 1,000; mild sexual content

Giyuu stands, eyes darting—the entrance to your favorite bar a few long strides away—tying and untying his hair. Literally why? strands sticking damply to his neck Could you just, I don’t know, cooperate?! checking his watch 10:28pm Two more minutes to get this shit right retying his hair I guess sixth time’s the charm? as it finally settles gracefully down his back. Well. He hopes it’s graceful, willing himself to not look at his reflection as he passes the bar’s floor to ceiling windows, his pristine, white sneakers contrasting starkly with the grey muddle of pavement. I don’t have time to try again. 

Inhale.

Rolling up and down the sleeves of his aegean hoodie, cotton feeling tighter than usual.

Exhale.

Smoothing the pockets of his slim heather joggers, wishing he’d worn nicer pants.

He knows to pull, not push, the heavy wooden door—he’s made that mistake one too many times—pausing awkwardly at the hostess booth. A cursory glance at the sea of dimly lit tables tells him you haven’t arrived yet, your typical spot unclaimed and unassuming, which means you’re probably-

“On time as always,” an amused voice climbs onto his shoulder, light and assured, goosebumps raising on his forearms.

He grunts. Turns. Does his best to swallow the abrupt coughing fit threatening to overcome him; to stop his eyes from widening in pleasant surprise; to restrain himself from wrapping his arms around you in a too comfortable embrace.

You look, “You hate when I’m late,” beautiful.

Your lips curve gently—Hi—familiar gesture loosening the anxious knot coiling in his gut.

“Because it’s rude,” you snort, “Time is money.”

Time is priceless he inwardly corrects you, mesmerized by how coolly your stare grazes his lungs: by how you look so different, yet still so you. The shade and tangle of your hair, the depth of your eyes, how your skin crinkles and glows. You seem like the you he remembers. You also seem like an entirely new you. Older, wiser, tired; haunting, brilliant, stern. His hands shove self consciously into his pockets, fixated on how effortless and well dressed you are, anxious knot recoiling. If there’s anyone who knows how costly time can be—It’s me—Giyuu realizes.

“You know we can just seat ourselves,” you remark, already walking toward an empty high table—your empty high table—nestled beneath a sepia toned wall scone.

He wonders if you call ahead to make sure it’s available before you arrive; wonders if you know he’d call ahead for you; if you know about the fragments of his heart ingrained in the wooden finish; if you ever admire them, let alone notice them, glinting under the shadow of your oblivion.

Following your lead, he sits tentative and tense, unable to meet the curiosity in your gaze, warm and guarded across from him.

“So what happened?” you tease slowly, fingertips drumming faintly, tabletop sticky with the residue of earlier encounters, “You missed me?”

Some things never change his eyelashes flicker heavily Straightforward entranced by the delicate rhythm of your knuckles Painfully so.

“You’re lucky I felt like going out tonight,” you muse, sharpening, “I was about to brush my teeth,” holding his breath as you drawl, “But how could I ignore you sliding into my DMs?”

“I didn’t know how else to reach you,” he offers weakly.

“I didn’t want to be reached,” by you.

He blinks, treading carefully, “Then why did you reply?”

“Because I felt like going out, but all my friends,” my partner, “Were busy.”

All my friends. Your retort stings, the feeling that you’re hiding something vital not escaping his notice either. Another reminder of time: of time he’d squandered before he could fully comprehend the degree to which you’d etched yourself into his lungs — every breath a placeholder for the lingering heat of your mouth upon his.

“I fucked up.”

You scowl, “You’re pathetic.”

“And you’re here,” he snaps, lips thin with regret.

You flinch, wispy sliver of brightness fading from your stare. He knows you, from the touch of your palm to the twitch in your jaw; the weight of your hatred as you flit in, out, and in. His life. Your revolving door. Constant. As see through as it is unbearable.

“I’ll go,” you hiss, barstool scraping angrily as you move suddenly, “This was a waste of my time.”

He isn’t clueless. He can read between your lines—You are a waste of my time—ringing clear and bitter, inhibition surrendered when it dawns on him: If I let them slip away, then not even fate itself will be able to tie us together anymore.

“You’re the only one that makes me feel alive.”

The velvet drag of your tongue behind his ear, how you’d hold him after loving him, kisses dappled feathery soft from his closed eyelids to the tendons of his wrists. Sometimes, the sheets tangled twice. Occasionally, thrice. And rarely, he got to watch the sun rise upon the angles of your face, sleep claiming the remaining threads of your attention.

“And how about me?” you scoff, “Who makes me feel alive?”

Once upon a time, Giyuu would’ve said I do, so certain of the way you’d cup his cheeks, his nose scrunched while your laughter caressed his flushed expression. Once upon a time, he would’ve said You? Why, you’re everything to me. And that would’ve been enough. Once upon a time, too much time ago, he didn’t just know you — he’d known how to nurture you. How to love you.

“Somebody else,” he guesses quietly.

“Somebody else,” you repeat firmly, tossing him a pitying glance before walking toward the exit, words uttered too low for him to hear, “But I wish it had been you.”

—

It barely registers as Giyuu looks away, the cold press of finality, engraved into his soul by your conquest — the snipping of red thread.

~~~

Is it weird that I’m drunk and on my sofa? Is it weird that I’m naked on my sofa? All alone, damn, I wish I didn’t know ya. — Moving Along; 600; alcohol, explicit language

Sanemi believes it’s a blessing in disguise that you blocked him shortly after breaking his heart. If you hadn’t, then you’d be receiving every single one of his calls—he’s nearing ten—while he lounges naked on his couch, beer cans stacked precariously on the floor beside him. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that They’re just busy, or maybe he’s in denial about missing the sound of your voice—your voicemail message isn’t enough anymore—or maybe he’s finally feeling sorry, but Damn it, pick up your fucking phone. And then he remembers Oh. Yeah. They blocked you… dumbass promptly downing the remainder of his eighth beer.

From the moment he saw you, he’d known that someone would leave empty chested, the other walking away with a still dripping heart staining their sleeve, because he’d stumbled over himself to say Hi, I’m Sanemi.

“Hi Sanemi, nice to meet you,” you stick out your hand, slightly warm and very soft, “Do you come here often?”

“No,” he eyes your hand suspiciously, grimacing when he realizes how sweaty his own palm is, “First time.”

In hindsight, that clammy first touch should’ve been a warning sign.

“First time in a bookstore,” you deadpan, lips pursing, “Do you prefer the library?”

Gulping, he squeezes your fingers, hoping you’re fixated on his pretty purple eyes or his wintery white hair or anything other than his pulse trembling through his fingertips.

You smirk, squeezing back, “First time shaking someone’s hand too?”

“I don’t want to let go,” he admits, reeling inwardly The fuck is this? A fucking meet-cute?!

“So don’t.”

Your flirtatious quip haunts him, especially as he opens his ninth beer. Pressing its cool metal base to his bare stomach, he tilts his head backward, stupored sigh swallowed by the living room. If only they were here to sigh with me. That’s what he misses most. Not your beautiful smile, the silence of your focus, or the tang of your wit, but the familiarity of how easily and perfectly you annoyed him. If he sighed, then you’d sigh louder, and if he sighed even louder, then soon you’d be locked in a sighing competition, one sigh away from falling into laughter — from falling back in love.

“So what are we?” he asks carefully, watching your brow for signs of unease.

It furrows faintly, his gut coiling as he realizes: I can’t tell if they’re happy or mad.

“We’re together,” you answer simply, expression relaxing as you peck his cheek, “What did you think we were?”

I don’t know he almost says, waiting for a gush of elation, peace, specialness to register, “Dating?”

“Do you want to define our relationship?” you tease fondly, his face turning pink at your directness, “Because we can do that.”

“I’m yours,” he declares, quiet and decisive.

“Mine?” you wink, stealing a sweet, lingering kiss, murmuring lowly, “I like the sound of that.”

In hindsight, he should’ve listened better, swept up in giving himself to you — for nothing in return.

“And I like you,” he whispers.

“Mm, I like you too.”

You hadn’t lied to him. Not exactly. You’d obscured the ultimate truth for something more convenient. For something shiny and tender, masking a loneliness that he’d eventually learn he could never fill.

“I should go to sleep,” he mutters abruptly, chugging his beer with stubborn reluctance, burping wetly afterwards Tengen would be proud of me proceeding to knock over his aluminum tower Eh, I guess not.

Skin prickling, he crosses and uncrosses his ankles, sunlight shifting past noon, long shadows receding from his collarbones, brightness mixing achingly with the alcohol in his vision. Scowling at the blanket strewn across an armchair, too far from his reach, he settles for resting a forearm over his eyes And you should be here with me.

~~~

I kiss you on your neck, you were staring at the ceiling, I should've known right then and there you were a runaway. — Bad Omens; 400; mild sexual content

Genya knew he was a quiet lover. Growing up angry and resentful, while hurtful and still lingering, had also taught him the strengths of patience and determination. Perhaps fearful lover was another appropriate description for his iron gripped insecurities, but—generally—he opted to dwell on the softness, painstakingly nurtured, in his touch. He hadn’t known he could do gentle. Hadn’t known he was capable of intimacy. Couldn’t believe he deserved close enough to feel you breathing. Maybe that’s why you were slipping away?

He hadn’t noticed, initially. All relationships went through ups and down, him and Sanemi being exhibit #1, and he was well aware that he’d entered your heart with heavy shoulders. But he’d wanted to improve. He’d wanted to heal, to process, to drift away from the shadows that roused him nightly —  with you peacefully snoring beside him.

“Talk to me,” you murmur, scratching lightly along his spine, his lungs heaving as he blinks drowsily against the vivid sensation of abandonment, “You had another nightmare,” voice laced with concern, “I’m listening.”

You’re right, of course, but, “I’m fine,” he rasps, “Just need water.”

He gets up before you can get up for him, his long legs gleaming in the moonlight, your fingers curling tight around wrinkled, lifeless sheets. Your disappointed sigh doesn’t register, his ears still muddled with adrenaline, slim silhouette fading from the bedroom.

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

Eventually, though, he’d picked up on your fraying energy, the comprehension that you weren’t ever fully with him hitting precise and square as he hovered above you.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, straddling your waist, chest radiating heat as he nearly touches your skin, “Please.”

You acquiesce, careful hands wrapping around his nape, lifting yourself up to him, a familiar, aching pleasure guiding his mouth into a sorely missed deepness, your tongue shy as it flicks across his bottom lip.

Something’s missing, “May I kiss you?”

You nod, lying back, grey longing in your stare as he memorizes—for the hundredth time—the curve of your figure.

Now, he wonders how he hadn’t realized that that would be the last of your affection, pressed sorrowful and wishful into his movements of lust, masked by how much I missed you.

“Whatcha thinking about?” you ask brightly, your phone set aside.

“Thinking about how I want to pleasure you,” he answers smoothly, comforter crinkling as he turns toward you, “What did you have in mind?”

“Exactly that,” you wink, barely caught off guard, “My phone’s off and everything!”

As he tugs you into the hardness of his body, he can’t help but notice how your mirth—that he’s always loved—never quite reaches your eyes.

[shurisneakers]

harmless (x)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, anxiety, smidge of angst, mentions of violence

Word count: 7.8k (i went overboard. clearly.)

A/N: as well all know, i am a humanities student writing science geeks. if any of this sounds unrealistic or nonsensical, it’s because it is and i am honestly too exhausted to research data privacy and AI so here’s my take on how STEM should work i.e. the power of friendship  <3 major shoutout to @iamlittlesparkler for the idea for this chapter!

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part  || Series Masterlist

“As you know, we have a busy week ahead of us.” 

Coffees line the conference room table, pens click against the stacks of paper that settle in front of various agents and the smell of deodorant mixed with post-training sweat lingers at the back of the room like a disgusting witch concoction. 

“The annual parade is coming up and since there are a few security threats, SHIELD has been asked to step in. Therefore, all of you will be working security this week, possibly even at the parade.” Murmurs broke out in the room the minute this was said; mostly from first year field agents who were way too excited to have earpieces and fingerless gloves. 

Bucky, on the other hand, doesn’t think much of it. They’ve dealt with threats before, most were declared empty the minute it got out that SHIELD or the Avengers were involved. It’s the 12th one that year. 

“That’s only if we don’t catch it first,” Steve continued. “Our first priority is precaution. The tech and analytics teams are working on it. However, if you see anything suspicious, bring it up with Director Fury. He’s going to be around to make sure we’re not overlooking anything. Do you have any questions?”

More whispers erupted at the mention of Fury’s name. Wait till they realise he lives up to his name when they accidentally manage to set him off just by existing incorrectly.

Bucky smirks at the thought.

“You can leave then.” Steve straightens up as chairs shuffle against the carpeted floor, over twenty people leaving the room.

“And remember, if you see an eagle today, be sure to stand there and thank it on behalf of Steve for its service. Freedom! Liberty! And whatever else,” Tony calls out from the corner of the room, earning a sigh from the captain. Others only snicker as they close the door behind them.

“Thanks.” Steve stares at him stone faced, bemused at the symbolism that had been bestowed upon him.

“Gotta keep the patriotism high.” The only ones that remain are the official team. Bucky thinks that he should have left with the other agents but apparently, it was rude and not a good show of team spirit.

“How serious is this threat anyway?” Clint has his head face down on the table, hand holding his to-go coffee cup so it doesn’t fall over. 

“We’re not sure.” Steve finally takes a seat on the chair in front of him. “It’s the biggest event we’ve had this year, wouldn’t put it past them.”

“If it’s those Welsh kids again, I’m gonna punch a hole through their house this time,” Clint warns, voice muffled through the furniture. 

“It’s not them, we checked.” Nat had her leg up on the armrest of Clint’s chair. “Tech team’s been working overtime to figure it out.”

“You have anything that could help?” Sam sends a nod towards Tony.

“I got a few things but it’d take a while to put it together.” 

“Didn’t you learn quantum physics in a night?” Wanda’s picking apart a cookie into pieces, chewing slowly.

“Thermodynamic astrophysics,” he corrects her. “Quantum science took lesser.”

Bucky scoffs slightly at the brag, eyes still trained on the table in front of him. Maybe if he made no noise, they would forget he’s here.

“Yeah, so this should be a piece’a cake.”  

“If your cake was somehow made out of a highly specified tracker that somehow doesn’t violate the data privacy of the entire world while analysing millions of terabytes worth of information, then yeah. A piece of it.”

“What he means to say-” Bruce interjects, “-is that we’re trying. It’s just taking longer than usual.”

“Well, the parade’s this Sunday. Think it’ll be done by then?”

“Hey FRIDAY,” Tony crosses his arm over his chest. “How many hours have I slept this week?”

“Three and a half, boss.”

“How much more will I be getting?”

“From previous experience, about six.”

“Yeah, we can get it done.” Tony looks back at Steve. 

“Ask someone on the tech team to help you out.” Everyone was well aware of Tony’s bad coping mechanisms and how futile it was to get him to change his mind about it, but they still tried.

“They’re too busy.” Bruce pressed his lips into a straight line. 

Bucky tunes out at this point. If he could help, he would have reluctantly chimed in by now, but he couldn’t. 

“So what now?” Sam rips Clint’s doughnut into two, keeping one half for himself while leaving the other to the latter who still hadn’t lifted his head up from the table.

“I actually asked Fury if I could call in an external to come help,” Tony pipes up. 

“And he agreed?” Nat raised an eyebrow.

“After he realised I wasn’t going to leave his office until he said yes.” He pulled out his phone, rapidly typing out a message before hitting send. “It didn’t take too long.”

“Do we know this person?” Steve asks a little suspiciously.

“Well-” Bruce sneaks a glance at the broody man on the chair, “-kinda.”

Everyone can tell Bucky isn’t paying attention by the way he’s glaring holes into the plant. He doesn’t mean to, it just so happens that it looks like he wants to kill it. Nobody tends to bother him during meetings, knowing well and fully that he did not care.

“You’re about to.” Tony jumps up, making his way to the door to pull it open.

Bucky perks up. An open door means they can leave, right? He can go watch The Bachelor? He’s not sure what everyone was talking about, but if the meeting was over he could go ask Wanda who was always kind enough to help.

“Our newest recruit,” the billionaire announces, quickly adding the next part, “on a trial basis.” 

Bucky looks at the door.

His jaw drops open.

“No,” he says loudly, posture immediately stiff as a plank. 

“Hello to you too, Barnes.” You roll your eyes before sending a small wave to everyone else. “Hey everyone.”

“What are you doing here?” He looks like he’s seething. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot about our date.” You cross your arms over your chest in defiance. “You told me 3 o’clock, you player.”

“What is she doing here?” He whips to Steve for an answer.

“Hey Y/N,” Sam greets with a smile on his face before Steve can reply.

“Sam Wilson, good to see you again.” You grin.

“Right back at ya, sugar.” 

Wanda looks amused, Clint finally lifts his head off the table at the mention of your name while Nat takes her feet off his armrest, and Steve’s body relaxes when he realises what’s going on. 

“Okay.” Tony claps his hand. Bucky shoots daggers at him. “As you all know, this is Y/N. She’s going to working with us this week.”

“This is ridi- how did you even find out about her?”

“Aside from the fact that she’s all you talk about?” Clint snorts. Bucky shifts his glare to him. It was bullshit and an exaggeration and Clint was going to get a shoe up his ass very soon.

Your grin only grows bigger.

“We saw one of the repulsors she made some time ago,” Bruce answers his question like the sane person that he is. “Tony’s had her in mind for a while.”

“Repulsors? How on ear-” Bucky connects two and two together before turning to Sam. “You. You got her this job.”

“Sam’s my best wingman.” You send him a small heart made from your hands. Whether the pun was intentional or not, no one would know.

“Don’t look at me, I had nothing to do with this idea.” Sam raised his hands to brush off the blame.

“You’re a villain,” he points out loudly.

“I’m a saint.” You raise your hand to your heart in mock offence. “I have done nothing wrong in my life, ever.”

“Listen, Robocop,” Tony interrupts your conversation, bringing the attention back to him, “I cleared it with Fury. He’s the boss here.”

“Fury doesn’t know-”

“What don’t I know?” The atmosphere of the room changes the minute he saunters in. 

With an eyepatch on his face, gaze sharp and a long black coat, Nick Fury puts Bucky’s dark outfits to shame. Not like he was competing. 

Bucky doesn’t continue his sentence. Nick’s imposing presence loomed at the doorway, putting a stop to the ridiculous arguments that were beginning to boil. Instead, he looks at you, only to find your attention trained on the man of the hour.

“Nicholas,” you half cheer from where you had shifted to in the middle of all the commotion. 

Nicholas?

Nicholas?

No one had ever called him Nicholas. 

“Y/L/N,” Nick addresses in return. “Been a while.”

“You haven’t come to the lair in months, Nick.” You pout at him. “I even sent you an invite.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. Since when are you on such good terms with Fury? Since when was anyone on good terms with Fury?

“It must have gotten lost in the mail,” he fires back, “Or maybe it’s because I just happen to be the busiest man in the damn country. Take your pick.”

You roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath, but the good natured smile on your face shows that you didn’t take any of his passive- or straight up- aggressiveness to heart. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting your little tea time.” He looks around the rest of the room with an edge in his voice. “Don’t you all have work to do?”

“We do,” Tony interrupts, holding up his hand before pointing to Bruce and you. “Everyone else just sorta sits around and looks pretty.”

“I’m gonna go talk to the organisers, see what spots are most vulnerable.” Steve stands up. “You coming?”

“Yep,” Sam responds, flicking Clint’s shoulder to drag him along. “Come on, man. When was the last time you took a shower?”

“I’ll go see what the kids are up to in training. They’re probably flying off the handle right now.” Natasha brushes off crumbs from her lap. “Barnes, you in?”

Bucky silently shakes his head, eyes focused on you as you introduce yourself to every Avenger who walks out of the room, sharing a small fist bump with Sam.

“I’ll do it,” Wanda volunteers instead, finally leaving behind only the Science Bros, you and Bucky in the room with Fury. 

“I’ll give you a tour of the lab.” Tony beckons and you nod, following him. “New eyepatch, Fury? Prada, I assume?”

“Stark,” Nick says curtly. 

Bucky stares after you, arms still folded across his chest.

“Any problem, Sergeant?” 

Other than the fact that his arch nemesis was now working with his friends, no, not really. But that did seem like a pretty big one.

“No,” Bucky mumbles instead, getting up from his place finally.

Apparently, no one else was worried about the possibly lethal combination of you and Stark, even with Banner there to dilute it. 

Fine.

Guess he just has to observe you the whole week.

Well, half a week. It was Wednesday. 

He observes inconspicuously over the rim of his coffee cup. He has a newspaper spread in front of him at Bruce’s table. 

It’s not suspicious. He’s been there multiple times to sit in silence with the scientist who occasionally tinkers with something while engaging Bucky in tidbits of conversation. He finds it calming, refreshing even

Today he has an agenda. Everyone knows about it too. 

“You know he’s staring at you, right?” Bruce looks up briefly from the giant blueprint laid in front of the group. 

Tony had been dragged away to get a proper meal into him after he stayed up for 36 hours straight with caffeine keeping his system running. 

“He has a tendency to do that.” You’re looking over the plan the three of you had come up with the day before. There were certain changes to be made in terms of efficiency. “Turns out if you annoy him, he stares harder.”

“We’ve heard about the inventions. Inators, he calls them?”

“Yeah,” you point out something on the sheet, drawing a circle around it to come back to later, “only good things I hope?”

“He doesn’t really talk much.” Bruce writes down a small comment against your arrow mark. “But if he hated them, he’d have a lot to say. So I’d take it as a compliment.”

“Would it annoy him if I did?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment, then. Pass me the ruler?” You draw a line connecting two pieces. 

Bucky’s ability to lip read is excellent but he refuses to do it, for privacy purposes. He knew that SHIELD had pulled some strings and had another teacher substituting for your classes the whole week since your other option was to come only after school hours. Anything else about this plan was murky.

“You gonna sit there all day?” Tony looks over his shoulder, following his line of sight.

“I’ve done it before.” He continues to look over the newspaper at you with your finger extended at something on the blueprint as you explained something to Bruce.

“You look like- how do I say this nicely.” He wasn’t going to. “A fuckin’ stalker.”

“I’m supposed to stop her from doing anything evil.”

“Sure.” Tony snorts. “That’s what this is. Should I get you a fedora and sunglasses while we’re at it?”

Of course Stark wouldn’t care; he brought you into this project. It was pretty much impossible to get him to agree with Bucky.

Bucky just narrows his eyes and continues his observation. 

The menu of the cafeteria keeps changing. They like to keep things interesting.

Every time they do, Bucky spends too long staring at the menu, trying to figure out what exactly is familiar enough to order. Vietnamese week had him eating pho the entire duration it stayed.

“You plannin’ on eating anytime this century, sarge?” He recognises your voice immediately. 

He knows what time your break is and he knows that you generally eat lunch in the cafeteria with the science team. Generally, the three of you pour over solutions and debate points all through the meal, and he spends the time getting acquainted with his new, lowkey Instagram account. 

He blocks the Bucky Barnes hashtag the minute he gets an account again. God save his eyes from people asking him to break their back like a glow-stick. However, one afternoon of accidentally watching three cat videos has led to his entire explore page being taken over by them and he’s been trying for three days to get it to stop. 

“Just trying to-” he tilts his head. “-understand what I’m reading.”

“Not a big fan of Greek food?” You join him in looking at the menu. 

“Never really had the chance to try.” Tony and Bruce don’t seem to be in the room, probably pushing aside their meal to work on it as they’ve often done.

“Ah.” You already had your order in mind but you wait there. 

Two minutes later he’s still staring at the menu. He can feel your presence next to him, unmoving. It unnerves him.

“Why are you still standing here?” He cranes his neck to look at you.

“I’m just seeing how long it takes for you to order.” You shrug. “So far it’s been five minutes and forty six seconds. Forty eight now.”

“Go away.” The concept of someone standing beside him, waiting for him to do something reminded him far too much of him trying to bag his stuff at the grocery counter rapidly while other customers waited to pay. 

“Six minutes and thirty seconds. This is just sad now.”

“Your face is sad.” It was pathetic that he had now resorted to this.

It earned a laugh from you. 

As entertaining as it was to be able to get on his nerves by just standing silently next to him, you finally ask, “Do you want a recommendation?” 

He eyes you wearily. “You gonna give me food poisoning?” 

“Not today, no.” You shake your head slightly. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He stares a little longer. You remain unshaken in your offer.

“Fine.” He sighs, stepping aside. 

You tell him that since it’s his first time, you’d get him something basic. He thought it made sense. 

He argued with you when you ended up paying for the both of you, only shutting up when you told him he’s holding up the line and that he could pay you back later. It doesn’t stop his incessant mumble complaining. 

He ends up with gyros at his table and you sitting opposite him with your meal. He asks where the Science Bros are. You tell him it’s Science Hoes now, as christened by Tony, and that they’re in the lab.

“So?” You look at him eagerly.

“What?”

“How is it?” you urge, nodding at him.

He takes a cautious bite, really taking his time with it to annoy your impatient ass. 

“Well?” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“It’s-” he pauses, looking down at his food. “-good.”

“Aha.” You lean back victoriously. “Knew it.”

He likes it. He also knows that this is probably going to be the only thing he orders for the next week unless you had planned otherwise. 

“You’re not eating?” He gestures to your untouched tray.

“Taking it up to the lab. Got a few things to work on and we’re already behind.” You gather up your stuff and get up.

“Uh-” he pauses from practically inhaling the entire thing. He was already halfway done with it. “-thanks.”

“No problem. You wink at him. “Try figuring out what’s wrong with it.” 

You turn on your heel to leave, taking your order with you. He can see your shoulders bobbing with silent laughter. 

He stares down at his plate, swallowing slowly. 

He pokes at it with a fork, lifting up the leftovers to check if there’s anything underneath. Nothing. 

He checks to see if his limbs are still intact or his face was a different colour. Nope.

His stomach twists in worry about what’s going to happen. He still has a bit left but he pushes the tray aside.

The rest of the day he spends supervising you has you occasionally catching his eye, only to laugh. It only freaks him out more.

It takes eight hours of waiting and self induced tests later to realise there was nothing wrong with it. You were just playing with him.

He’s surprised to find you in the rec room when he strolls in with Sam, given that you haven’t taken a break all day.

You don’t share the same surprise... almost like you expected him.

“How long have you been waiting for me?” he immediately asks.

"I wasn’t here for you.” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Heard that Wilson was makin’ an appearance here soon so I stopped by to get a good look at him."

"Take a picture, it'll last longer.” Sam laughs, inserting a dollar into the machine and punching in the code for what he wanted.

"Gladly. Strike a pose, would you?" You grin, raising your phone.

“Maybe when I’m not covered in sweat.” Sam counter offers and you accept with a thumbs up.

“You going to the parade, Sam?” You toy with the can in your hands.

“I’ll be working security, so probably.”

“Sarge?” You take a swig of your drink.

“Huh?” He snaps back into the conversation, putting a stop to the mental list of reasons he was making of why you could be here at the same time as him. He knew your schedule, it wouldn’t be very hard for you to figure out his.

“You coming to the parade on Sunday?” you ask again.

“I guess.”

You wince.

“What?” he asks instantly, curiosity making him a lot sloppier than usual.

“It’s just- you wear so much black.” You gesture to his current getup to prove your point. ”I feel like all the bright colours would vaporise you if you looked at them.”

He doesn’t look amused.

“You know, like Prince Philip.”

“I think I’ll be fine.” He gives you a sarcastic smile.

“You comin’ Buck?” Sam laughs, unwrapping the bar he bought from the machine.

“You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” Bucky says offhandedly, still glaring at you innocently drinking your soda.

Sam chews absentmindedly on his protein bar as he walks out, amused at the situation Bucky pulled himself into.

“What’d you do?” Bucky asks, studying your body language.

“I bought a soda.” You lift the can to prove your point. “And now I’m drinking it.”

“Why are you waiting for me?”

“I thought I’d return the favour,” you point out. “I’m supervising you.”

“Don’t.” He walks to the vending machine, pulling out his wallet for some loose change. There was a Snickers bar he had been craving since morning that he bought every alternate day. Small joys.

“Why? I have the time.” You take a sip, setting it down with a clang.

“You’re only here for this week.” Bucky counted the coins he had. He’d use a dollar but he was trying to get rid of the jingling in his pocket that made him sound like a fucking clown when he walked.

“Actually,” you begin innocuously, “Tony offered me a full-time position.”

Bucky’s movements stop, hunched over the money in his palm.

“What?”

“Yeah.” You nod seriously. “A full nine-to-five as a researcher here.”

“And you’re taking it.” He shakes himself out of the minor shock to assess the damage.

“I don’t know. I got a lot of things to consider.” The chair scrapes against the tiled floor as you stand up. “But maybe you should get used to seeing me a lot more around here.”

He punches in the code for his Snickers. The row whirs forward slowly.

“See you at the lab.” He hears you discard the empty can in the trash before exiting.

He waits patiently for his bar to drop while his mind internally screams about the consequences of having you work here. You wouldn’t be evil anymore. Unless you were here to steal secrets from the Tower. On the pro side, his weekend would be free again. On the con side, his weekend would be free again.

His bar stops right at the edge of the row. He waits for it to fall over. It doesn’t.

He shakes the machine, suppressing the primal urge to beat the shit out of it when the damn bar refuses to fall.

He punches in a few random buttons hoping that at least it would give his money back.

The little monitor instead flashes a new message across the screen.

‘Have a good day, sarge <3’

Motherfucker.

Captain America looks less daunting up close, you realise. But he is still a very large man with very large shoulders. You know at least four people who would like to scale him like a tree, not that you’d ever tell him.

“Hey, Y/N.” He sends you a small smile when you walk into the room for a mid-week update. A clipboard in your hand, report attached and a few stationery items in case some points needed to be noted done, you look professional and ready.

“Afternoon, Captain.” Tony saves a seat for you and Bruce beside him since you’re on the same project. You almost miss the fact that Bucky isn’t in the room.

He walks in a few minutes late; tall, dark and brooding, immediately bringing the excitement in the room down by 40% by just existing. 

Bucky surveys the room before catching your eye. He picks up his chair with ease and drags it over to where you are, sitting right beside you, ignoring the small cry of protest from an agent whose view he now obstructed. Everyone else just silently shifted over.

“Clingy much?” you whisper at him, eyes still trained on Steve who had waited till everyone was seated to continue.

“I’m supposed t’be keeping an eye on you,” he rebuffs in a hush.

“Well, you’re late. What if I went rogue, huh?”

“Therapy ran overtime,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” You blink. “How was it?”

“Same old.”

“You good?”

He refrains from answering when Steve starts addressing the room but yes, he was fine. He sends you a nod to confirm. 

“This is just a usual checking in. We’ve received all your reports, but just to keep everyone on the same page-”

Bucky logs out mentally. He knows what his job is, he’ll probably lead a division of the security team or join the mission to neutralise the threat in case they find it first. Either way, he’ll figure it out without having to listen to an intern nervously stammer their way through their team’s report. 

On the other hand, you’re not listening either. You were until you saw Bucky’s eyes glaze over while glowering at the window, assuming that he had stopped paying attention when his gaze doesn’t shift.

You should be listening. You’re new here and you should know what’s going on because any bits of detail are crucial to the working of your system. 

Instead, you rip out a sticky note and discreetly place it on the back of Bucky’s metal arm. He doesn’t notice.

You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling. More post-its from your pile of stationery make their way onto the vibranium, shades of pink, purple, green and yellow decorating his arm like a bulletin board. 

You’re about to contemplate sticking one on his shoulder blade when he whips around to look at you. You freeze, hand in the air with a sticky note. He looks down at his arm, a scoff escaping him in disbelief. 

“Are you serious?” He twists his arm to check the extent of how far you’ve gone. “What are you, six?”

“How’d it take you so long to notice?” You watch as he tugs them off one by one, counting to see how many you had managed to get on there.

“It’s impossible not to zone out in these shitty meetings,” he mumbles, pulling off the last one, crumpling all of them into a ball to throw at you. You skilfully avoid them. 

“Don’t you feel pressure or heat or anything here?” You poke at his metal arm.

“No.” He clenches and releases the fist. “It can block bullets though.”

You snort. “Bet that’s a popular line in bed.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, it helps that I can’t feel anything. Sometimes,” he adds the last part as an afterthought. 

“Like when you’re blocking bullets.”

“Especially then.” He nods. 

“Would you ever want to?” you ask casually. “Like if you got the choice, would you prefer having feeling in that arm?”

“I don’t know.” He’s thought about it, but it doesn’t seem feasible in his line of work. He’d like it, though, to feel sand slipping through his fingers and the comforter under his palm. “Maybe when I’m retired.”

“Aren’t you well past that age?”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes. “And pay attention. You’re next.”

“So you are listening.” True to his word, Steve asks about what’s going on with your team. “Traitor.” 

Tony shoots off about how you only had to test it out on a small batch first to see if you could acquire the targeted data without compromising anything else. You chime in about a few specifics, and Bruce more or less just confirms what you both are saying, only stopping to let them know that you’d be finished in a day or two.

Steve nods, moving on to the next committee.

“Did I get a good grade?” you whisper when you lean back again.

“B minus at best.” 

“Fuck you, dude. I was great,” you protested. “It’s definitely worth a gold sticker.”

Someone shushes you sharply. You apologise quietly, whacking Bucky’s metal arm when you see a dumb smirk on his face. 

He narrows his eyes at you. 

You try sticking another post-it on him.

You’re only here for a week. That’s what he’s been told. Over six times, actually, after which he’s been told to go away the next time he asked.

No one’s brought up the job offer so he asks Tony if it was true and all he gets is a dismissive ‘yeah, whatever’. Besides, you haven’t told him if you accepted or denied it yet so isn’t sure if this entire thing is set in stone, per se.

So then why do you have a giant box of your belongings that you’re lugging around the lab, looking to set down?

And why does Tony allow you a table right in the centre of the lab for everyone to see as soon as they walk in?

There are a gazillion trinkets, picture frames and obnoxiously bright stationery that stands out against the dull minimalism of the lab.

“Every single one of these is a fire hazard,” he reports, standing over your desk.

You give him a side glance before reaching over to the side of your desk, pulling up a fire extinguisher and setting it on the table in front of him. “I came prepared, bitch boy.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. He chooses to look at what exactly you’ve brought with you because it’s a lot.

There are small cards with ‘thank you!’ sprawled on them in uneven lettering, bits and pieces of paper with small cartoons on them, little clay models and other miniature trophies with ‘you’re the best!’ under it.

“Your students gave you these?” He can’t remember the last time he gave his teacher anything other than a headache.

“Sometimes they learn or communicate better when they have something to keep their hands busy.” There’s a certain fondness in your voice that he isn’t used to hearing. “I end up with a lot of doodles and craft.”

“’s nice of them.” He can tell that this means a lot to you. He hasn’t seen it before.

He thinks the little decorations are adorable and maybe he’d keep another fire extinguisher on hand, just in case. 

Until you start pulling out a set of framed photos and his smile drops.

Several collages of Bucky in flower crowns, him with terribly edited backgrounds of beaches and mountains, a photo of him laughing with ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ next to it in an italicised font.

“What the fuck,” he states, grabbing one of them.

You stifle a laugh, pulling out several more to place along your table.

“Where did you fucking get these?” He starts pulling them off the table one by one.

“I don’t think you know how much the internet is obsessed with you.” You set an especially large one of him in a Hello Kitty bowtie right in the centre. He doesn’t miss the star shaped frame you chose for this.

“What is wrong with you?” He swipes that up immediately, looking for a place to discard, possibly burn these pictures. “Why do you even have these?”

“It’s imperative that people know we’re friends.” You bite your lip, bringing out the last thing to annoy him.

“What is that?” A teddy bear with a blue jacket and a grey felt arm stared into his soul.

“A Bucky bear.” Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. “Limited edition.”

He snatches it along with the fifteen other picture frames, thinly veiled distress and mostly disgust on his face.

“I hate you.”

“But I love you.” You lift the small heart shaped locket you hung on one of the pictures of your class.

You use both your hands to click it open for him, watching his face morph into one of disbelief.

Bucky my beloved, it read on the right with a small picture of him on the left looking intensely disgruntled. He doesn’t bother asking where you found that specific picture of him outside a Burger King at 3am.

He doesn’t even make an effort to take it away this time. He knows that you’ll simply bring up more and more until you drove him crazy.

“You still have to see the Avengers calendar.” You reach for the inside. “I changed all the pictures to you, it looks great-”

He turns around and leaves before you get a chance to flip open the pages.

He wanders around, looking for the best disposal area he can find. He knows there’s a giant fireplace in the common room in the Tower, and for that, he’d have to go up a couple of floors.

He steps into the elevator, chin pressing down on the several picture frames in his hands to prevent them from falling over.

No one sees him carrying a couple of fan edited pictures and merchandise of him. Which was good.

Unfortunately, the doors ding open on the next floor and his best friend steps on with possibly the worst timing ever.

“Buck?” Steve sounds confused. He should be, considering the sight.

Bucky shimmies slightly to get a better grip on his belongings. “Steven.”

Steve glances at what he’s holding.

“Is this,” Steve pauses, trying to frame his words correctly to sound as supportive as possible, “a therapy thing?”

“No.”

Steve waits for a further explanation.

“It’s Y/N’s,” he elucidates. Steve’s eyebrows furrow.

“Why are there so many pictures of you?” He looks at the content in his hands a little closer. “And a bear.”

“She’s evil. And I hate her.”

“Alright.” It doesn’t answer his question but his friend looks irked enough.

The elevator dings to the common room floor.

Bucky turns on his heel to head toward the place to set all the pictures on fire. He saves the picture frames to give back to you though, he’s sure those cost money. But he makes sure every last square inch of the picture with several hearts around his portrait burns to ash.

Bucky knows that by the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, the three of you would have been working for thirty hours straight, scrambling to get the last minute details done.

You’re still at it but he can tell through the adrenaline of the upcoming deadline that you’re exhausted. 

Now he’s grouchy but he’s not an asshole. He’s already done two coffee runs for the team and brought you food when you didn’t show up for lunch. He mumbles something and dismisses it when you call out a ‘thank you’ his way. He considers it a debt repaid for the gyros.

He’s still keeping an eye on you but along with an emergency box of doughnuts for any sugar rushes that may be needed and bottles of water that he occasionally leaves at the corner of the table for you three to subconsciously keep yourself hydrated. 

“Are you sure we checked it?”

“Yes.” Bruce nods.

“Double checked it?”

“Yes.”

“Triple checked it.”

“Yes.” 

You look satisfied enough to move on to the next item. “Pass me the welding torch for a second.”

Bucky has a book in front of him that he hasn’t moved beyond the second page of. He’s more interested in seeing who collapses from burnout first. He has the infirmary on speed dial. 

After another hour or so Tony holds up a silver tablet, roughly the same size as a smartphone, examining it from all sides.

“That’s it,” he states. “The final product.”

You exhale lightly.

“We should name it.” You have your hands on your hips, looking down at it in wonder. Maybe the zero hours of sleep was finally kicking in because you couldn’t believe you were finally done. 

“You got any suggestions?” Tony asks. 

To be frank, no, you didn’t.

“No.”

“Okay, we’ll do that later.” Tony sets it down, not sounding too disappointed. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, tell the team to get down here, please.”

“Yes, boss.”

Bucky jumps off his chair to join you in the lab, leaving the book behind. 

It only takes a few moments for the others to join. Fury and Steve walk in together, already engaged in conversation.

“Greetings.” You clap your hands together. “We did it. We think.”

“We think?” Nick raises an eyebrow.

“We know,” Bruce clarifies quickly, stepping in. “We’re positive it works. We tested it out.”

Tony pulls up the holograph of F.R.I.D.AY’s system, sliding the tablet to the middle of the table.

“Is it secured under FRIDAY’s core?”

“Locked and loaded.” Tony hits the table lightly to signify that it was safe.

“I think we’re ready,” Bruce confirms.

“We better be, or else half the country is suddenly going to lose their internet connection,” you say under your breath.

“What?” Bucky’s eyebrows knit together.

“Nothing,” you beamed, “Okay F.R.I.D.A.Y., run sequence, global parameter.”

“Running sequence,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. parrots. 

There was no going back now. 

From what Bucky can see, Tony looks fairly confident but you have your bottom lip caged between your teeth, chewing on it nervously. 

There are several hundreds of photographs popping up and disappearing within a minute. Everything looks like it’s going according to plan.

The giant holograph of the AI dims. Your face drops when F.R.I.D.A.Y. seems to sputter to a halt. 

No one breathes.

In the midst of the tension, Clint mutters if they should play some background music. It’s followed by a swift ‘ow’ when Natasha flicks him in the shoulder.

You could hear a pin drop.

It suddenly picks back up again, running faster than the last time and the sigh everyone collectively heaves is almost comical.

It runs for a few seconds more before a list of names suddenly pop up accompanied by a series of photographs and geo locations.

“Sequence complete. Six names detected, zero encroachment on public or private databases,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. broadcasted. “Location determined to be Holland. Exact coordinates are computed into the quinjet.”

You let out a small cheer, looping your arm around Bruce, squeezing him in a half hug. He has a smile on his face, dropping his head as he laughs slightly. 

“How dangerous are they?” Tony, however, continues to ask.

“A few prior convictions and a series of similar threats. Danger level determined to be at approximately five out of ten.” 

“That’s not bad,” Steve commented. “Looks like we don’t need the full team there.”

“Romanoff, Barton, Wilson, Rogers can go ahead and take care of that,” Nick finally spoke up. “Everyone else is working security tomorrow, just in case anyone else decides that terrorism is on their fuckin’ to-do list for the day.”

“Buck, assemble a team and go over strategy for tomorrow,” Steve adds on. “Everyone else go suit up, wheels up in thirty minutes.” 

“Fuckin’ Holland,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Of all the places.” 

“What do you have against Holland?” Nat asks as they leave together.

“Just don’t like ‘em.” Their voices grow faint the further they get.

“Hey.” A small greeting from behind you has you turning around.

Wanda stands in front of you and you have to ignore the fact that the most powerful being on Earth is talking to you. 

“Hey,” you say back.

“I just wanted to say congratulations. You did a great job.” Bits and pieces of her accent poked out. She didn’t seem like she was putting in the effort to cover it up as opposed to the press interviews you had heard a few years ago. 

“Thank you.” You smile. “T’was a team effort.”

“Well, we owe you one anyway,” Steve joins the conversation, leaving aside Tony who was still talking to Bruce.

“I wish I was humble enough to turn it down but I’m not.” You laugh. “It’s nice to have an arsenal of superheroes at my disposal.”

Steve looks like he’s going to respond but his attention is drawn towards F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s announcement that the quinjet was ready to go. He shoots you an apologetic look but you sign for him to go on, you’d meet with him later.

You watch as he claps Tony on the back, telling him to go get some sleep and something with more nutritional value than a pizza pocket in him, nodding at Bruce before taking leave. 

“Y/L/N,” Nick stands beside you, looking ahead at the conversations being had as Steve tugs Clint along with him.

“Nicky,” you tease.

“I know at least seven underground prisons I can put you in if anyone hears you calling me that,” he says stoically. 

“We all know you won’t get rid of me.” You shake your head. “Who’s gonna send you a Christmas card then, huh?”

He simply shakes his head, jutting his hand out and offering a handshake. “Not sure anyone here could handle another day of a highly caffeinated, sleep-deprived Stark.”

“Just say ‘thanks’, Nick, geez.” You roll your eyes. 

Bucky watches the entire interaction unfurl; only the body language, not employing the lip-reading ability. 

“You’re welcome.” You let go of his hand, a devilish look on your face. “You know what I want in return.”

Nick gives you a long, hard stare that could probably melt through Steve’s shield before turning around to leave. 

But Bucky doesn’t miss the subtle high-five he gives you while walking out, unbeknownst to anyone else, bringing the biggest grin to your face.

He makes it a point to ask you what the fuck kind of leverage you have over the man for him to play favourites with you. 

You finally collapse at your desk, letting out a loud exhale. You clench your eyes shut, your body finally melting into your chair. You look exhausted.

He’s not sure how to help. You don’t seem like you have the energy to tell him.

Bucky leaves a doughnut and water bottle on the table in front of you before shuffling out of the room quietly. 

He’s certain that he’s spent far too long in Bruce’s lab this week. He liked the man as much as the next guy, but he probably wouldn’t come down there for the foreseeable future. 

You’re at your assigned desk, reading light illuminating the space. Thankfully you’ve cleared up most of your stuff from the table, leaving no more liabilities to fall over in case he walked into the desk. 

“So you’re done for the week.” His voice surprises you. You were scrolling through your phone, slightly hunched over.

“It appears so.” You put your phone down, swivelling the chair to look at him. 

“How’d it go?” He leans against your table, making sure he isn’t using his full weight.

“Well, I slept for fifteen hours straight, so...” you leave him to connect the dots. He’s done the same several times.

“You’re probably gonna need more,” he says, mostly from his own experience, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Actually-” you reach beside your table and lug your gigantic box of belongings onto the table with a loud thud, “-you won’t.”

He looks at the box that was nearly overflowing with its contents, the majority of the space being taken up by empty picture frames. “I thought you said Tony offered you a job.” 

“He did,” you confirm. “I didn’t accept.”

“Why?” He watches you shift through a few things, adjusting it so that it wouldn’t fall over.

“This whole thing- it’s cool and all, but it’s not what I want to do.” You shrug. “I like teaching. I miss my class.”

He gaze lands on one of the thank you notes sticking out from the corner of the box. “Ah.”

“Back to school from tomorrow.”

“And evil on the weekends?” he prods, dropping a pen into the heap of stationery. 

“Obviously.” You give him a lopsided smile. “Where else am I gonna use all this brilliance?”

You point to your head. He lets out a small exhale in the form of a laugh.

“Speaking of-” You look like you just remembered something.  

You rummage through your backpack and pull out a small container, handing it to him.

“What’s this?” He turns it over, looking for any hidden clues. “Are you proposing again, because I’ve said no-”

“I’m not proposing,” you interrupt, “yet.”

He gives you a deadpan look.

“Open it,” you urge, and he complies.

Two small squares sit side-by-side. They’re slick black, barely bigger than the face of a dice.

“You put one of them here-” You tap on his bicep “-and the other here.” You tap his shoulder, a few inches below his clavicle.

“What does it do?” He thinks it’s like Nat’s little taser things, a nifty little tool that he could use on missions.

“It, uh-” you hesitate “-it allows you to feel sensation in your metal arm. Heat, pressure, texture.”

His breath hitches in his throat. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, it just does.

“You said that sometimes you’re glad you couldn’t because of the bullets and stuff. They’re detachable, so just take them off when you go on missions and wherever it is you Spandex ambassadors go.” You scoff slightly. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt something soft with that arm or used it for something that wasn’t directly related to his job.  

“I’m not messing with what the Wakandans gave you. It’s the most advanced piece of tech out there.” You shrug. “But if you ever want to feel it when someone attaches sticky notes to your arm, this could work. Just thought it’d be nice to have an option.”

He can’t decipher what he’s feeling right now. He looks up at you, only to catch you eyeing him cautiously, assessing his reaction. When you notice he’s looking at you, a nervous smile makes its way onto your face. 

His stomach does a flip. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

“Don’t mention it.” You sound a little relieved, picking up the box that he’s pretty sure weighed a ton what with all his memorabilia in it. “See you next week.”

He doesn’t know how to explain what it means to him. 

Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “What are you doing later?”

“Nothing.” You pause. “Why?”

“Are you gonna watch the parade?” 

“Yeah, probably.” You shift your weight to your other leg to compensate for the box.

“Want some company?”

“Aren’t you heading a security division?” You have to consciously hide the bewilderment from your voice. 

“Yeah. The place I’m stationed just so happens to have a good look into the street,” he explains, toying with the bracelet on his wrist. “Can’t really promise that I’ll be paying attention to it or that I’d even be there the whole time but for the most part...” he trails off. 

“Uh-” You force yourself to shove aside your surprise at his determination, “yeah, sure. That’d be cool.”

He nods. “Okay. See you there.” 

“See you,” you murmur as you walk to the elevator. 

He opens the tiny container to look at the small chips. They’re still there, silently like they don’t change his world just by existing. 

Gosh.

Next part